Hold my Hand (Penguin Metro Reads)

by Durjoy Datta

  I sit at the edge of my bed and wait. I’m already a little disgusted with myself. It’s been forty minutes since he said he’d drop by in thirty, but that’s him—always fashionably late. I wonder if he would even care about all the trouble I went through, getting ready for him. There are only two compliments he has ever given me. 1) You’re so short, like a bunny. 2) Your err . . . err . . . boobs are soft. The second was more of a universal statement applicable to every second person, ever. So, I’m short for him. That’s reassuring.

  I sit waiting for him, already feeling all my efforts have gone to waste. I’m bored. I woke up today, depressed and sad, with a slight interest in getting fondled by a guy I’m not sure I like, though I was sure I loved at some point in time, a little bit for sure, but I don’t understand why I can’t get over my pointless obsession for him. He obviously doesn’t care about me, and I am just trying to recreate those first few magical months I had spent with him. But then, that’s the thing with obsession—you can’t get over it.

  I am lying on my bed, flat on my back, as Enrique’s voice tries to convince me that he can be my hero, when the doorbell rings. It’s been twelve songs, that’s roughly forty-five minutes, plus the forty minutes I spent getting ready. He’s more than an hour late, and still, the idiot that I am, I jump excitedly from the bed and make my way to the door, measuring my steps.

  ‘Hi, Aveek!’ I say as I swing the door open and he barges in. He has this aura around him, which says I-own-everything and I feel it instantly.

  ‘Hi, Ahana. So, you wanted to talk? Let’s talk,’ he says suggestively.

  And even though he’s reading the signals I sent him, the way he says ‘talk’ annoys me. It strikes me that instant that he’s nothing but a high-headed, self-centred jerk and he’ll always be that. It’s irritating, but I think it comes with the responsibility of being the golden boy of people with special needs.

  I sit down on the bed and he comes to sit next to me. He smells of new furniture and I wonder if he has noticed how I smell yet and if he even likes the smell of oranges, mixed with plum and mint toothpaste and chocolate. He puts his arm around me, which feels like a log of wood, hard and unmalleable—unyielding. I again think of how different he is in my imagination and in reality.

  ‘Romantic music, huh?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, I like Enrique!’ I say, a little defensive, a little embarrassed at him pointing out my intentions to seduce him into my life again. I don’t feel so good now.

  ‘That’s so you,’ he says and with his arm around me, he pulls me towards himself and kisses me on the cheek. Once. Twice. Thrice. And then he starts to kiss my ear, slowly moving down to my neck. Pulling back, he whispers, ‘Mmm, you smell good.’

  My heart leaps, he’s noticed! But soon I feel it could be that he is making fun of me by pointing out things I have done to seduce him into this. A part of me wants him gone. Then the thought of being alone in my misery takes over. I just can’t stand that right now. Before this irritating confusion eats away more of my mind, I pull him towards me and kiss him on the lips. There. That should keep all other thoughts away.

  It still feels forced and unhygienic.

  ‘Whoa!’ he says, before starting to kiss me back. He kisses me expertly on the lips, slowly at first and then with more pressure, using both his hands to hold my face in place. I am taken back to our first kiss, the slobbering pointless devoid-of-passion kiss, but I remember how much I was in love with him.

  ‘You really want me, don’t you?’ he smirks, his fingers slipping from my face to my neck and staying there. In a moment of sudden clarity, I know that I don’t want this. I know where this is going and I’m sure I don’t want this, so I mumble, ‘Stop.’ And he thinks I’m being coy like heroines in films where NO means YES, so he nibbles at my ear some more, making it wet, which feels dirty. But surprisingly, also good.

  ‘Ohh. Ohh. Ohh . . .’ These are his mating cries, not really sexy. He’s still nibbling my ear, his arms are around my neck and we are half on the bed, lying down, but our feet are on the ground.

  ‘Hey, we should stop,’ I say, but he ignores my words and kisses me on my lips. He tries to pry them open, using his tongue, but I don’t let him.

  ‘Oh, c’mon!’ he says a bit frustrated.

