Nimita's Place

by Akshita Nanda

  There were one or two incidents, like when he came to my hostel and got in a fight with the watchman and beat up the poor man. But he explained that to me. “I got so frightened. I needed to talk to you. I had to meet you and he stopped me,” Vicky said, holding my hand tightly.

  I should have been flattered, na? Wasn’t it like something from a Bollywood movie?

  Vicky gave the watchman a thousand rupees so it wasn’t like the man didn’t benefit. Still, I felt weird passing through the gate whenever that watchman was on duty. I couldn’t look at him, but I felt his eyes following me.

  I got my BSc (Hon) and so did Vicky. More importantly, we both got places in Dr Savarkar’s lab. My hyacinth turned a greenish-purple in the presence of chromium and Vicky had a strain of algae that retained a significantly higher proportion of heavy metals than the parent. Not enough for large-scale cleaning of river water, but a very good start.

  The next step for him was to refine his algae. As for me, I had two options for my master’s project. One was to move sideways into developing a strain of bacteria that would digest sewage faster and reduce waste processing time at the local plants. The other was to refine my bachelor’s project and create a true-breeding strain of these hyacinths. Right now the hyacinths had to be cultured individually, which is great for a one-off science fair, but not useful in reality.

  I discussed it with Dr Savarkar. I wanted to move sideways. I was getting a little bored of hyacinths. The process had been worked out, now anyone could follow the line of thinking and rework it easily.

  Dr Savarkar wanted me to see it through to the end. “Don’t you want to see your work clean up the river?”

  I did. I also wanted to win the Nobel Prize, but was just realising that even the smallest success would take long, hard work.

  Like my relationship with Vicky.

  A few months into our master’s, Vicky asked me to leave the hostel and share a flat with him. There were many reasons why this was a good idea: more privacy, a change from the regular diet of dal and rice at the hostel, practice for the future. I spent a lot of time in Vicky’s flat as it was, but I liked the idea of redecorating it in my favourite colours, choosing furniture, curtains, sheets, arranging books on bookcases.

  There were many reasons why this was a bad idea, though. The cost would be higher, with electricity bills and a rental deposit. And what about my parents? The Indian Express and The Times of India were running long features about the popularity of “live-in” relationships, people living together without getting married, but I wasn’t very sure I was ready for one.

  My parents and Dadi still didn’t know about Vicky. Maybe I was taking revenge because he ditched me at Romy-Bhaiya’s wedding. He never brought it up even though I had met his sister and started speaking to her on Vicky’s phone. Sometimes Aditi would call me directly to check on Vicky.

  Yet—and now I can’t believe this didn’t seem more important—I had never pushed to introduce Vicky to Dadi or Dad or Mummy. When I went down to Mumbai on the weekends, I always said something about how one or the other wouldn’t be there, or was ill, or there was some other family function so this might not be the best time.

  When they came to Pune to see me, it was usually just for a day so, again, no time to sit and make introductions, I said. My fault, all the way, that I didn’t realise it, that the day Vicky walked back into my lab and said he wanted to continue to be part of my life, I was already looking for reasons to push him away.

  I didn’t realise, even as the months went on and we stopped talking about lab work. If my project went badly, Vicky would give several suggestions, but if his project was going badly, he didn’t like to hear my ideas. He accused me of showing off.

  We stopped talking about work. There were other things to talk about, like: “Salman Khan or Shah Rukh Khan picture tonight? Dosa or butter chicken before that?”

  I missed the interaction of our first year when we discovered problems together and solved them. I told myself that our relationship was evolving; naturally things would not be the same.

  One Friday, Vicky was in a bad state. He told me that Lakshwant Chavan was poisoning Dr Savarkar’s mind against him. “Because he sees me as competition,” Vicky said.

  This might have been true. Vicky and I were catching up to the post-grads and they didn’t always like it. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine Lakshwant making a convincing case against Vicky. “What is he saying? That you’re sabotaging his experiments?”

