‘Are you listening, Ari?’ Dad asked as I stared at yet another person walking out of the interview room, looking haggard and exhausted. He nodded at his friends, another name got called out, the person beside me rose in her seat, smoothed her hair and her blazer, then confidently marched towards her future.
‘Yes, Baba,’ I breathed out, finding my voice after a long time. ‘They’re calling my name. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Yes, yes. Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. All the best.’
When I hung up, I got up from my seat, took my folder of documents and, ignoring the stares I received from almost everyone in the waiting room, walked out.
In my dorm room, I locked myself in and searched for any firms that were interested in hiring writers. I had no idea about the kind of writing the world demanded. All I had to show for experience was an year-old anonymous blog and an unfinished novel that I had been working on for the past several months.
Somehow, three out of four firms called me for the interview, and I accepted one magazine’s offer. The pay was not as good as what the companies in my college were offering my batchmates. But this place promised to give me something the other companies couldn’t—job satisfaction.
Dad called me the next evening. ‘How were the interviews?’
I hesitated, then said, ‘They were fine.’
‘Now! I told you it would be. When will they let you know about the selection?’
‘In about two weeks.’ I don’t know why I said that, but seeing how he reacted now, it was for the best.
‘Two weeks,’ he grunted. ‘That’s not long. Keep me updated, alright?’
Two weeks later, I’d joined the magazine as an editorial coordinator. That evening, I told my father about landing a job.
‘That’s wonderful! What company is it?’
I hesitated, then glanced around for inspiration. I was in the middle of a bustling street below my college and saw a man selling charm bracelets on the side of the road, two girls arguing about which one they liked. One of them snatched the blue one from her friend’s hand and said, ‘This one’s mine!’
Inspired, I said into the phone, ‘Charmine Private Limited.’
‘Sounds reputed. And where is it?’
I told him that truthfully, along with the money they were paying me. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t lie about the salary. ‘It’s a comparatively new company, so you won’t find much information on the internet. But they seem driven and fast growing.’
‘That’s good. As long as they are good people, value hard work and honesty, you’ll be fine. Come home this weekend. We will celebrate.’
During that celebratory dinner, I told my parents about wanting to move out so I was closer to my college and job. I thought I’d face resistance, but except for the shocked look on my brother’s face who nearly stopped eating after that, the rest of them were welcoming of the idea. My mother made me promise I’d come home every weekend, as often as I could. My dad helped me look up places online. We found one over the Christmas vacation, just in time before my college reopened.
I got two KTs in my last semester but told my parents I had passed with a second class. They didn’t ask too many questions. Apparently, by securing a job, I’d already done what I needed to.
Once I began working with the magazine, I realized what I had been missing. Fulfilment and happiness. It was not a treasure to be found, it was a state of mind unique to every person. It can’t be predefined or measured with a societal barometer. My path to it diverged from the conventional route. Maybe I didn’t want to see the same landscape everyone had been seeing while travelling to what they called ‘the top of the mountain’. I could get a better view from a different hilltop.
But Dad had always rejected everything out of his control or understanding. I doubted he even grasped the concept that there were different ways of living a good life. Sure, he wanted the best for me, but how far was he willing to support me so I could search for my own happiness and not his version of it?
‘Hey,’ my flatmate peeked into the room. ‘You okay?’
I stopped writing and felt a throbbing ache in my wrist, the tips of my fingers flattened. ‘You have been in here for the past two hours,’ he continued, taking a step inside the room and keeping the door ajar. I could see the heads my of my other flatmate from behind the couch in the living room. The television was on. ‘You didn’t say anything when Rajesh asked you if you’d like to binge on Star Wars with us. You simply dashed in here and shut the door.’
‘Yeah, er, I’m sorry,’ I scratched my eyebrow with the back of my pen, not remembering any of them sitting in the living room, let alone talking to me. ‘Just had some writing stuff to do.’
‘Well, Raj has to return the CDs tomorrow. If you want to join in, ‘Return of the Jedi’ has just begun.’
I looked down in my notebook and realized I’d filled up over thirty pages. I needed to take a break, but didn’t feel like having human interaction. I tried to smile at him. ‘I’ll pass this time.’
‘’kay,’ he said. ‘If you change your mind, join in.’
When he left, I got up from the seat and stared out the window, dark and quiet outside, the street secluded as if it had never been trodden on. This is what an apocalypse will look like, a random thought popped in my mind.
I felt the urge to write more. I mused on the next course of action in my fictional story, letting my mind wander. I brought the faces of my characters in front of me, imagined them moving along the desert of Pasa Kingdom in search of a gifted girl with an eidetic memory in hiding.
When I was immersed in the world, the story began unfolding and not wanting to forget anything, I picked up the pen and continued on with the scene where I’d left off. I did this a lot. Inspiration and muse rarely struck writers. Motivation was a luxury. With the year-long writing and abandoning my first tragedy and then picking up this dystopian fiction, I knew for a fact that I had to write without waiting for inspiration. And one trick that worked for me was to discontinue writing in the middle of the scene, so I’d get a head start the next day and before I’d know it, I’d be writing again.