  ‘I don’t think I want this!’ I say and squeeze out of his embrace and sit up. ‘We aren’t even dating any more!’ Which I know is a lame excuse, but I know that if I go on with this, I’ll curse myself later for giving in. He doesn’t have feelings for me, and if we make out, we would be doing so for all the wrong reasons, and I don’t want that.

  ‘I really want to kiss you,’ he says.

  ‘We broke up. I don’t want to get back into this. It was hard the last time . . .’ I say the last part softly, recalling the first few days after the break-up, which felt like someone had ripped a part of me away, and I kept missing that part until I eventually got used to it.

  ‘I really want to kiss you.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ I say.

  ‘But I do really want to kiss you!’ he repeats, with a sense of entitlement. Like I should make myself available because he wants me. This irritates the hell out of me.

  ‘Please!’ I say a bit rudely.

  ‘What the fuck, Ahana? You call me early in the morning and ask me to come over to your room. I know that you want me with the way you’ve dressed up and then I find that you don’t even want to kiss me? This is not happening! I left everything and came to you,’ he growls.

  He’s pacing around the room, panting. I wasn’t sure about my intention in the morning, a part of me wanted this terribly, another part was staunchly against it, but now his presence has confirmed it for me. There’s no more confusion.

  ‘I don’t want this,’ I say, this time more surely.

  ‘Well, please talk to me when you know what you want!’ He almost spits in anger. ‘You broke up with me and I said nothing and now you call me over and decide you don’t want it. This is just stupid! You’re just like your dad!’ he shouts.

  ‘Don’t bring my dad into this!’ I snap angrily.

  ‘Okay, fine. Let’s talk about you then. What the fuck do you want? Huh?’

  ‘I don’t know! But it’s not this,’ I say, waving my arms wildly around, motioning towards the end of the bed where we were making out just moments ago. As if he can see.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Is that why you called me to your room when you’re alone? And put on that perfume? And played that horrible music? Because you did not want to make out?’

  ‘For your information, I’m not wearing any perfume!’ I shout back. Somehow, of all the things in the world that I could say, this is the one sentence that escapes my mouth.

  ‘Whatever! You can’t waste my time like this. I know you don’t have anything worthwhile to do, but I do have a life.’

  ‘That’s mean. Why are you being so mean?’ I break down at his callousness. I’m crying and I hate myself for it. I can never stand up to him and that’s why he never respects me.

  ‘Argh. Come on. Not the crying again. It’s irritating.’

  ‘Okay, sorry,’ I sniff and wipe my tears.

  There is silence, and I wonder for a moment if he has left, but then he holds my hand and pulls me into his embrace. He’s mumbling I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry into my ear, and my heart slows down. I forgive him, for it’s not only his fault, it’s mine too, for maybe I’m difficult and cranky. He’s not mad, and neither am I, he’s holding me, he cares about me, he loves me.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and rub my face against his chest. He bends down slightly to kiss my forehead and it feels alright. His hands pat my back reassuringly, and then they slip inside my T-shirt, flapping around to reach for the hook.

  I stagger back. What is happening?

  I push him away. He tries to grab me again and I slap his hands away.

  ‘What now?’ he asks, clearly irritated.

  ‘Get out!’ I reply through clenched
teeth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ he asks. I’m appalled. He just said he was sorry and then tried to feel me up again. What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?

  ‘Just go away and never come back. YOU HEAR ME? I DON’T WANT YOUR ARROGANT ASS AROUND ME ANY MORE!’

  ‘Hey, stop shouti—’

  ‘Or WHAT? WHAT WOULD YOU DO, HUH? SOMETHING WORSE THAN YOU ALREADY HAVE? Just get the hell out of here, you narcissistic, selfish bastard. I have had enough of this shit and I’m not taking any more of it. I always thought deep down you’re a good person, but I now know that Dad was right.’

