Elevator Number Three

Lunch was the same everyday for Vikram, except on his birthday, when he got two slices of his favourite home-baked pineapple cake. Every other day was the same. White rice and boiled lentils. For the first three years after their marriage, he ate like a king. After the miscarriage, blame-games, tired arguments and jaded attitudes, it was lentils and rice everyday. So when the topic of discussion among the staff at morning tea veered towards lunch, Vikram was the only one who had nothing to say and nothing to look forward to. He gulped down his tea in silence and stationed himself in elevator number three.

 

“Good morning, Sir,” Vikram chimed, as a dapper man entered the elevator. He was furiously typing into his cell phone and barely glanced up. Hair combed back, his shoes were impeccably polished, probably by his wife. His tie was in a perfect knot. Maybe his wife tied his tie too every morning. Vikram imagined her, hoisted on her toes, lovingly making the knot, while he tapped into his phone at a lightning-fast speed. Ding! The elevator bell rang and the metallic doors opened. “Good day, Sir,” Vikram chirped enthusiastically, just the way he was trained to. But the man was already speeding halfway across the lobby, never tearing his eyes once from his cell phone.

Vikram was an elevator operator. But he wasn’t just an ordinary elevator operator. From 8 am to 8 pm every day, he ferried the VIPs of the swankiest apartment complex in Bombay in a private elevator. Elevator number three. He had to greet all the important people that he transported from floor to floor. Good morning, good afternoon, good evening. Vikram absolutely loved his job. On some days, he saw business tycoons that he would often read about in the newspapers. Other days would be film stars with their beautiful plastic faces, two or more sullen-faced bodyguards in tow. Politicians, rich kids, famous dogs with their dog-walkers… he saw all kinds of people and heard all kinds of scandalous things. His unique position made him feel powerful, in an odd way.

At 9 pm, after three separate security checks and a twenty-minute bus ride, his apartment complex came into view. As he approached the collection of matchbox-sized flats which he called home, his tired steps became exciting strides and a puffed-out chest replaced his slumped shoulders. This was the best part of his day.

Like every day, as soon as he entered the gate, he was thronged by seven to eight kids, animatedly questioning him and jostling with each other to get closer to him.

“Vikram uncle, who did you meet today?”

“Is Amitabh Bachchan really as tall as they say he is?”

“Will you please tell us again about that time you scared that bodyguard away?”

Vikram allowed them to spout all their questions as he wordlessly waded through the sea of children towards the tea stall nearby. At that moment he felt like one of the celebrities whom he would see ever so often, shielding their eyes from the flashes of camera lights, refusing to comment.

“Kids, let the poor man at least have a cup of tea first,” Vikram’s neighbor, Mohan called out from the tea stall. Vikram took his seat on the bench at the stall and lit a cigarette in the midst of an obediently patient silence. Mohan offered him a cup of tea that he had already ordered for him. A group of familiar faces, some friends, some neighbours, waited expectantly as he took a long and noisy sip from his cup and exhaled. The children were growing restless with anticipation. 

What story will it be today? thought Vikram, as he puffed his cigarette, allowing the suspense to build up. A few of his stories were facts, some were concocted elaborately around obscure facts and most were figments of his imagination. 

“You will never believe what happened to me today,” Vikram stated dramatically. Today was fiction. 

Everyone sat up in attention, eyes widened. “You know Raju Mirani?” he asked rhetorically. Of course, everyone knew Raju Mirani, the award-winning movie director. 

“He entered the elevator and said to me, Vikram, if only you had met me ten years ago. I would have definitely cast you in one of my movies!” 

A gasp escaped from the children’s mouths, little Nadira squealed in excitement. 

“But what role would you play Vikram? The lead actor?” quipped Shyamlalji, his old friend.

 “Of course not!” Vikram retorted, “I think I would make a better villain, wouldn’t I?” 

Laughter erupted as the gullible audience lapped up his every word for the next hour or so. Vikram felt like the colony superstar. 

