Another Country

by Anjali Joseph

  ‘Ah, hey, sorry, come, let’s go up.’ Vikram arrived; his hand was briefly on her shoulder. They started up the stairs, and stopped at the third floor. One door was slightly ajar, and outside it there were several sets of slippers.

  She would think of the room later and wonder about her nervousness the first time she’d walked in. That persisted for a while; then it became usual, and the lack of surprise was something to flaunt. She’d drop her chappals near the door, breeze in, and go to her favourite space near the back, by the window. A sliver of sunlight got in through the blinds. Fans were on. You could hear traffic.

  A man in white kurta-pyjama got up and went to the altar at the front of the room, where there were flowers and a picture of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. He lit bunches of incense sticks, and a heady scent of flowers filled the room. People closed their eyes.

  Leela closed hers too. She sat a metre behind Vikram. Sometimes he was on her left, or they were separated by another person. He became remote, still. She had at first found it threatening, looked to him for a response, but there was none, and she’d concentrated instead on appearing to be so lost in her meditation that she was unaware of the outside world. This made her more antsy than usual, but it was pleasant to open her eyes and watch people fidget, feel the silence, or gaze out of the window, unobserved, except when one of the facilitators saw her and discreetly looked away.

  When her eyes were closed, her thoughts sprinted. She thought of Vikram, in a heated, hurried way. Did he like her? How much? What would happen between them? She needed to know as soon as possible; at the same time, she found it difficult to envisage change. Time passed; just as she slipped into unawareness of herself, someone would rustle to the front and ring the bell.

  The first time, she and Vikram had ended up walking home, until their paths diverged, when he’d said with some embarrassment, ‘Well, I have to go this way.’

  ‘See you,’ Leela had said, sounding to herself like Richard.

  Today she waited outside for him, examining the traffic. It had calmed. The sea at the end of the street sent a haze into the sky. She had an urge to walk along the wide pavement of Marine Drive, then sit on the sun-warmed ledge. When she had first come to Bombay, or come back, in the evenings after work she used to walk here. She had felt embarrassed to be alone, but less than in many places; and she had liked the weird, democratic streams of people passing each way, either walking for exercise, or dawdling, or sitting, or canoodling, or laughing, or looking at girls. Many people sat with their backs to the sea, facing the traffic. There were the south Bombayites, those who lived perhaps in Chowpatty or Malabar Hill or Colaba. And there were poor students, feral-eyed young people conducting love affairs in low tones, sitting very close together.

  ‘Do you want to go for coffee?’ Vikram had come down. He stood next to her, tall and apparently belonging to the part of the world that had sense and place, not whimsy; she admired his worn, short-sleeved cotton shirt, his sandals and the past summers they evoked.

  ‘Can we – I want to go for a walk on Marine Drive. For a bit anyway.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. They passed parked cars, taxis, and the quiet Deco blocks set back from the road. At the main road they waited to cross.

  Every time she saw the sea she felt glad, as though its movement expressed a secret blitheness that allowed the city to continue. The city without sight of the sea was serious, a determined climbing up narrow ladders to opportunity, but with anxiety, commuters pushing away others.

  Vikram raised his eyebrows at her and smiled.

  ‘I like the way the sea makes you forget anything serious,’ she said. They were walking slowly in the direction of Girgaum.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s playful.’

  ‘The sea? I suppose it depends. Not when you’re on it. Not for fishermen.’ His white shirt flapped against him.

  ‘Fishermen.’ She smiled. ‘But its movement, the way it’s always in motion.’ She walked, feeling the thin chappals hit the warm tarmac. The breeze struck her side-on and the last sun was on the large-leaved, odd trees that had been planted here some time, when? She didn’t know. ‘What are these trees anyway?’

  ‘No idea. Some sort of badam?’

  ‘They’re weird. Weren’t there coconut trees here once?’

  ‘This end? I don’t know.’

  ‘I feel like …’ She tailed off.

  Vikram smiled. She knew he was amused by her determined love for the city.

  ‘You feel like you’re going to write a poem to the palm trees?’