  ‘Your dad is an asshole—’

  ‘DON’T YOU DARE!’ I thunder. I’m not going to hear one bad word about my dad from him any more. I take two quick steps towards him, my otherwise weak senses working double-time, and grab his collar, pulling his face towards mine. And then, I say slowly, my jaws tight, measuring my words, ‘Don’t. You. Ever. Say. Anything. About. My. Dad.’

  He pulls himself back and mumbles, ‘Whatever,’ before he starts to make those clicking sounds again. A second later, I hear the door being shut.

  Now, he’s gone. And I’m alone again. Before he came over, I was alone, but at least I had the hope of reclaiming lost love. Now I don’t even have that.

  I’m standing frozen at my spot, crying, when the door opens again.

  ‘Ahana?’ Deep’s cracking, unsure voice says.

  ‘Deep? What are you doing here?’ I panic.

  ‘I ... uh, I’m sorry. I heard raised voices ... so ...’

  ‘So what?’ I snap, because I’m mad at Aveek and irritated at the entire world and embarrassed because I still feel naked and exposed. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I just . . . I thought . . .’ Deep stammers.

  ‘What? What did you think? If you have a loud noise complaint, go to the reception!’

  ‘No! I just . . . wanted to make sure you’re okay . . .’

  ‘WHY? BECAUSE YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT THE PATHETIC BLIND GIRL NEXT DOOR? BECAUSE YOU PITY ME? I DON’T NEED NO ONE’S PITY,’ I scream.

  ‘It’s not that . . . I care about—’ Deep tries again, but I cut him off harshly.

  ‘BULLSHIT. Don’t you give me that! Why would you care? You are a normal guy, smart enough to get a paid scholarship to this project overseas, with a life waiting for you once you get back home. Why do you care? You’re just a tourist!’

  ‘Ahana, don’t say that. I do—’

  ‘No, you DON’T. YOU DON’T, YOU DON’T, YOU DON’T. And don’t try to convince me otherwise, because YOU DON’T.’

  There is a brief silence, during which I hear my own rough, heavy breathing. And then I hear Deep mutter, ‘Sorry,’ really softly, and leave, shutting the door behind him.

  And in that very second, my knees give way and I fall to the floor, big tears falling down my cheeks. I cry and I cry and I cry.

  I lost all track of time as I lay on the floor, curled into a ball and wept. But when I finally sit up and wipe my tears and brush my hair back behind my ears, I feel raw. My upper lip seems a little swollen and it aches to open my eyes.

  I wash my face, curse myself for what I said to Deep, gulp down a glass of water, curse myself for what I should have said to Aveek long ago, grab my cell phone, shove it into my handbag and walk slowly out of my room, locking the door behind me. I walk for ten feet and knock. When the door opens up, I hear my broken voice say, ‘Deep, can you please take me to Disneyland?’

  20

  We are on the Disneyland resort line of the Hong Kong subway, which Deep tells me, is pretty and has windows shaped like Mickey Mouse. He’s holding my hand. I’m listening to him, sometimes crying, sometimes blowing my nose—in general, a mess.

  ‘We are here,’ he says, and leads me out of the Metro station. He has conveniently ignored that I’m crying and hasn’t once asked why I was in tears, or mentioned my outburst. Instead he told me I looked quite remarkable even with a running nose

  Deep is quite kicked about our trip and finds it difficult to believe they actually built a part of the Metro to specifically take people to Disneyland.

  ‘It’s like the cupboard of Narnia,’ he had said. ‘If you feel stressed, you just have to take the Metro and you reach here—in DISNEYfreakingLAND!’

  We walk out of the Metro station, through the gigantic gate which Deep tells me says Disneyland in a million different colours, to the fountain with Mickey Mouse surfing on the top of it. I distinctly remember how Mickey Mouse looks because he was on the first bag I carried to school. I had picked up that one myself, rummaging through bags featuring Pluto and Minnie Mouse and Donald Duck. I tell Deep about my first day in school, about how happy I was, and he tells me he had cried himself hoarse and had to be dragged to the classroom.

  ‘Aw! There are little kids dressed as fairies and Cinderellas and Sleeping Beauties. We should totally get you into one of those. This is amazing,’ he says.

