The Enfield parked in the underground parking lot of the University, Mel checks Ferang’s watch and, being eight minutes early, orders an Americano at the campus Starbucks kiosk and sips it while smoking a bidi. She puts it off when she sees a group of law students walking towards her. She waits, then asks them for a cigarette to start a casual conversation.
They are good people, she decides after a thirty second chat—affable, hungover folks—but within ten seconds the mutual topics of conversation run out, and one of the guys, a skinny-fat dude, looks down and kicks the broken corner of a tile, and the only female of the group brushes her hair from her face glancing around, her cheeks moist with sweat, perhaps in the abstinence from some drug. Mel keeps on talking and sipping her Americano every three words, but soon she reaches the bottom of the cup and the sucking sound she makes is a cause of annoyance to the bystanders. Before leaving, Mel asks the group their numbers and gives them her own, smiling and promising to text them on WhatsApp for a few drinks one of these evening. The group looks politely uncomfortable.
In the classroom, Mel sits in the second row, ending up behind Sanjeev, the gentle giant from War Journalism. From this position, she can intervene without attracting the attention of the professor too much. Fifteen minutes later though, it is clear that he won’t show up to teach, and so she turns to strike up a conversation with Riyanka.
An hour later, she is paying close attention at Cyber Media, taking notes, illustrating them even, sitting in the front row so as to interact as much as possible with the teacher, a handsome man from Hyderabad.
At the end of classes, she smokes a bidi and drinks chai and hangs with a group of cinema students she met in the elevator. After a while, she takes her leave from the group, and the students, noting her presence, seem surprised to even see her there.
Leaving the University, Mel greets one by one the cleaners crouching in the corridors with their mops. The cleaners are hard at work, intent on polishing the marble floor in spite of the regular flow of people stumbling upon them only to keep on walking, unbothered. But she stops and says hi, and the cleaners reciprocate her greeting, and this, sadly, made their day—or their month, or their year.
Mel crosses the majestic University gates, observing a swarm of students of all ages pouring into the street from the neighboring institutions. In addition to the college students, the squeals of children studying in private institutions fill the humid air. Most of these kids are tie-wearing brats who throw their school bags in the face of their drivers before commanding, “To KFC” or “To Burger King, fast”.
On the opposite corner of the street, past the multicolored hair and pigmentation of the children of globalization, a kid the same age runs a pani puri stall. While the formers wear red ties of hand-woven linen, he’s wearing a gray shirt, faded in patches after years of daily washing.
At Candle Cove, the view of Nil and Ferang already seated at their usual table, already with the glasses in their hands, gives her both a sense of nausea and a sense of warmth.
“So, what did he say?” Nil is asking Ferang.
“Didn’t show up.”
“He didn’t show up?”
Mel sits next to Nil.
“No,” goes Ferang.
“No?” Mel asks.
“Jesus, no, he did not.”
“But when we parted—” says Nil.
“I thought he was coming, but Gabriel didn’t show up. And then I had to leave, to see my kids, you know.”
“It’s unlike him.” Mel orders a Chai Russian with a wave of her hand.
“Well, even being emasculated is unlike him,” says Ferang. “And given that in a bit we’ll say, ‘It’s unlike her’, I think a bit of unpredictability is more than understandable.”
“You don’t think he’s reconsidering, do you?” Mel asks.
Ferang waves away the thought.
“We must encourage his decision,” she insists.
“And I did.”
“I thought you said he didn’t show up,” says Mel.
Silence. Nil shifts on the chair, muttering something unintelligible.
“What is it, Nil?” Mel doesn’t look at him.
“Nothing.”
“Nil,” says Ferang.
“Nothing, really.”
Mel runs her hand through her stringy hair.
Silence.
“Well,” goes Mel, “did you see the speech?”
“Chandra’s, you mean?” says Ferang, then nudging his elbow into Nil, adds, “Your dear father in law.”
Nils miles a little, looks down, drinks.