I filled a couple of pages before my phone buzzed on the bed. It was pretty late for anyone to call me. Then I thought about Mom or Saloni and reached to grab it.
Nyra Basu, it flashed.
Not wanting to sound sleepy or miserable, I cleared my throat before hitting ‘Answer’. I eased the room door close, shutting out the sound of places and people blowing up. I didn’t want that as a background score for this conversation.
‘Hey,’ I answered and hoped she had a better story to narrate than I did.
‘Thank you,’ was the first thing she said to me. I could hear a smile in her voice, not the excitement and waltzing of the waves, but the peace and quiet of the ocean. I could tell she was in a good mood. ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, but I couldn’t wait till the morning to say this,’ she paused momentarily. ‘I think I just might have had the best conversation with my mother.’
‘Really.’ I sat on the bed and heard muffled whirling of the mixer from the kitchen. What were these guys doing?
‘I wish I could tell you everything. But I want to reserve it for an evening coffee date tomorrow.’
It took me a second to realize what she was conveying. ‘You are…?’ I trailed off, unsure what she had in mind. I didn’t want to step on my own tail, so I waited for her to elaborate.
‘Yeah. A coffee date or … something,’ she said tentatively. ‘Not anything fancy,’ she added quickly when I didn’t answer her right away. ‘It’s just… it’s been a long time since I’ve gone out with a normal person who wouldn’t flip out if I was ten minutes late.’
‘You want to go out,’ I repeated slowly, letting it sink in, ‘with me.’ I was only confirming, but I guess she interpreted it as rejection.
‘Actually, now that I think about it, it’s kind of a lame idea. It’s the month end and we’re pretty p
acked. Maybe some other time.’
‘No,’ I added hastily. ‘No, it’s perfectly fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Yes. Completely. Let me know when and where.’
‘I was hoping you’d suggest a place.’
‘Ah…’ I racked my brain trying to come up with a place nice and warm and decent enough for her, something she wouldn’t mind going to. In an attempt to do so, I paced around my room.
‘That Bombay Brew looked cosy yesterday,’ she offered.
‘Bombay Brew,’ I said. ‘Right. Sure. Whatever you say.’
I could hear a smile in her reply, ‘Okay. Five sounds good?’
‘Five sounds perfect.’
I took a moment to let whatever happened just now sink in, after I hung up. The conversation was nothing I’d expected it to be, yet somehow, I was glad. I closed my diary, calling it a day and lay awake on the bed, listening to all the sounds from outside the door. Occasional laughter, muffled dialogues, footsteps shuffling, everything was as normal as it could be, yet everything was so different I couldn’t be sure if I was living the same life I did eight hours ago.
Nyra’s call was a silver lining, a soothing balm on the burns of leaving home. I’d not go home for days on end, but now, I was missing it. The thought of home brought a tear to my eye. It rolled down from the corner, sliding along my temple. I wasn’t crying. Crying usually hurt my chest. This tear simply slid away, like it could no longer hold on. Maybe it wanted me to see it was time to just let go of everything, from the people who held me back to the people who never wanted to hold me in the first place. Or maybe it just wanted to clear my vision so I could refocus on the present, which seemed clearer now than ever.
ISHAAN
M
y face felt numb by the time I reached Vartika’s apartment. It had been a strange half hour ride to her house. Wind sliced through my skin with a vengeance. Groups of friends and young couples ambled on the side of the road as I shot through the street, the engine roaring angrily as I invited reproachful gazes from them. One man even cried out, but I was past his sight before he could yell anything more than a ‘Hey!’
On any other day, I might have stopped and apologized. But today, I just didn’t care.
Vartika opened the door before I rang the doorbell. She had on navy-blue slacks and a long oversized black T-shirt.
‘I heard the elevator,’ she said and stepped aside to let me in. Her house smelled of lemongrass. I had it memorized. I hauled my bag in and placed it by the door, my shoes already taken off at her threshold. Without a word, she fastened the door while I found myself a spot on the couch, thinking of something to say to her. I came up with nothing. All I could feel was a void, an emptiness too big to be filled with anything as lame as words.
‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ I heard Vartika say and vanish into the kitchen. What was I supposed to do now? Where was I supposed to go from here? There were so many questions, such an ocean of unknown stretched ahead of me that I felt nauseous. I had never been good with not knowing.
I didn’t hear her come in. All I saw was a hand holding out a glass. I took a sip and had to force the liquid down.
The couch sank with her weight. ‘You can stay here for as long as you want,’ she said. We shared a moment’s silence before my eyes brimmed. Her hand reached over to touch my shoulder and that was the end of it.
I cried.
For the first time in so many years. She side-hugged me but did not utter a single word. I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to talk to anyone or explain. For once in my life, I just wanted to be. To exist without expectations, burdens, without the fear of failure, losing, of not seeming strong enough.
