That left two hundred rupees. Aai said, ‘Give me that passbook. I’ll put it in the locker with the others.’ And so ended my spree.
But it was fun while it lasted, even the family dinner. At home, we didn’t eat together, as a family. So it seemed odd for all of us to be at the table at the same time. Baba perused the menu with great care. Aai was telling me something about Prakash Kaka’s Kanchan who was pregnant. Aseem was sending messages on his mobile. Tanay had bought me a Bon Jovi cassette. He gave it to me after dinner and left for parts unknown. And all of us went our separate ways, as if we weren’t a family at all, just a bunch of friends saying bye to each other after dinner.
I had never been to a beer bar before. Okay, once with Orayan and Sahadev but I had had nothing to drink there. This time, I pressed the cold beer bottle to my face. The waiter stood there, opener in hand. When the bottle was opened, a whiff of vapour escaped. The waiter tilted our glasses and filled them slowly. I raised my glass and tried to clink it against Anubhav’s but he said, ‘You only raise your glass with beer.’ Then he raised his and said, ‘To your first salary.’ I said, ‘To my life, to my great life.’ Then I closed my eyes and took a long deep swig. Five minutes later, the garlic mushrooms came. I nibbled and sipped and looked about.
The bar was packed. Cigarette smoke hung over us like fat clouds. Mario Miranda sketches on the walls. An old juke box in a corner. A great sense of fellow feeling for everyone in the bar swamped me. I stroked Anubhav’s cheek. I got the feeling we were all sailing in the same boat. The boat was cutting through the waters, purposefully. But where were we headed? No one could ever know. Since we shared this common fate, it was incumbent upon us to love one another. Anubhav ordered another bottle and filled my glass. I pressed the glass against my lids and tried to see something in the darkness. Colours flashed and sparkled. When I opened my eyes, a man at the next table was pointing at me and laughing. I felt that I should invite everyone I knew to sit with me and drink ice-cold beer. No one should need to do anything else.
The treat I gave him? He said, ‘I want bhakri and mutton rassa.’ He knew where he wanted it too: Kolhapur Durbar behind the market yard.
‘It costs nothing to eat there,’ I said.
‘Why does that matter?’ he replied.
The place was full of peons and farmers and truck drivers. The tables were arranged as in a college mess. It took half an hour for us to be seated and we weren’t even at the same table. But what food it was, what food. From his table, he demonstrated how to crush the bhakri into the rassa and eat it. We ate our fill, even as our breaths hissed wetly through our noses. Behind me some women stood, waiting for my seat. One of them patted my back and put a glass of water in front of me when it became apparent that my mouth was aflame with spices. Outside, pouring water over my hands from a tumbler, he said in the nasal tone of a thousand Brahmin aunties, ‘So, Joshi? Still hankering for the sedate pleasures of rice and varan, ghee, salt-and-lime?’ I laughed and wiped my hands on his shirt.
And then those golden holidays ended and the routine of college started again. Lectures, practicals right up to two o’clock and then freedom. In the beginning, I’d go to the art school and dig him out. But after a week, he got annoyed. ‘I’m working seriously at my art. I can’t be disturbed like this, every day. Go home. Go sow some seeds. But don’t expect me to drop everything just because you’re free.’ I bridled. ‘Sure. Keep at those abstruse canvases. Perhaps if you could paint something one could recognize, I might take your art a little more seriously.’ He looked at me sardonically and laughed.
The next day he and Tanay went off somewhere and did not come back for two days. Aai said they’d gone to Tanay’s friend’s farm in Karnavadi. The cheek. Not a word to me. On top of that, no apologies and to add insult to injury, they took the bike too. I had to use the bus for two days. I felt I should go to that godforsaken village and drag him back by the collar. Half the day, he and Tanay were in each other’s pockets. What need to wander off together?
When they returned, they brought home all kinds of farm produce. As if nothing had happened, he asked: ‘Coming for a swim?’ I didn’t want to fight with him so I said, ‘Sure.’ And then it struck me that I was a goner. In those two days, I had thought of nothing else. I had let him and his ways get to me. It was the first time such a thing had happened. This just wasn’t me.