“I saw it,” says Ferang. “‘Make Ayodhya Beautiful Again’. One fine slogan. I think he’ll make a good politician.”
“And a good businessman,” confirms Mel, glancing at Nil. “They say that forty percent of the trucks that enter and leave Ayodhya belong to him. And now he wants to redevelop the Pit. He has a damn good chance of winning these elections.”
“What do you say, bhai?” Ferang places a heavy hand on the back of Nil’s neck. “Ever considered a career in politics?”
Nil blinks. “He knows more than what he says.”
“What?” Mel leans toward him.
“You mean Chandra?” goes Ferang.
Nil bites his upper lip, looks up. “The Hijra,” he says. “He knows more than what he lets out.”
“This is, what, a feeling that you have?” Mel asks.
“Uhm.”
“A rather journalistic approach,” Ferang mocks him.
They spend an hour drinking and discussing whether the European Union will survive the year, and all three of them say they hope it will but secretly crave for the excitement that its collapse would bring with itself.
“I’ll see you guys later at the gala tonight?” Mel asks, standing up.
“Sure,” goes Ferang, a smile irritatingly full of innuendo.
Nil says nothing. He looks pensive, and rotten drunk.
***
After a quick shower and a hotdog dinner, Mel drives to the back of the Taj Hotel gliding along a side street populated by skinny dog-sitters and fat Labradors, and slips into the underground parking lot so as to avoid the red carpet at the main entrance.
A large-smiled boy, rigid inside a suit too good for him, welcomes her by wobbling his head but then corrects himself by stiffening his neck and offering the gloved palm of his hand, on which Mel places the keys of the Enfield. In the elevator, among white lacquered doors and walls covered with a reddish wood, probably cherry, “Carmen” by Bizet resonates discreetly. The lift-attendant, an elderly man looking like an infant polished for Sunday Mass, stands up to greet her and asks, “Which floor?” in robot-English and, pressing the desired button, sits down again.
“I love these kind of events,” Mel whispers to herself just before the doors open. Moving a step into the hotel’s hallway, she stops, opens her pocketbook and fishes out a pair of Amrapali earrings she bought for Nil’s wedding. She puts them on before heading for the reception hall.
In a corner of the hall, Ferang has set up a stand to enjoy the validation of strangers and collect funds for his philanthropic campaigns. He stands behind a folding table, winking at anyone strolling by, trying to strike up a conversation with one of his catch phrases—often receiving in response but a half smile or the cold shoulder. On the table, the faces of children, smiling or crying, shine up from the screen of an iPad, followed by pictures of Ferang playing with a group of barefoot kids, accompanied by a weepy soundtrack, one complete with violins and a piano.
The classmates, perhaps more out of courtesy than anything else, stop to chat with Ferang, nodding as he tells his stories, complimenting him for his deeds, just like they do in college, their eyes softening before the immortalized laughter of his children. The girls touch the sleeve of his blazer with empathy, but no one donates—at the first opportunity they all turn tail and go.
Rushir from Sport Journalism, appearing behind her back, offers her his arm. Accepting, Mel f
eels the stiffness of his limbs, the awkwardness of his steps as they make their way along the huge Persian carpet covering the floor. The air smells of roses, or rather, of the essence that perfumers have conventionally attributed to roses.
“He’s good,” Rushir says with a nod toward the stage, where an African American trumpeter is delighting in a piece of modern blues, puffy cheeks on the verge of bursting, his protuberant belly contracted in effort. Mel has read his name somewhere before but can’t remember where or what it is.
In response, Mel presses Rushir’s arm against her side.
Liza from Public Relations, with her sleek, toned, model-like body, wrapped in a Victoria’s Secret dress, sees Mel from afar, but ignores her and continues talking to two of her acolytes. She’s one of the most popular girls in the University. Her parents found oil in the Middle East.
“She sleeps with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire on her bedside table,” says Rushir in a complicit tone, as if the revelation would explain her offensive behavior. “Wanna dance?”