  ‘You wish,’ I say. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me or I would have spent another day watching English movies dubbed in Mandarin,’ he says. He asks me if I want a year-long ticket, with multiple entries to Disneylands across countries, and I say he would not be around every time to go with me, so what’s the point!

  After we are frisked, he gets his hands on what he likes best—a map. We walk arm in arm, because he’s engrossed in the map, figuring out the game plan to tackle the ‘sprawling’ (as he puts it) amusement park. He suggests that we walk around the entire area to see what’s in store, and he doesn’t stop talking, which is great because I’m in no mood to talk.

  He tells me that the entrance to the park is fashioned on a street in Texas of the 1800s, lined with shops that look exactly like the ones he has seen in the movies. They are selling stuffed toys and Disney merchandise, but could have very well been selling horse hooves and guns. ‘I’m sure they shoot movies here!’ he says, ‘No one would know it’s 2013!’

  He drags me to Toy Story Land, where he clicks pictures of us with Buzz Lightyear and Woody. He buys me a pizza, that’s in a cone, and it gives me some strength, because right now I’m out of energy to keep up with a six-year-old Deep. He’s almost running as he drags me to Grizzly Gulch, which he tells me is a to-the-scale reconstruction of an old mine, and that he will have nightmares about it. ‘The bears are real . . . no they are not,’ he says, almost shocked. ‘Look! There’s a jail!’ he says and runs to it. I’m panting, trying to keep up with his pace, also because his enthusiasm is infectious. He’s running, touching everything he can, clicking pictures like he’s a Nat Geo photographer and this is a rare sighting of a woolly mammoth. And just when I’m about to tell him that, he drags me to the Adventure Land, which sounds extra creepy since it’s a recreation of a rainforest. When I ask him if it’s scary to look at, he just tells me, ‘It could very well have been real.’

  ‘Oh shit. Two hours gone! . . . We need to get on some rides, too . . . Shit, this place is so big! We will go to the Space Mountain first! It promises an adventurous ride through the galaxies of space, which would unravel the secrets of the stars and the nebulas,’ he reads from the map. ‘We can’t miss out on that!’ he says excitedly.

  Coming to Disneyland was my defence against depression, but now it seems like we are here for him! He’s walking way faster than he usually does. He keeps getting hold of people, asking them to click pictures of us in crazy caps made of Disney characters. He tells me he would take entire shops of stuffed toys and remote-controlled cars home if he could.

  ‘Whatever you say, captain!’ I respond.

  ‘I’m so happy you got me here. This is like another world. If someone asks me what my heaven should look like, it should be this. Pizza cones and space rides and Buzz Lightyear,’ he mumbles as we stand in the line to unravel the secrets of the universe on an indoor roller coaster. Then he whispers, ‘When you had f
irst said take me to Disneyland, I’d thought it had a sexual connotation.’

  ‘Did you Google?’

  ‘What else would I do?’ he says. ‘I’m a novice in all matters regarding the opposite sex.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re quite the charmer.’

  ‘I’m a bundle of awkwardness. Apart from yours and my first girlfriend’s, whom I don’t think I liked very much, the only hand I have held is my mother’s, and though it feels great, it is nothing like this,’ he says it casually, like I will not hyperventilate.

  ‘What does this feel like?’ I ask.

  ‘Our ride is here,’ he says, avoiding my question. We step into a make-believe spaceship, ready for the ride that will change the way we or rather he looks at space, forever. I’m glad he didn’t answer because right now, I really want to be kissed.

  Roller coasters are scary. We have been on three of them already, each one scarier than the previous one; Deep keeps assuring me It will be okay, though I’m more bothered when he breathes into my ear while saying it. This is the most fun I have had in the longest time; it’s the best sounding place I have ever been to—it sounds like gushing water, and wind blowing through trees, and the best parts of the music of the cartoon films I have listened to as a child and as a grown-up.

  We are eating Indian food today because he got really excited when he saw an outlet selling Indian thalis, and I can hear him chew his food down enthusiastically, which is probably the only unattractive thing about him.

  ‘Deep? Can I ask you something?’