7 August
I haven’t been able to write for the last couple of days. Yesterday when I sat down at this desk, I thought I should read what I’d written up to now. Tanay has lots of books like this: the correspondence of So-and-So and Such-and- Such; the diaries of this person or that. When I read what I’d written, one thing became clear: this act of writing and reading what you have written helps you see yourself clearly. Writing this seems to have calmed me a little. As long as I can be sure it’s private. Aai, if you’re reading this on the sly, please don’t. Put this book back where you found it and don’t open it again.
It’s been a month since I came home. Aai, I’m going to trust you. I’m assuming you’ve put this diary down. What a terrible month it has been.
It was as if my mind was fractured, the way a bone can be. My thoughts were a hairball inside my head. Now I’m beginning to be able to tease them out a bit.
I kept on reading and then I didn’t feel like writing at all. I was taking a walk in the garden, when Baba puttputted up on the scooter. He had brought me some Rajgira laddoos. I crunched them until my teeth hurt.
‘I am really feeling better now, ‘ I told Baba. ‘Now, let’s put this behind us. I don’t want to be treated as if I’m ill any more. I’m coming home.’
Maushi’s face fell. So I quickly said, ‘Or let’s do it this way. You take Aai home now. Maushi will drop me off in a couple of days.’ When they looked unsure, I added, ‘I won’t do anything to cause you a moment’s worry.’ Aai went off to get ready. She had been yearning to go back anyway. Her conversation was peppered with remarks like, ‘Do you think he’ll have eaten?’ and ‘Aseem likes a glass of warm milk when he gets back from work,’ and ‘The turmeric should have been ground today.’ Aai had made both these men—Baba and his carbon copy, Aseem— dependent on her. For many years, I had noticed that Aai would be working like a navvy all day in the house: she would have shabby clothes on, her forehead would be sweaty. But as soon as it was time for Baba to return, she’d have a wash and put on a nice sari. She’d get a hot snack going for him. Just before he was to arrive, a glass of sherbet would go into the fridge. The house, already clean, would be given a onceover. And when he knocked, she would open the door with a smile. Everything was aimed at that brief encounter at the door. Then the drudgery of the day would return. Baba would slump in front of the TV in his banian and pyjamas. I often wondered why Aai would not dress up for herself, just because she wanted to? Or why didn’t she just stay well-dressed all day? But if this was her world, who was going to disrupt it?
When she left with Baba, Maushi and I went to the market. We bought crabs and ate them until we could eat no more. All washed down with sol kadi.
Yesterday, Maushi and I went for a walk. In her canvas shoes, short hair, T-shirt and tracks, she looked like she could be one of my friends from college. As she strode along, you wouldn’t believe she was pushing fifty. She told me she was going to feel lonely once I left. Until Anil Kaka came back, she’d be alone. I asked why she didn’t go with him.
‘It’s no pleasure cruise. It’s like taking a holiday in your husband’s office. He’s always busy. And in the evening, the boys get together for a drink.’ Maushi began to feel she was in the way, that he couldn’t get on with his routine. So when they docked, she took a flight back.
On the way home, we stopped for tender coconuts. The coconut man seemed to know Maushi well. He chose carefully and the water was very sweet. A short distance away, there was a petrol drum for the husks. Two boys aimed their coconuts at the drum and missed. The coconut man said that he’d charge only half
if anyone could throw their coconuts into the drum. ‘Let’s try,’ I said. Maushi aimed and sent her coconut into the drum. I clapped. Then it was my turn.
‘What’s your secret?’ I asked.
‘Concentrate on something that will focus your mind,’ she said.
I took aim and he appeared in front of the drum. I got it in and then jumped up and down and said, ‘Instead of a discount, just give us another coconut.’ Then we drank it together, like they do in the films, with two straws. When we got home, his face was clear in front of my eyes. I felt a deep sadness descend on me. There were no words.