Twirling in front of him, Mel offers him her hand, to which Rushir makes a half bow. Their fingers interlace and their feet start moving in sync. Following the music, they look into each other’s eyes. Rushir has green eyes and is a good dancer, and Mel wonders if he also has a nice ass, and if he’d allow her to have a bite of it.
A woman’s voice joins the sound of the trumpet as an African-American artist appears on the stage where she sways her hips sensuously, in harmony with those red, fleshy lips. She’s not too good.
“Why is the gorilla singing?” says Rushir, as if expecting a hearty laugh in response.
Mel feels her stomach clench, yet she keeps her smile up. She stretches out her arm, turning away from him, but he gets closer, dancing one-two, one-two-three.
A reporter from the Times is interviewing Priyansha Chopra in front of Ferang’s stand, immortalizing her charitable self. Ferang makes eye contact with the lens and shows one of his supposedly enchanting smiles. He takes a selfie with her.
“We are here tonight to eradicate poverty,” says Chopra to the microphone, smiling and dropping a two thousand-rupee note in the glass bowl. Then, in a more serious tone, she adds, “Or at least try to.”
Mel moves to the bar, and Rushir trails behind her.
“What are you having?” he asks.
“A beer?”
“Kingfisher?” Suggests the bartender.
Rushir grimaces and gags. “Are you kidding? We are not peasants.”
They order two Heinekens, and Rushir is asking questions, making chit-chat, but she knows that this won’t lead anywhere, he has no game, all smoke and mirrors. Probably a virgin. Soon she loses interest and, sipping her beer, she oveRiyankars the conversation of the couple sitting next to them. They speak of moving abroad. They are Dipika Padukone and Ranveer Singh. When she turns again, Rushir is gone.
Mel downs two drinks and goes to the toilet, where she crosses a white guy in a tuxedo who, coming out of the gents says, “Women, I don’t want to court them. I want to ruin them, prove them that our gender is the best gender.” He talks aloud, is if conversing with someone, but there is no one else with him.
In the women’s bathroom, Mel sits on a pristine cup, checks Twitter, reads an article published by the Times according to which prolonged exposure to cat shit can make you a schizophrenic.
“Siri,” calls Mel. “Search for the nearest cat shelter.” She chuckles out loud at her own self-destructive humour.
Back in the hall, the music is no longer live, and DJ NYK is blaring a playlist with the latest Western hits, to which the city’s upper class youth shake their limbs as if they were possessed.
Nil is nowhere to be seen. Ferang sits behind his table, grim-faced.
Mel spots Sarahana, Joel and Krish from Advertising gathered around the white guy who talked to himself at the bathroom and heads toward them, but changes her mind when she gets close enough to hear them speak. She starts to leave, but Krish nods his head at her and she smiles back, approaching.
“I love Muslim women,” says Joel, touching the frames of his glasses.
“Yeah, me too,” says the white dude.
“They have something irresistibly attractive,” agrees Krish.
“And the men?” asks Sarahana, a mischievous smile on her face.
“I’d burn them all,” Mel rushes to say, anticipating their answers.
The others chuckle, and Mel feels relieved.
“And that singer?” goes Sarahana, smiling.
“A fucking monkey.” Again, Mel makes haste to speak before they can, making them giggle uncomfortably. Covered by a veil of sweat, Mel walks away.
In her peripheral vision, she sees Henry, on the red carpet surrounded by a swarm of flash, waving at her. He wears a beautiful Burberry tie, blue and gold, one of Mel’s favorite. Then he turns and talks to a reporter, something he seldom does. Betrayal, loneliness, longing.
“Do you want to go do it?” she growls to Ferang.
“Where?” he says, a hint of repulsion bending his eyebrows, a tremor of desire on his lips.
Mel rolls her eyes. “We are in a hotel.”
“I have not yet reached the quota of donations we need,” he says, lowering his gaze to the photos and flyers on the table between them.
Mel takes her iPhone out of the pouch, types in the account number shown on one of the leaflets, hits send, puts the phone back inside.