  “He tells her I’m wasting lab time and money.”

  “Forget about it. I would.” Dr Savarkar was strict but very fair. If she yelled at anyone for an error, she also took more time with that person to make sure he or she would never make the same mistake again. She cut Vicky and me even more slack because we were just master’s students, not post-docs. In fact, she was the one who told me to expect slower progress now compared to when I first started.

  I told Vicky all this and he snorted. “You don’t understand,” he said. “And stop showing off. You’re just showing off how well your project is going compared to mine.”

  The meal turned to dust in my mouth. I did not want to even talk to Vicky, let alone go home with him that night.

  The next morning, we danced around each other in the lab—please may I have the scale when you’re done? Shall I make more buffer solution?—and didn’t go down for cream bum.

  The day after that, I walked in and found Vicky labelling all his reagent bottles. In Chinese. I think it was Chinese because I couldn’t read it. It looked like Chinese.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This is my new labelling system,” he said.

  “I can’t read it.” We were all independent workers in the lab and respected each other’s boundaries, but if one of us ran out, it was okay to ask: “Anyone have electrophoresis buffer solution I can use?” Some of the commonly used solutions were made in bulk, turn by turn, to save time and money.

  “I’ve made a chart for you,” Vicky said, taking a sheet of paper out of his desk. “Don’t show anyone. I don’t want those bastards to figure out my system.”

  “Why are you being so petty?”

  “Just don’t show them, okay?” Vicky said and started rearranging the bottles on the shelf above his workbench.

  Nobody else commented on Vicky’s new labelling system, so I found it odd that he spent cream bum time going on and on about how the post-docs and Dr Savarkar were out to get him. “You can’t hear what they say to each other. I can because my desk is near her cubicle. They’re just waiting for a chance to get me. Let them try and sabotage my experiments now, with my new labelling system.”

  The canteen was full of people and only one slow-moving fan in the centre, so I didn’t understand why I was feeling cold.

  “Are you taking your medication?” I asked him.

  “Don’t talk rubbish about medication, Nimmy. You think I’m an idiot? That I’m just making these things up? You don’t know anything. You don’t know how these guys are. They are nice to you because you bat your eyelids and flash your cleavage. It’s disgusting.”

  I stood up so fast, the saucer of cream and jam splattered over the table. “What did you say?”

  He looked at me. It was the same face but I swear there was a different person inside.

  I felt so cold.

  “What did you say to me, Vicky?”

  “You heard me.” He stood up as well. “You think I don’t notice these things? ‘Oh Lakshwant, please would you run the autoclave?’ ‘Oh Rishi, that’s too funny. Can I have some of your pipette tips?’ You need to watch your behaviour, okay? You’re beginning to look like a slut.”

  I reached over to slap him and he caught my wrist.

  I pulled my hand free and walked out of the canteen.

  Rishikesh was at my desk looking for the concentrated ammonia. “I can’t read Vicky’s labels any more, what’s he doing?” he asked when I handed him the bottle.

 
I hated Vicky at that moment, so much.

  For two hours, I pretended to be reading papers when I was actually reviewing Vicky’s behaviour. He didn’t come back to the lab. Clearly this was a medical crisis. I had Aditi’s phone number but an international call would be expensive. I sent her a text message and then an email from my computer.

  When I returned to the hostel, Vicky was at the gate, the watchman looking at him suspiciously.

  “Can we talk?” he said. His eyes were swollen.

  I walked with him to the side of the wall, behind the big banyan tree. The watchman couldn’t see us there.

  Vicky grabbed my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please forgive me. I’ll never say such things again.”

  He tried to hug me but I pushed him away. “Have you taken your medicines now?”

  He nodded. “Yes. And Didi also called. She’s sending me a ticket to Hong Kong so I can see my doctor.”

  “Okay.” I was still upset over this afternoon and quite all right with there being some distance between us for a while.