  ‘I feel like I’m going to throw a nariyal at anyone who says annoying things.’

  ‘Let’s sit.’ He was one of those Bombayites who say they love to walk.

  They found a spot on the wide, warm parapet and looked out to sea.

  Leela took off her chappals, placed them beside her, felt paranoid about someone running off with one as a joke, and crossed her legs in a half-lotus. ‘What do you really think about during meditation?’ she asked.

  He laughed mid-exhalation. ‘You don’t beat about the bush, do you?’ In these old-fashioned idioms she thought she heard his original accent, rather than the neutral, sometimes American-inflected, sometimes English accent in which he ordinarily spoke.

  She stared out towards Walkeshwar. The sun was orange, sinking, the sky flared peach. There were houses down there, at the water’s edge, but they were small. At the end of the peninsula, the Governor’s land.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A lot of things, distraction. I try to empty my mind. You’re a funny girl,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think about you.’

  Leela, her stomach jumping, was afraid to turn, but not only out of maidenish diffidence. ‘About me?’

  His face was unreadable, still handsome, tanned, apparently candid. ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You cross my mind.’

  ‘Right, right.’ She became aware of being uncomfortable, and changed legs.

  ‘You do yoga?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s an asana.’

  ‘Not a real one.’ She looked down at the sea, and also the tide going out, the dirty beach below. All kinds of rubbish: a rope that had once been a plastic bag, grit, the wrapper from a bag of chips, a tampon that they both looked away from at the same time. ‘I used to do some yoga in London, and a bit when I was a child. My father practises, or used to. But it was very irritating. He’d keep telling me to do it every time I got stressed out, he’d say, you shouldn’t get so worked up, why don’t you learn yoga, that in itself put me off for a long time.’

  He was grinning.

  ‘I did some Iyengar classes for a while,’ she went on, ‘my flatmate was going to them. I do some stuff at the hostel, but I should get a book or something.’

  ‘I have a book, a really simple one, from Pondy. It’s old-fashioned, but it has all the basic asanas. You could take it.’

  ‘Don’t you need it?’

  ‘I don’t use it. I could get up and meet my mother’s yoga teacher in the morning if I wanted. I’ll find it for you. It has photographs, it’s clear.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘My bottom has gone to sleep, do you want to see the sun set or what?’

  ‘Or what.’

  ‘We can if you want,’ he said mildly, ‘just say.’

  ‘My bum’s gone to sleep too,’ Leela said. She felt tentative, but also pleased – he was prolonging the conversation, he had offered her the book.

  They got up, Leela shaking stiff, heavy legs that seemed to belong to someone else.

  ‘You want to go for coffee now?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Chapter 27

  One evening, when he was walking her home, he said, ‘There’s a party on Saturday, family friends, Juhu. Would you –? I’m going. If you wanted to it’d be nice.’

  ‘You’re asking me to go with you?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking,’ he s
aid. ‘It should be fun, a party after all. I’ll pick you up if you want to go.’

  His voice hadn’t changed. She admired his calm, but couldn’t tell if it originated in indifference, or a phlegmatic temperament. And there were practical considerations. Even a late pass at the hostel would only let her in till one o’clock, but it was embarrassing to point this out. ‘Okay,’ she said.

  ‘About eight? It’s early, I know, but there could be traffic.’

  She nodded. They’d reached the streetlight.

  ‘Oh, okay, so, well, great.’

  She turned on her heel. ‘Bye.’

  She discussed it with Sathya the next day during a cigarette break.

  ‘There’s this guy. I see him a lot.’

  ‘Ah? Something going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Leela said.

  ‘Ah.’ It seemed Sathya was not in an inquisitive mood.

  ‘But I see him a lot,’ Leela persisted.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You like him?’

  ‘I think so.’ She felt diffident and tried to sum up the case. ‘He’s attractive, nice, clever, he’s studied abroad as well, we have things in common. I like spending time with him.’

  ‘Ah ha. Doesn’t sound like you like him,’ he observed.

