The Turning Point

by Nikita Singh

  – Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with that, it’s just that you have this checklist, and everything has to be marked off against that.

  – No, I don’t.

  – Yes, you do! You know what? You already have someone to do the crossword with: me. You have someone to go drinking with, you have someone to share your love of sappy romance novels, they just don’t all have to be the same person.

  – But what is the point of a boyfriend if he isn’t everything you want?

  – There you go again. There is no ‘point’.

  – I hate it when you make air quotes at me.

  – A boyfriend is not meant to have a ‘point’ and I’ll air quote if I want to—he’s meant to be someone you like and someone you enjoy spending time with. Period.

  – You’re saying you should marry someone even if you have nothing in common with them?

  – I’m saying you should marry someone. Actually, I never used the word ‘marriage’, but still; if they make you happy. Even if they don’t like doing the crossword and Labradors trigger off their asthma. Even if they’re a fence and you thought you’d be with an Eiffel Tower.

  – That’s quite beautiful.

  – Are you still ignoring my point?

  – No, no, your point’s been taken, I’m thinking about it.

  – Well, there was Dushyant. Your boyfriend before Abhi.

  – Ugh, Dushyant.

  – Precisely. The guy was a walking turd. And yet, you hung on to him for three years.

  – I thought I loved him.

  – Did you? Did you really?

  – Well, in bits, he was sweet.

  – What bits would that be? The bits when he got super drunk and yelled at you? The bits where he was mean to waiters and household help?

  – That should’ve tipped me off.

  – I’ll say. You can tell a lot about a guy by how he treats people who serve him.

  – But none of you said anything!

  – We tried. We really did try. But you know how you get when you like someone. You dig your heels in and refuse to listen.

  – I do not!

  – It was the same with Abhi. He cheated on you, Maya! Twice! And you just kept taking him back.

  – He promised he would change.

  – They never change. Once a cheater, always a cheater.

  – There are many people who have one-off affairs, regret them and go back to living a happy life with their partners.

  – Fair enough. I’m sure those people exist. But Abhi wasn’t one of them.

  – He said he was sorry. He cried, even.

  – And then he just went back out and did it again. You know, I have a theory.

  – Do I want to hear this theory?

  – You might learn something, it’s a pretty good theory.

  – Okay.

  – I believe that the people who are cheated on keep taking back the person who cheated on them because of the way they act immediately after they’ve been found out.

  – What do you mean?

  – I mean, like as soon as you discovered Abhi was cheating, and there were all these tears and remorse and stuff, didn’t he act extra sweet?

  – Yes, I suppose.

  – He bought you flowers, he showered you with attention.

  – We went on a getaway to the hills.

  – Exactly. It was like you had first started dating. The honeymoon period all over again.

  – So, you’re saying I took him back just because I liked that feeling?

  – Oh, I don’t think you did it consciously. But it’s hard to keep up the honeymoon period in any relationship. It’s like, addictive, you know? When you’re always leaping for your phone, when you realise that they’re the first person you think of when you wake up and the last when you go to sleep, the fluttery feelings. You know what I mean.

  – It was nice.

  – I can bet it was nice. And no one can blame you for wanting more of that. Which is why maybe you took him back the second time.

  – Oh, I’m so stupid!

  – Oh babe, you’re not stupid. You’re human. It’s normal. He was a jerk of a boyfriend, so it was surprisingly pleasant when he was nice to you.

  – I broke up with him before he cheated on me the third time though. Nush? Nush! What is it?

  – I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you.

  – He did it again, didn’t he?

  – I’m really sorry, Maya.

  – He was cheating on me, a third time.

  – He’s an asshole!

  – Who was it this time?

  – Is that really important?

  – I’d like to know. Call it closure.

  – Tanvi.

  – Tanvi. Not Tanvi-the-slut?

  – Yeah.

  – So, he went back to her.

  – I guess.