This morning Maushi brought me home. I am sitting at my table in my room and writing this. We had a Marathi poem set for us in school. The poet suggested that the walls of your room know you best. As school children, we mocked the poem but now I wonder: what does my wall think of me? Does it wonder at this Anuja, who has returned after six months away and seems normal again?
After I came back, my parents took me to Sharayu Maushi’s house almost within two or three days. I didn’t have time to look properly at the house. I haven’t been away for more than six months but it seems like a new house entirely. The mess on the table, the clothes hanging on pegs, the things lying on the floor, all these have vanished. They’ve moved the television into my room. It’s not my room any longer, it would seem. They didn’t expect me back, it would seem, and they took over my space.
When Maushi’s car came into the compound, I stepped out of the house and, by some chance, I looked up at the upstairs room. I blanked out. Someone was moving around there. Someone?
After lunch, Maushi went home; she gave me her Discman and a bag filled with about fifty of Anil Kaka’s CDs. Then I thought to myself: I have to do this. After I had tea, I climbed to the terrace. At first, I thought Tanay must have taken the room for himself. But that wasn’t it. It was a total mess. The cupboards hung open, their contents strewn on the floor. His paintings had been ripped and thrown here and there. His paint bottles had been scattered. Everything was covered with a layer of dust. In the middle of it all, an Irani restaurant chair, the kind with the round seat and four spindly legs, and on the rack, a big fat glass jar. Tanay must have assumed that I had been abducted or something of the sort and must have taken out his anger on these things. For a while, I couldn’t stop thinking of him as I stood there.
I could see him as if in a series of images: working on a painting, cooking his food, listening to his Walkman, leaning out of the window to pluck chaafa flowers, playing the guitar. The intensity of my feelings seemed to have dulled a little. A list of questions began to form, questions to which no one could have any answers.
I sat down on the chair. If he had not wanted me to leave with him, he should have said so. Had I not given him enough time to think? Or did he assume that it was just a passing fancy for me? Perhaps that was it. He thought I was in for a good time and when he saw it was serious, he just had to get away.
Guesses. All guesses. He wasn’t the kind of person who told you what he was thinking. Even our friendship had been based on my advances. If it had developed, it was because I had forced the pace. He had made no demands of his own. He had claimed no rights over me. He had never forced me to do anything I didn’t want. Only on rare occasions did he get angry about my stubborn nature. But had I mattered to him?
Even after I left with him, we hadn’t got together physically, even if our friendship had grown stronger. I had had enough experience not to feel any intense curiosity about these matters. I knew what it was. I had none of the usual feminine anxieties about it. Once, when I had come to the upstairs room, he had drawn me close to him and we had sat together for a long while. When I was sitting behind him on the bike, we were physically close, but most of the other time, it wasn’t about that at all. With the exception of when he was teaching me the guitar. He would encircle me in his arms and we would play the chords together. I would breathe deep the smell of his body, rising as if off damp clothes. Once in a while, his stubble would scrape my face and arouse me. My hands would fumble the chords.
The only time he took the initiative was when we were by the sea. It had only been four days since we’d come to Pondicherry from Mudumalai. Now what? I had no idea. How were we to live? Where? I was the worrier; his face showed no concern. He had gone to the library so I left a note and took the cycle and went off to the beach. On that broad clean sweep of sand, I sat, looking out at a languid sea. I had no idea how long I sat there. Then he was there, sitting down beside me. The sun was dipping beneath the horizon and darkness was falling. He took my worried face in his hands and brushed his lips over my face.
I began to respond and suddenly the physical hunger we had ignored for days sprang to life between us. It was as I remembered, deeper, fuller because we cared about each other. My body was smeared with sand, sticky with mud, but that didn’t stop him from caressing me, keeping me close in his arms. In the middle of the night, our bodies drifted apart. Later, the tide lapping against our feet woke us up. We got up, hunted up our clothes and, wheeling the bicycle, we returned to our room.
Outside, it was dark. In this haze of memory, I hadn’t noticed the sun set. When I locked the room and came downstairs, Baba had returned from the office. So had Aseem. They were chatting and laughing together. As I went into my room, I saw Tanay sitting at the window, in the darkness.