I couldn’t really tell how long we sat there together, but I do remember the smell of her perfume, the gentle strokes of her hand on my back, my head resting in my palm. With each tear I shed, I peeled off another demeaning word I had heard about my poor condition, about my father and about my own lack of qualities in college and the workspace. All those remarks tearing away from me, washing off in an ocean of negativity that I had swum in for so long. I wanted to believe I had finally found my shore.
I woke up the next morning at eleven and shot up on the couch. ‘Relax,’ I heard Vartika’s voice. ‘Today is Sunday.’
I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the sunlight spilling through the window, adjusting my vision to it. Vartika stood in front of it, stirring a cup of coffee, the soft clinking sounds on the edges weirdly soothing and melodic. Once she was done stirring, she set down the mug on the table, when I realized I was covered in a warm blanket.
At some point, I had simply slept off on the couch the previous night. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Vartika dragging my bag to one corner of her living room.
‘Don’t get used to it,’ she said. ‘You won’t get coffee in bed every morning.’
I stirred, crossed my legs. ‘I don’t plan to,’ I said and heard my own voice all groggy and heavy. Very rarely did I speak with anyone first thing in the morning. Mornings were quiet in my home. Everyone went about their business in an orderly manner. Our timings were so well synchronized—Mom waking up first, I occupying the bathroom after her; Dad waking up, doing his regular stretches and brushing his teeth while I bathed and shaved; then Dad going in after me—that we rarely crossed paths. By the time Dad and I stepped into the kitchen for breakfast, Saloni would start getting ready for school.
We only spoke while leaving, to bid goodbyes.
The thought of my house and the longing ache that came with it were easier to brush aside with Vartika standing in front of me in all her glorious beauty, her freshly washed face, entangled hair, night clothes and light lotion scent. The sunlight from the window illuminated half of her frame, which made her hair glisten, her skin glow.
I’d dreamed of waking up next to her so many times. It was strange how you get what you wish for, but of ten times, in a different way. I did wake up in her house, but not quite with her.
Was this how an imperfect life was supposed to feel like? One part of your life falling apart while some other getting tied together. My heart filled with a throbbing joy layered underneath with pain. ‘This is short lived,’ a pessimist side within me echoed. This was an illusion, a one-day event. Of course, I had never felt anything like this before, a strange mixture of anticipation about what the future held and a peaceful calm of hope that told me it would all be fine.
But then again, I had never really felt much before or given thought to what was happening around or within me. I’d simply shoved it all under the carpet and gotten done with what I was supposed to. Were undecipherable feelings better than void and numbness? One thing I was sure of, the former usually set you up for disappointments.
‘Zoned out on me, again?’ Vartika asked.
I blinked. Giving her a small smile, I pressed the base of my palms to my eyes, giving a shake to my head to get rid of the voice. I had the entire day left to do the thinking. Right now, I was going to enjoy a cup of coffee made by the love of my life.
I picked it up, let the smell tantalize my senses and took a generous sip, nearly burning my lip. She scoffed.
Lowering the mug in my hand, I smiled at her. ‘It’s perfect.’
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. ‘I know,’ she replied and sat down on the chair opposite me. That’s when I noticed that she’d changed her pants. She had the same top on as last night, but wore blue jeans underneath it. ‘I’m giving you an off day today,’ she declared. I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up her hand. ‘This is non-negotiable. I’m not asking for your opinion.’
I closed my mouth, took a quiet sip and gulped down my words with it.
‘You’re staying here and relaxing. Wander around the neighbourhood, just make sure you don’t disturb the litter of puppies at the entrance of this building. The mother is a bitch. Like, the human kind, not the literal kind. If you don’t wa
nt to stay in, there is a jogging park at the end of this street. As long as you don’t go poking around in my house, you’re free to do whatever you want, except work. You got me?’
Who could argue with that concerned but curt tone? But I’d never not done anything on a Sunday. I don’t remember the last time I had taken a day off to do nothing but enjoy my own company. I needed to do some soul searching, reflect on my decisions and decide what I needed to do next. Finding another place was a priority, as was getting the licence, finishing up the report on last week’s work, meeting with the designer of Home Sweet Home, an agency I’d hired to take care of the interior of the new restaurant. ‘Not working’ was not an option.
To put her mind at ease, I said, ‘Sure.’ I decided, before I let my mind get tangled up in all the decisions I’d yet to make, I’d fix myself lunch, let the calming sizzle of the food, the familiar heat radiating off the stove sweat me out.
As if reading my mind, she added, ‘And not working includes cooking.’
I stopped, giving her a look.
‘I know it’s your passion, it calms you down, it elevates you, it’s better than sex, yada yada. I don’t care. I have made breakfast and lunch. If you need anything else, you can order from the local food joint across the street.’
‘Are you going somewhere?’ I asked the question bugging me. The only time I wouldn’t mind doing nothing was if she was with me.
‘I am off to get some sauces from this dealer I’ve been in touch with.’
‘Dealer,’ I repeated in my mind. ‘What kind of sauces?’
‘All kinds you don’t get here. After that, I’m going to the local dogs’ shelter to take them out and feed them for the afternoon. I’ll be back in three hours.’
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