  – And now they’re dating?

  – I’m not sure of the details, but that’s what it seems like.

  – Wow.

  – More fool her though, right? Look at you, so much better off out of it.

  – I thought the cheating boyfriend never left his girlfriend for the other woman. That’s what you hear everywhere.

  – Well, he might have never left you. You dumped him, after all.

  – And now he’s with her. I really am the Universe’s Stepdaughter.

  – I love you.

  – I wish I could do something drastic, you know? Like egg her house, or give his car a flat tyre.

  – What would be the point?

  – I don’t know. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that.

  – You’d just make yourself look like the psycho chick. They’d be all cozy inside—

  – Don’t!

  – I’m sorry! They’d be plotting evil things, and he’d have a zit and she’s fat and they’d be all, ‘Oh my God, Maya is a psycho, you’re so much better off without her.’

  – We don’t want them to think that.

  – No. We want him to come crawling to you, on his knees, and say, ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  – And I’ll slam the door on his face?

  – And you’ll slam the door on his face. Not before saying, ‘That’s because you never know what you’re thinking, you stupid jerk!’

  – I’m sure I could come up with a better insult than jerk.

  – I’m sure you could. I’m just giving you a template here. Feel free to mess around with it.

  – Sooo.

  – Yes.

  – Speaking of jumping to check their phones every couple of minutes, guess which of the two of us has been doing that all afternoon? I’ll give you a hint. It’s not me.

  – Why, whatever do you mean?

  – Don’t act coy with me, missy. Either you’re doing that Eiffel Tower thing where you’re suddenly attracted to your phone, or, could it be possible that someone on the other end is making your heart go patter-pit?

  – Maya!

  – Let’s see, what could your phone password be? Let’s try your birthday.

  – Give. Me. My. Phone. Now.

  – Wait, grabby! Have some patience. Ah, here we are. Text messages.

  – Ma-ya.

  – Nooooooo!

  – It’s really rude to read someone’s messages.

  – Tell me it’s not true!

  – I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  – You’re not starting a romance between you and Hiten Ahluwalia?

  – I, we, we message every now and then.

  – Hiten though. My Hiten. The Hiten whose penis we were just discussing?

  – Well, technically he’s not really your Hiten anymore, is he?

  – He was my boyfriend. Farad was yours. Didn’t we just review that?

  – Like decades ago!

  – So what is his penis like, then, hmmm?

  – I refuse to talk about this anymore.

  – Why? You were perfectly happy to a lit
tle while ago. What’s changed?

  – I was going to tell you.

  – Yeah, about that. Why didn’t you?

  – I thought you’d be mad.

  – Do I look mad?

  – A little bit, yeah.

  – I’m not mad. At least, I’m not mad that it’s Hiten and you. I’m mad that you didn’t tell me.

  – I just thought. You have so many things.

  – You keep doing this. You don’t have to keep protecting me. It’s fine. I’m your friend. I want to hear about you in Fat Mayank’s T-shirt eating Maggi. I want to hear that Abhi is dating Tanvi. And most importantly, if you’ve found someone new, I want to hear all about it from beginning to end.

  – I didn’t want to be all happy when you weren’t.

  – But, the fact that you’re happy, it’s like the best news I’ve gotten all day.

  – It isn’t anything yet though.

  – How did it start?

  – How else? Facebook. He added me, we got talking.

  – He doesn’t live in Bombay?

  – No, he’s based out of Singapore now.

  – I guess you could commute.

  – You’re getting ahead of yourself. It’s not even at that stage yet.

  – You’re totally blushing! What stage is it in?

  – We talk a lot. On the phone. He calls, randomly.

  – Email?

  – Lots of email.

  – Phone sex?

  – Maya!

  – Just asking.

  – No phone sex. But.

  – Yes?

  – But he’s here next week.

  – Is he flying in just for you?

  – Sort of, he also has work, which means he gets a hotel.