  “She’s sending a ticket for you too. Will you come with me? Please? Come with me. Stay with my family.”

  What is the right thing to do in a situation like this?

  Movies and stories say that love conquers all. They say that a woman can change a beast into a man.

  Stories tell us women to revere our husbands above our own comfort, even our own lives.

  Sita gave up a palace, fine clothes and servants for 14 years of hauling water and cooking over wood fires, for Rama. But when she was kidnapped, her husband told her to cast herself in the flames because she was no longer good enough to be his wife.

  I knew all those stories.

  The words that came out of my mouth were: “I can’t, Vicky. I don’t have a passport.”

  I did. I had in fact applied for one on Aditi’s suggestion. But I wanted some space between Vicky and myself.

  I loved him, I cared for his health, but the memory of his face, of those words he said were too fresh in my mind. Like Dadi says, one black spot ruins a fine white sari. No matter that it is of the best silk, you can only see the spot once it’s there.

  “You can’t forgive me?” Vicky said.

  “I’m tired, Vicky.”

  His hand squeezed mine. I could have pulled away, but didn’t want to make a scene.

  “It’s fine. We’re fine. Go to Hong Kong. Say hi to your Didi. We’ll talk when you get back.”

  He didn’t go to Hong Kong. To this day, I’m not sure whether he ever meant to or whether it had been a test of my willingness to follow him anywhere.

  4.

  There is a funeral on the ground floor of my HDB block, so I have to walk the long way around to take the lift. It is not the usual type of funeral held in this common space. Chinese funerals are often noisy, but this is a quiet one and the photos on display show Lee Kuan Yew. The biggest is in the centre, on top of a mountain of flowers and candles. People are queuing to walk around, light a candle and sign a condolence book.

  I’m looking sideways at the tamasha when someone comes up behind me.

  “Hello.” It’s Hafeezah, with Abu. Altaf is in a baby sling strapped on top of Abu’s paunch. Abu’s head is shiny with sweat.

  “You come down in half an hour, got less queue,” she says.

  “My wife organise,” Abu says.

  “Not bad, ah? We queued at Parliament also but got so many people who can’t go, so we organise with RC,” Hafeezah says.

  With the Roman Catholic Church? A Muslim?

  “Residents’ Committee,” Hafeezah says. The block committee organises celebrations for Diwali and Eid and Christmas and things. “I very free so I volunteer.”

  There are all sorts of people in the queue. Old Chinese men and women. Young Indian men and women. Malay families.

  Altaf makes a noise and Abu walks away, jiggling the sling. Hafeezah stands closer to me so she can speak softly. “You see, ah? So many here to pay respect. Malay, Chinese, Indian, everyone know what he do for Singapore.”

  It is hot in the void deck. I move a little away from Hafeezah’s scent of jasmine deodorant.

  “So many people come to see him.” She looks at me. “Maybe you don’t know because you not Singaporean but Lee Kuan Yew very important to us. He make Singapore first-world country.”

  “I’ve applied for PR.” I don’t know why I say that. Maybe because Irving’s bedroom is empty, because Chia Ying and I haven’t had a proper conversation in days and this entire week, wherever I went, I felt like an outsider in a family home where the father has died.

  “Yah. You also here because of Lee Kuan Yew,” Hafeezah says. “He made Singapore so good, people like you come here. So many people.”

  What is she trying to say?

  “People like you good, good,” she says. “You understand Singapore. Others, not so good.” She whispers. “Like those Cheenah ones.”

  Some people hold babies up to see the photo. An old Chinese woman with a walker moves slowly towards a heap of flowers below the photo. No one pushes in front of her. Hafeezah goes to help the old woman, who is trying to fall on her knees before the photo. I escape into the lift.

  I am not here because of Lee Kuan Yew. I am here because of—

  The pain twists my stomach.

  That fight in the canteen was not the only time Vicky didn’t take his medication. There were little incidents. Small things.