By 10 pm all the kids had been summoned by their mothers and the men said their goodbyes and goodnights as Vikram dragged his feet home. It was back to the reality where he didn’t matter. An unimportant speck in an uneventful world. There would be no words exchanged during dinner, which was again lentils, rice and on some days when he got lucky, potato curry. Then, in silence, they would wind up and wind down for bed. 

It hadn’t always been like that. During the early years, they had been so in love, and his wife- Rupa, would pamper him, dress up for him, cook all his favourite dishes and they would have endless conversations that, at times, stretched into the wee hours of the morning. That was then.

On reaching his doorstep, Vikram paused a little. He hesitated as he heard the unmistakable peals of girlish laughter emanating from inside his home. How, or rather who, could this possibly be? Stealthily unlocking the door, he opened it ever so slightly and peeked inside. A beautiful woman was sitting on his couch, watching something on the television, convulsing with laughter. It was his wife, Rupa. Vikram stared on in disbelief, wondering what ghost had possessed his otherwise morose wife. A strapping young man on the television screen was wooing a girl, who was comedically rejecting his advances. Vikram recognised the actor as Rajveer Khanna, who everyone seemed to be gushing about nowadays. The camera zoomed in on the actor’s lovestruck puppy face. He noticed Rupa’s eyes widen with a strange longing. It was the same longing he had once seen in her eyes for him. 

Vikram cleared his throat audibly and made a pretence of trying to open the door with much fuss. Alarmed, Rupa jumped off the couch and hastily turned off the television, her expression now solemn. They ate their lentils and rice in uncomfortable silence. The only sound was that of her bangles jingling as they brushed together when her hands moved to eat. He couldn’t help but feel slightly cheated. Knowing that his wife was capable of more emotion, he felt distressed that he had no access to that side of her. He could not blame her. After all the forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, all the movies and restaurants he refused to take her to, he couldn’t have possibly expected more.

The next morning Vikram woke up earlier than usual. He hadn’t slept much all night. Rupa was already awake, hustling about with her daily household chores. 

“Get dressed. We are going out,” he said. 

Rupa froze, mouth wide open in disbelief. 

“Hurry up, I don’t have all day!”

 She swiftly got dressed, unsure whether to be excited or scared. They rode the bus in silence. Hands tingling and stomach churning, she looked down awkwardly and he stared outside the window. The twenty minute bus ride was taking an eternity that day.

On reaching their destination, Rupa hung back as Vikram spoke to some men in hushed tones. Their exchange might have gone well because her husband emerged from the group of men with a satisfied expression on his face. She quickly averted her eyes and followed him meekly, more confused than ever. Vikram changed into his uniform and instructed her to stand silently in the corner of elevator number 3. 

Lobby. Seventh floor. Forty second floor. Back to the lobby. Sixteenth floor. Up. Down. And up again. What was this all about? she wondered. Was he trying to show her how hard he worked all day, while she relaxed at home, munching on goodies and watching television? She cringed as last night’s incident flashed into her mind.

It had been an hour. Any minute now. Vikram checked his watch. 9 am. Like clockwork, the elevator was summoned to the forty third floor. The doors opened and in walked a nonchalant Rajveer Khanna. The doors closed as the actor glanced up and caught his reflection in the mirror for a split second, his gaze lingered momentarily on Rupa. He went back to his cell phone and stared into it for the rest of the ride. Ding! The elevator bell rang and the doors opened. “Good day, Sir,” Vikram said. The actor patted him softly on the back and exited the elevator. The doors closed again. Vikram turned to his wife and saw her smiling sheepishly. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked down, avoiding eye contact.

“I’ll drop you back to the gate,” he said. 

He escorted her through the lobby, walking briskly. Suddenly, Vikram felt the soft touch of her hand on his. His heart was pounding heavily. It felt like they were on their first date, all over again! He slowed his pace drastically as they walked towards the gate so he could feel the warmth of her hands, just for a little longer. 

That night they had chicken biryani for dinner.