  ‘I do. I mean –’ She didn’t want the conversation to end.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ Sathya stubbed out his cigarette in the sand of the large ashtray and turned to examine her. His eyes were a little red. She wondered if he did like her. Was she being insensitive?

  ‘I can’t tell what he feels.’

  Sathya exhaled. ‘He keeps coming to see you? Keeps wanting to meet?’

  ‘Yeah, a few times a week.’ She smiled.

  He looked distracted. ‘He’s from Bombay? He lives at home here?’

  ‘With his mother.’

  His head went down. ‘I think he must like you. Otherwise why go to all that effort? Come, let’s go back.’

  At the hostel, she tried and failed to catch Chitra for a longer conversation in which they could chew it over. On Saturday she slept in the afternoon, and woke in the early evening feeling disoriented. She rooted around in her cupboard, wondering what to wear. Her mother’s voice returned to her. ‘We need to do something about your clothes.’ Most of what she owned was comfortable cotton garments for work. She put on jeans, kolhapuris and a silk top she hadn’t worn since London.

  At eight she hung about in the foyer. Fifteen minutes later Vikram arrived. He looked tall and laundered, an air of fresh shaving and a woody smelling cologne about him.

  ‘You’re ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Here.’ They walked out together, past a couple of inquisitive hostel girls, and into a cab he had waiting.

  ‘You want to go to Juhu in this?’ Leela asked. She tried to avoid taxis even for shorter journeys.

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t have the car, but we don’t have a driver for the evenings right now, and there’s no point driving to a party. I prefer not to drink and drive.’

  ‘Of course, but what about the train? Wouldn’t it be faster?’

  Vikram gave her an odd look. He grinned. ‘That’s true. But I don’t think we want to take the local to a party.’

  Leela kept quiet. The taxi reached Marine Drive; it sat in traffic but she enjoyed the sulphurous fumes, the sparkle of excitement – Saturday night in the city, lights on, the illuminated old Customs gateway she loved near the Kaivalyadham. They inched their way towards Babulnath, and spent a while opposite Wilson College, talking, breathing in the exhaust emanations, and staring across the leafy road divider. From outside, the stone cloisters looked appealingly monastic. At Pedder Road, near the Hanging Gardens, another bottleneck. It went on like this.

  ‘Man, the traffic is really bad,’ Vikram said.

  Leela looked at him.

  ‘You can’t go to a party on the train, Leela.’

  At ten forty-five they got to Juhu and, about ten minutes later, to a large block-shaped house somewhere near the sea. The gate slid open. The watchman salaamed Vikram. Leela felt dazed, as though someone had said, ‘Bombay? You like Bombay?’ and then forced her to sit down and eat the entire city, spread out on a conveyor belt.

  ‘How do you know Meena and Tara?’ The sisters who were having the party.

  ‘My parents used to know their parents.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve known them a long time?’

  ‘Yeah, but mostly when we were kids. We used to have a beach house here, then we sold it when my father died. We met again a few years ago and hung out a few times when I was home from college. I guess that’s when we really became friends. You’ll like them.’

  He paid the cab driver and they walked into the front door. A girl squealed, and jumped on Vikram. She was tiny, with long curly hair. ‘Vik! I didn’t know you’d be here. How are you?’ She hung onto his arm, and leant into him, carried on talking. ‘We’re going to have so much fun tonight. Oh my God, I haven’t seen you in sooo long. We have to hang out properly. Promise? Promise?’ She was shaking her head and slapping his arm; Leela stood just inside the door.

  ‘Excuse me.’ A couple came in just after her.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  The man, a little shorter than Vikram, had a shaven head and bright, dark tadpole eyes. He wore a t-shirt and jeans. The girl with him was tall and slim. ‘Come on Adi,’ she said. He gave Leela a glance, of interest or snobbishness, she couldn’t tell. Meanwhile the little girl in heels and her tiny dress was still clinging to Vikram.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’ Leela asked. She smiled at the girl, though by now she wanted to yelp.