  One time in Vicky’s flat, he suddenly said: “Are you hiding something from me?”

  “Like what, the remote control? Yes. I want to watch this serial.”

  He walked over to the sofa and sat on the coffee table. “Are you hiding something from me?”

  “Haan?” I waved him away. This was the best part, five camera angles on one expression.

  “Listen to me.”

  It was—not a slap. You can shake someone by the shoulders to get their attention. You can take someone’s chin in your hand and make them look at you.

  He used one hand to move my chin—

  It was a slap.

  I was so shocked I didn’t even know what to do. Then I saw red.

  Some plates, among other things, were broken before I left Vicky’s flat.

  I had been planning to stay.

  Aditi called me later that night. We had a long chat. She gave me the name and address of a doctor in Pune Vicky could see and asked if I would make sure he went. I agreed.

  I agreed but her next words were: “Nimita, please remember, whatever Vicky does is not his fault. His condition is like this. He will say and do things he doesn’t mean. You know the real Vicky. You can’t blame him for how he is now.”

  “I know,” I told her. But I wondered whether the real Vicky was the one I had fallen for or the one I was dealing with now.

  I took Vicky in a rickshaw to Dr Bharucha, a nice Parsi gentleman. He insisted on seeing Vicky separately first, then me, then the two of us together. “I’ve got all these case notes from Hong Kong,” he told me when we were alone, looking at me over the rims of his black-framed glasses. With his white hair, he looked like Harry Potter’s owl. “He’s much better than he used to be, you know.”

  I didn’t know. I wanted to know, but also I really didn’t want to know.

  “I’ve seen cases where the patient won’t come out of his house and will absolutely refuse to interact with society. Vikram is doing very well to be here. To have completed his BSc in a foreign country. He’s even working on a master’s degree.”

  Foreign country? Oh yes. India.

  He looked at me. “You’re not his sister. His fiancée?”

  “Girlfriend.”

  “Hmm.” Dr Bharucha folded his hands on the file. “His family is all in Hong Kong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, in such cases I usually talk to the family.”

  “I can message his sister. She’ll call you.” I did that. “But if there’s something urgent you need to say ab
out Vicky, you may as well tell me. I make sure he takes his medicines.”

  He took off his glasses and pressed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “No, not that. Beta, see. I don’t know if anyone has explained to you what Vikram is going through. He has a form of paranoia, with schizophrenia. Every time he faces stress he is likely to have an episode of extreme reactions. It’s under control with medication; like I said, he seems to be in very good shape at present.”

  This was good shape? I didn’t want to experience the bad.

  “You’re telling me that—sorry, I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

  “Beta, see, these types of things are actually very common but people don’t talk about them in India. There is a lot of stress in our daily life. Traffic, finding a job, boss yelling at you. Anything can trigger Vikram’s condition. It is unpredictable, but it is also manageable with medication. He—and you—will have to learn to manage this long term.”

  Long term. Manage this long term.

  Damn air-conditioning in Dr Bharucha’s office. Too cold, too noisy, that humming sound made it impossible for me to think.

  “I don’t want to scare you,” the doctor said, too late. “Think of it like diabetes or asthma. These are very treatable conditions, very manageable, but whenever the patient has an episode it will have a psychological effect on the caregivers. The important thing is to remember that the condition is manageable and that Vikram is doing very well.”

  “You’re saying he has a lifelong condition.” Episode. Did he know what happened during Vicky’s episodes?

  Why couldn’t I say?

  “Hmm. Well.” Dr Bharucha played with his pen for a while. “A lot of my patients do very well in stable family situations. That old saying, ‘the boy will settle down after marriage’ is quite true in these cases. Also, it might help if he worked in a familiar setting, such as a family business, rather than an external office.”

  I shook my head. “His parents do export-import. His sister runs that part of the business. Vikram is a biologist.”

  “Why did they send him all the way to India?” Dr Bharucha shook his head. “I would not have recommended it.”