The Agent...

"Yes?" 

It was a man, in his 50's, carrying a newspaper. 

'That's unexpected', I thought to myself. I was hoping to see a watchman open the gate to such a palace. Or maybe a secretary to the old star. Not an uncle in his pajamas with the Times in his hand. 

I took the piece of paper out of my pocket again.. It did say Bungalow 23. 

"Uh- sir.. Yasmeen ma'am??", I stammered. 

"Kya kaam hai?", he barked. The gate was still open enough just to fit the width of his body. His gaze out of the top of his glasses looked like he was already accusing me of a crime that I just had to admit to. 

"S-s-sir.. Yasmeen ma'am se kaam tha".. I mustered some courage. 

"Yasmeen nahin hai ghar pe", his gaze still on me, "baad mein aana" 

That wasn't the plan. Yasmeen herself had asked me to come. "Lekin sir.. Yasmeen ma'am ne bola thha 3 baje aane ko.. Insurance policy pe sign lena tha", I tried my luck again. Not a good day to have not charged my phone. 

"Bahar gayi hai. Baad mein aana" 

"Ma'am kab tak aayengi?" 

"Maloom nahi.. Kal aana" as he shut the gate on me.. 

3 o'clock on a May afternoon in Mumbai is torture, even if it is on the Worli Sea-face. "S-sir.. thoda paani mil sakta hai?"

 His gaze mellowed a little. "Idhar ruko" 

He turned toward the house.. I nudged myself through the gate and stood there. 

The house definitely had seen better days. It felt like it must have been used for shooting scenes of old Asha Parekh movies where her rich father in his silk robe and pipe would stomp down the stairs demanding the poor hero just take the blank cheque and get out of his daughter's life forever. Maybe Yasmeen Alam  herself acted in some of them too. Her producer dad had made all his money with pretty much the same formula for 20 years. It must have been one spectacular house even on a summer afternoon many years ago.

But that was then.. And what was in front of me, was something else. It reminded me of my mother's line that you can tell the love in the family just by looking at the house. Now it looked worn and unloved, just like the uncle who had gone in to get me a glass of water. The gate was rusting, and the house was probably not painted since they shot all those Asha Parekh movies there.. The lawn had turned brown and was quite obvious it hadn't been cut for months. There was even a large hole dug in one corner by the fence. 

"Must be their garbage disposal", I chuckled to myself. 

"Yeh lo paani", came the voice, breaking my chain of thought.. Somewhat embarassed at being caught smiling to myself, I guzzled down the water in one gulp. You'd have thought that someone living on the Worli Sea-face would have a fridge in their bungalow. 

I could see the old man a lot clearer now. He wasn't that old.. Must have been quite handsome himself all those years ago.. He must have been related to Yasmeen herself. Similar face cut, but haggard. Beads of sweat dripping down his face, like he was reading the newspaper with no fan or air-conditioning. His nails had a bit of mud on them, so maybe he was digging that hole in the garden, who knows!! 

"Sir.. chalta hoon.. Yasmeen ma'am ko bolna, Dileep aaya tha.. Kal toh weekend hai, Monday ko aaoonga"  

 

"Theek hai"

I now had 2 hours free. No sale meant I couldn't treat myself to a taxi to Mahalaxmi station. I was not looking forward to the walk, nor the weekend ahead of me. At least the train ride to Mira Road would be empty at this hour.. 

Monday morning, I tried the number she gave me, but no response. Like she didn't need policy any more. At 1, I decided to make the hike to Worli again. I got to the station early to renew my pass, when I caught the headline in the Mid-Day... 

"80's STAR HACKED TO DEATH OVER PROPERTY DISPUTE - BROTHER ABSCONDING!!!"