‘At least put on the light,’ I said and switched on the tubelight. He turned to me.
‘How are you? Good to have you back,’ he said and then he came to me and began to weep. I said, in a panic, that I was never going to leave again. After a while, the tears dried up and he left.
When Aai came to call me for dinner, she said that Tanay had been hurt the most by my departure, that he had turned silent in grief. He had always seemed on the verge of tears. She had always thought that her children didn’t really have strong bonds but she was pleased to see that he had been so deeply concerned.
As she went into the kitchen, she said, ‘At the end of the day, it’s family you can depend on. Blood is thicker than water.’
8 August
Baba kicking his scooter into life woke me at seven this morning. In the kitchen, Aai was banging the pots and pans as she washed up. Aseem was playing some Mohammed Rafi wail. I could hear him shout, ‘Aai, bath water please,’ and ‘Aai, the tea’s gone cold, warm it up,’ and other such demands. When I came out of my room, Tanay was getting ready to go out.
‘Off somewhere?’ I asked.
‘Somewhere? University! It’s convocation day.’
So his results had been out for a while. Before I could ask how he had done, he had left.
Everyone left. Only Aai and I were at home. Aai was busy in the kitchen so I was actually alone. I realized I shouldn’t be sitting around like this. Until I got admission next year I had to do something. My mind was in danger of rusting, if I just sat around.
In the afternoon, I went and joined a gym. I popped in at Green Earth on the way back. I waited for Sabina, a resource person, for an hour. Late in the afternoon, when she had not returned to the office, I left and came home. I called Neha. She had gone for a film with a friend. It was going to take patience to get back into the swing of things. Everyone had got on with their lives. I had thrown it all away to go off. I thought of calling Anubhav, picked up the receiver and then replaced it. That would be selfish of me. And so I sat there, until evening came, and I wondered: who wanted me back? Why had I returned?
At five, the phone rang. Aai said it was for me. It was Anubhav. He asked if I’d like to go for a walk in the university grounds. When we got off the bike, we walked in silence for a bit. Then we sat on a mound and he said, ‘It’s been a few days, right? If you need something . . . Even if it’s just someone to talk to, just call, okay? I’m not about to ask any questions you don’t want to answer.’
I just nodded. Why wasn’t he like other men? Why wasn’t he cursing me, screaming at me?
When he t
ook me home again, I got off the bike and stood there, trying to find something to say. He fiddled with the keys of the bike and then turned it off and sat there. In the sudden silence, we looked at each other. Then he kickstarted the bike and rode off.
In the fifth or sixth standard, I forgot to take my lunch box to school. If anyone forgot, Anubhav would immediately tear his poli into two and share. So I ate his poli. I knew there was always a crunchy red apple in his bag and I seized that too and ate it. He never complained.
When Anubhav left, I entered the house to a familiar scene. Baba and Aseem were watching cricket. Aai was bumping about in the kitchen. Tanay was staring into space. I said nothing and went into my room and bolted the door.
In a minute, someone was knocking. It was Aai. ‘Come and eat,’ she said. Because Aai told me to eat, I ate. Because Baba told me to take my medicines, I took my medicines. Then I retreated to bed, covering myself with a sheet. The fan clinked and rattled as it stirred the air. The girls in Nadkarni’s were playing antakshari. I couldn’t sleep so I got up and sat down at my table and started to write.
When things got unbearable, I came home. If things had gone well, would they have ever seen me again? And why unbearable? Because I could not take care of myself? Because of my sick mind?
How had I imagined I would live without anyone by my side? I had planned nothing. Was that what went wrong? I should have sought independence. I should have thought to earn. I should have thought about saving. And then, I should have thought about a room of my own, however small. After a day’s work, doing something I liked, I should be able to return to this place and relax in the manner of my choosing. Our house was big enough for middle- class dreams but not for privacy. I wouldn’t even clean this room that I would have, if I didn’t feel like it. And I’d have lots of greenery.
Cobalt Blue Page 9