  – A hotel! Oooh!

  – Shuttup. Stop making fun of me.

  – I’m not. I’m actually, genuinely thrilled.

  – Obviously, since we haven’t seen each other in like ten years, we’re going to have to take things slow.

  – So, you don’t know what he looks like?

  – I sort of do, because of Skype and his photos online, but not like the complete picture.

  – I always thought he was cute.

  – Well, I’m glad he won’t get a weird nickname.

  – No, not Hiten. He’s always been one of my favourite boyfriends.

  – That’s so weird when you say it like that.

  – We were dating. But nothing as sexy as a hotel room. He only grabbed my boob once.

  – You said.

  – During The Matrix.

  – You said.

  – It was a nice boob grab. Sort of friendly. Not all aggressive, like some men are.

  – I’m really not interested.

  – Of course you are. Don’t lie. And he was a good kisser too, not like Octopus.

  – He got married.

  – Who? Octopus? To the neighbour girl?

  – No, not to the neighbour girl, what are we, in a Hindi movie?

  – Today seems a bit Hindi movie-esque.

  – He had an arranged marriage, like a good boy.

  – Did Hiten go to the wedding?

  – No, it seems they’ve sort of lost touch over the years.

  – Boys.

  – I know. He was really surprised to hear you and I were still friends.

  – Why wouldn’t we be? Did he say nice things about me?

  – He said he remembered you fondly.

  – And?

  – He didn’t say anything about your boob, if that’s what you’re asking.

  – I would have thought my boob went down in the golden hall of boob touching for him.

  – You know he likes me, right?

  – So?

  – So, he’s not going to bring up your boob, golden or not.

  – But now you’re going to think about it when he touches yours.

  – Dammit!

  – Sor-ree. They are quite golden though. Want to touch?

  – No, thanks. I’m good.

  – So, you and Hiten.

  – Is this going to be your only topic of conversation now?

  – You have to admit, it’s very romantic. At your wedding, when I give a toast, I’ll be all like, ‘I met him only so Nush could marry him.’

  – We don’t have toasts at Indian weddings.

  – Pity. We should. When you and Hiten get married, we’ll have a toast.

  – Not if you’re giving it.

  – What’s wrong with my toasts? I’d give a great toast.

  – You’d talk about his grabbing your boob.

  – It was quite a turning point for me, I’ll admit. A sort of coming of age. But no, I won’t say anything about boob grabbing. I’ll talk about this.

  – This?

  – This. This afternoon. Golden sunlight on a rainy day. Us. How we were thinking about all the men that were in our lives before, oh, I guess I’ll have to edit that part a little; don’t want your in-laws thinking you’re a slut, okay, how we were talking of days gone by, and we had lost hope.

  – You lost hope.

  – So did you! I thought you’d never date again after Fat Mayank.

  – Anyway, go on.

  – I thought you didn’t want my toast.

  – I’m getting drawn into it against my will.

  – Sure you are. It’s a fantastic toast. Anyway, so, yeah, here we were, friends from back in the day, and how sometimes, if you look carefully, friends from back in the day can be what you need in the future too.

  – Huh.

  – And then I’ll toss in some stuff about the Eiffel Tower and the fence, because that bit was pretty cool.

  – Thanks, I try.

  – I should go home now.

  – Hey, we forgot about fixing your tattoo.

  – I’ll do it tomorrow. Can you at least read what it says?

  – Yup. Clear as day. Looks a bit better than it did in the beginning. Look, now that the swelling’s gone down, see, there’s space for a carrot.

  – A caret, you mean.

  – I like your way better.

  – Nush?

  – Hmm?

  – You will tell me if I got the description of his penis right, right?

  – Not in a million years.

  – Nush!

  – Maya.

  – Oh, alright. At least tell him I said hello. And send him a picture of the tattoo. He might appreciate it.

  – I just did, but the picture quality isn’t great.