  ‘Good idea.’ Vikram took her shoulder, and they walked in, the other girl behind them.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Leela asked, but at this point he met another girl, who gave him a reproving but affectionate look and hugged him hard.

  ‘Hi, I’m Tara,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, I’m Leela.’

  Tara smiled.

  Leela smiled. ‘Um, so what do you do?’ she asked.

  Did the other girl’s eyebrows rise slightly? ‘I’m into interior decoration.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Leela began a conversation about interior style, minimalism versus opulence, and only then noticed the house, which had obviously recently been reworked at some expense. In pauses of the conversation, Tara, who was smaller than she, slender, and fair, would smile sweetly. Leela felt her confidence drizzle away.

  ‘Anyway, that must be amazing,’ she said.

  Tara smiled again.

  Where the hell was Vikram? Leela saw him in a corner, still beset by the small, curly haired woman. As though suddenly, she noticed how well everyone was dressed. Some, like the tiny woman, wore cocktail dresses: hers was dark pink silk. Even Tara, who seemed to be casually dressed, wore a beautifully cut top, jeans, and heels, and her hair was impeccable. Leela tried not to stare at her own battered silver kolhapuris.

  ‘You don’t have a drink. What will you have?’

  ‘Anything,’ Leela said.

  Tara beckoned a man in a white shirt and black trousers. ‘Can you get her a drink?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said in perfect English. ‘What would you like, ma’am?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘We have vodka, gin, tequila, single malt, beer, wine, champagne.’

  ‘A glass of champagne?’ Tara said.

  ‘Sure.’

  She touched Leela’s arm. ‘Can you excuse me for a minute? I need to welcome some guests.’

  ‘Of course.’ Leela moved out of the first room, and met the same waiter, if that’s what he was, in the passage. He had a tray and delivered the glass of champagne to her.

  ‘Thanks so much.’

  She carried it, took a swig, and drifted out towards the open veranda and the garden. Maybe there was a corner here where she could sip her drink, sit behind a bush, and be quiet. The bush would inevitably be full of über-mosquitoes or something worse;
another worryingly polite minion would appear and ask if she was all right.

  She slunk onwards, rounded the veranda, and continued onto the lawn. Never mind getting back to Colaba by one. She was stuck.

  Further out on the lawn there was no one. She walked up a rise and found a long pavilion that overlooked the beach. She remembered going there as a child. An uncle worked for a large company, and had borrowed the beach house of someone else in the company. They’d all gone for a few days – she and Neeti, her parents, and some cousins. Neeti, of course, had found a turd in the water and grabbed her, ‘Look didi, look!’ She’d wanted to take it back to show their mother; Leela had eventually dissuaded her. But this was another world. Tara, or the girl in the cocktail dress at whom Vikram smiled indulgently – it was unlikely they’d swum here as children. Perhaps they’d gone to the Cap d’Antibes? Or the Caribbean? She sat on the deck of the pavilion and took off her shoes. The grass was nice, damp and cool. It smelled of the beach: sea salt, something fetid, and a humid rise in the air.

  She took another large glug of the champagne and began to feel buoyant. She should go back and find Vikram. She didn’t want to. Duelling with another woman for a man’s attention was an important female skill she’d never had – it seemed to involve things like confidence, hair flicking, talking loudly, touching the man in question, all techniques she’d memorised but never been able to implement. Instead, she went limp when she sensed such a contest had been thrown out, as though she couldn’t bear to fail, but knew she would. She sat on the grass and felt a fictional euphoria – the warmth of the night, the glow of the party below, the champagne, a sense of being able to do anything, even march back into the house and vanquish the cocktail frock girl – without the burden of having to try.

  The party and Vikram seemed far away, which felt pleasant. Her life, her parents’ house, though intimate in a way this wasn’t, also seemed removed, only provisionally hers. Even the hostel, though she thought now of her clean, slightly shabby cell with covetousness, was remote.

  The sense of lightness gave her a pang of fear. She would go down, she determined, and find Vikram, find out how long they’d be here, what the plan was.

  ‘Hello.’