“Here,” says Mel, short of breath. “Now you can send them all to school. You can send them all to college. You can even send them to fucking Harvard.” She holds out her hand. “Now
FERANG
let’s fuck.”
After the intercourse, Ferang looks around. The girl in his arms. Her hand on his testicles. The hotel suite is spectacular. He could get used to such a lifestyle.
“Go,” says Mel, then.
Something inside Ferang breaks. He turns. She’s still lying, wrapped in the sheets. She is staring at him. He sits up.
“There was a time I used to like you.”
“Excuse me?” she says pulling herself up on one elbow. Flames in her eyes.
“It’s cruel to idealize someone you love,” says Ferang, staring at the wall in front of him. “An idea can never make mistakes. And a real person will always fail in comparison with it. You can’t but disappoint me, always.”
Ferang feels her move in the bed behind him. He feels the sheet tense underneath her naked body. “You poor sucker,” she exclaims.
“Be very careful with these insults.”
“No, you be careful. You, with this cut-price hero farce of yours—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, but I do. This is not about justice. It’s about validating your own privilege. And of course, boosting your—”
“But I send them to school and college!”
“So that they are dependant on you. You have to save us because we can’t save ourselves,” she yells. “This is how you see my country.”
Ferang laughs. “Your country?”
“My country.”
“You will never belong here.”
Silence.
“If you lose me,” she says, “it will be your fault.”
“You are the one who’s losing me...”
“What a loss. I already have a father.”
Ferang can feel her clenched teeth in her voice. He runs his fingers on his face. To make sure it is still there.
“How did we destroy everything like this?” he asks.
“Want to know something sad?” Mel goes. “I don’t even enjoy fighting anymore.”
“I can feel it, too. It’s some kind of void.”
Ferang stands. He puts his clothes on. The air conditioner shooting cold air to the maximum. The room is freezing.
“You are the woman of my life,” he says pulling on his underpants. A pair of white briefs. “Just not this one.”
“Let me be clear,” she says, now with pathetic
urgency in her voice. “The only one who can kiss you, touch you and fuck is me.”
Ferang chuckles. He doesn’t answer. He puts his shirt on.
Mel sits on the corner of the bed. “One day, I know, these miserable years will come back to us as the best years of our lives.”
“Yeah,” he says, looking at her for the first time after a what seemed an endless time. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
“What is truth if not the understanding of all the individual lies?” Mel’s tone is once again contemptuous.
Leaving, Ferang stops on the suite door. “Nobody likes you,” he says, aiming to hurt her.
“You do.”
“No, I don’t,” he says. “I love you, but I don’t like you.”
Mel smiles to herself, a smile filled with sadness. “In your life there is no love, only the idea of love,” she says.
Ferang looks at her without answering. He waits for her to say more.
“For people like you, Ferang, home will always be where you are not.”
Ferang walks out, but he can still hear her talking behind him.
“Love will always be far from our bed, and happiness always a little higher up on the scale of your so-called achievements.”
In the hotel lounge, Ferang chats with the first college mate that comes his way. He casually mentions that he will have to take the bus back to Old Ayodhya.
“Absolutely not,” says the nameless guy. “I couldn’t forgive myself if I’d let you take the bus. I’ll call my driver.”
Ferang declines politely. He smiles. He says he doesn’t mean to disturb.
“At least let me call you a taxi.”
Ferang hops into the taxi. The taxi driver leaves him one kilometer from home, adamant that no way is he is getting into the Old City at that time of night.
On the way that separates him from his home, Ferang meets no one but a homeless man lying in a puddle of his own vomit, and at least six packs of wild dogs barking at him from a distance only to wag their tails when he gets closer.
At home, Ferang throws on the bed a briefcase full of photographs and flyers portraying orphans. He’s hungry. With the single knife they have in the house, he slices a tomato and a half cucumber on a stool they sometime use as a kitchen counter whenever the roaches get bold enough and start running around on the actual kitchen counter. Suresh, legless drunk—Excuse the pun—is staring at a static TV channel.
Objects in the Mirror Page 17