  – Oh. Well, tell him what it says.

  – I’m typing it. See? ‘Well behved women seldom make history.’

  – What did he say?

  – He said, ‘Is there an ‘a’ missing?’

  – Tell him about the carrots.

  – Okay.

  THE ENGLISH TEACHER

  DURJOY DATTA

  Since time immemorial, English teachers in Indian schools have been the subject of erotic fantasies of hundreds of hormonally charged students, even as they explain without success why two past tenses can’t be used in a single sentence. Kunal Roy was no different. As his English teacher, Mrs Ravina Sharma, bent over to pick the answer sheets from the rickety table in front of her, all his eyes could see was her succulent bosom staring right at his face, he was filled to his brim in primal, sexual energy. Clad in a saree that clung to her body, accentuating her generous assets, she pulled the rubber band off the stack of answer sheets and straightened them.

  Behind Kunal’s short cropped hair and thick skull, the class was empty. He was perched precariously over Mrs Ravina on the teacher’s desk and was going at her breasts with unmatched ferocity, his football-hardened body chafing against the porcelain smooth skin of his English teacher, six years his senior and married. Kunal had a strange fascination towards newly married women. He thought they give off an obvious sexual vibe, maybe because they are in the most sexual part of their lives. They radiate it, they smell of it, and they look like they did it jus
t moments ago. The glowing skin, the excessive make-up, the desire to be a good wife, gives them a hallowed space in the darkest areas of men’s fantasies. The thought of newly married women always gave him an adrenaline rush.

  Kunal had never been a teacher’s pet, even though he had always been an above average student who kept his nosy, academically inclined parents more than happy. He was too sweaty, too rough, and too sportsman-like to hang around staff rooms while inside, the teachers discussed the latest issues of glossy female magazines, the effects aging was having on certain body parts, and their husbands’ waning interests in them. But Kunal knew Mrs Ravina was different. She was young, and had just completed her M.Phil in English literature a few years back. She was younger than the rest of his teachers—a fact supported by her perky breasts and taut skin over her high cheekbones—and didn’t look the type who would aim for the gossip queen title amongst teachers. Moreover, she was just an ad hoc teacher who could be asked to leave whenever the old, permanent, teacher joined back after her maternity leave.

  Mrs Ravina distributed the answer sheets, her slender hands in constant motion. Her parted lips read out the names on the answer sheets and smiled to acknowledge the good performances in the class. Kunal Roy’s performance had dipped further and it became clear that he would have to give at least a few improvement tests before the board examinations. A cleverly executed plan.

  ‘Kunal,’ she said, ‘meet me after the lunch break in the staff room.’ She looked away and praised students who had managed to reproduce what they had mugged with Yoda-like efficiency the night before the exam, on the answer sheets. But Kunal Roy was smiling the widest, much like the famous stammering Indian superstar who said, ‘To lose is to win’ or something like that.

  ‘She is so sweet, isn’t she? I wish I could have her forever,’ Kunal said to his desk partner, who was busy gloating about the totalling mistake in his answer sheet.

  

  The coaches were thinking of retiring Kunal Roy’s jersey number next year as a mark of respect to the laurels he had brought to the school in the last five years. It was his last year on the football field and he had done more for the game than the whole team combined. As a puny eighth grader, he had single-handedly powered the team to seven straight victories in the championship and ended the preoccupation of the school with cricket, along with the jock-status of the cricketers. He, alone, was responsible for the now vibrant sex life of every new entrant in the football team.

  But that day, things were different. What would have been three easy goals had ended up warming up opposing team’s goalie’s padded gloves. He was clearly distracted, his mind elsewhere. Every few seconds, he would check his watch, counting seconds backwards to the time he would be alone in a closed space with Mrs Ravina, only a yard separating his heaving body from hers. It was high time. For the last month, starting from exactly three days after Mrs Ravina had joined, Kunal had followed her everywhere.