by Durjoy Datta
Just saying.
3 May 1999
Aren’t there times so sad even crying doesn’t cut it? Like on a pain scale, what you’re feeling is immeasurable? That’s what Dada and Brahmi made me feel today.
Brahmi had been lying to me all this time. She had called me a friend. Why did she have to throw the word around casually if it didn’t mean anything to her? I didn’t ask her to label what we were. She chose the word and sullied it. Maybe I deserve it. Damn it. Adolf is dead. Mina’s brother is dead, gone, lost. And Brahmi’s wholly to blame for it. Brahmi’s parents hadn’t allowed the puppy home so she had kept the puppy outside, feeding him, wrapping him in blankets, smuggling him home in the nights after everyone was asleep. She never thought to mention it when we discussed Mina and Adolf, or even ask if I wanted to take him home.
‘How could you do this to me?’
‘Your family had accepted it and mine hadn’t. I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell you,’ she said.
‘So you would just lie?’
‘I didn’t—’
‘I didn’t what! You didn’t think that he would get lost? He was a puppy! What else did you expect from him?’
‘We can find him.’
‘Of course we will find him. We will find him dead! DEAD!’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you tell your mother to keep him inside?! Didn’t she have sense? Or is she as stupid as you are?’
‘Raghu—’
‘Just shut up!’
Brahmi started crying and I stormed off. A part of me wanted to apologize for what I had said about her mother, the other was still furious. A little later she found me in the basement.
‘You should have told me,’ I said when I saw her approach.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘We will search for him after school.’
‘Are you still angry?’
‘No.’
‘I know you are.’
‘I’m sorry for what I said about your mother,’ I said.
After school we spent two hours scouring every lane and road near Brahmi’s home, screaming his name till we lost our voices and didn’t find Adolf. She thought he would come running to us. I knew we would find his bloodied body at the side of the road. I wondered if his end was painless. I was even jealous that he got out of suffering so early in his life and I am still here, living one day after another.
Adolf was gone.
‘I should go back home,’ I said.
‘We will look for him tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Sure.’
I boarded the bus. She waved me goodbye. As the bus rolled out of the bus stop, I heard Brahmi scream out Adolf’s name again. I ran to the back of the bus and peered out from the window. Brahmi was still looking for Adolf. Soon her shouts were reduced to a whisper and the bus turned at the corner.
It’s all her fault. If we hadn’t saved the pregnant Shahrazad that day nothing would have happened. At least we wouldn’t have been in the middle of this. Two of the three lives we supposedly saved are now lost. What was the point of it all?
If our friendship was a living, breathing organism, it was born the day the bitch gave birth to Adolf and Mina, and she let it die. But unlike Dada she was at least repentant. She apologized every twenty minutes, if that’s any consolation.
I couldn’t share what happened with Maa–Baba, or Arundhati—they would think less of Brahmi if they knew, and I wasn’t ready for it. I whispered in little Mina’s ears the news of her brother’s death but she was more interested in chewing my little finger. I waited for Dada to come home which was not until 3 in the morning.
‘Where were you, Dada? Don’t tell me you were at the office like you told Maa. I called and they said you had left at 9. So where were you?’ I asked.
‘Why are you still up?’
‘Where had you gone, Dada?’
‘God, what’s with you? You’re worse than Maa. I was with Zubeida. Happy?’
‘Zubeida? Where? How? Till 3?’
‘I was in her hotel,’ he said.
‘Like in the lobby of the hotel?’
‘In her room,’ said Dada.
‘In her room? Just the two of you?’
‘Yes? Why?’ he asked. ‘Why do you look like you’re going to faint?’
Fighting tears, fingers clenching-unclenching, I told Dada I needed to meet Zubeida.
‘Why?’ Dada asked.
‘You spend the night at a girl’s hotel room and you don’t think I should meet her?’
‘No, of course you should meet her. I am just asking because the last time I had asked you to meet her you had flipped—’
‘BUT THIS time you were in her room, Dada! It’s different,’ I added with emphasis in my voice.
‘How the hell is it different?’ he said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal.
‘Dada, are you in love with her?’
Dada shrugged. ‘Yes, so?’
‘Are you just in a relationship, like you like her, or are you in love?’
‘I’m in love for sure,’ he chuckled.
‘SO WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU TELL ME IF YOU WILL GET MARRIED TO HER OR NOT!’
‘Is it so important?’
I didn’t deem it necessary to answer Dada’s stupid question. How stupid is Dada to think he can spend a night with a girl he loves in a hotel room and not get married to her? Of course, he’s getting married to her. I’m not an idiot to think that staying a night together could mean a pregnancy but there are certain moral obligations that come when you say you’re in love. Maa–Baba didn’t throw the word ‘love’ around so frivolously and neither did they teach us that. Maa–Baba never said we-were-figuring-out-what-we-wanted-to-do after they professed their love. Quite unlike Dada who tells her he loves her, stays in her room, and then behaves as if he’s not going to get married. Is he lying to Zubeida and me about his love for her just like Brahmi had lied to me about Adolf?
Is nothing sacred any more?
7 May 1999
RECKLESS. That’s what we all are. ABSOLUTELY RECKLESS. Why don’t we think twice before doing something? What could possibly be going through the heads of those girls when they played this little prank? Let me tell you what happened.
When I entered class with Brahmi after the PT period I saw a few girls, fighting and giggling, sitting on our desk. They walked away as we approached, smiles pasted on their faces. Their happiness was like spiders on my skin. But what would they know of Adolf’s death? The past week had been harder on Brahmi than on me. I had run through my cycle of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
Brahmi still harboured hope that one day Adolf would come back to nap at her feet. And isn’t hope just the worst thing?
‘Adolf’s not coming back,’ I told her.
‘He might. We can’t lose hope.’
‘This is not hope, it’s delusion.’
‘He will come back.’
‘No, he won’t.’
‘He will. You can choose not to wait but I will. He will come back. I can’t lose hope,’ she said and scratched her wrist involuntarily. ‘What else is left if not hope?’
I looked at the scars and assumed every time she lost hope she reached for a knife or a blade, so I said nothing.
‘Fine. Let’s hope he comes back.’
Brahmi was like the mad woman from the movie Karan Arjun who kept repeating that her sons will be back. That’s what hope/delusion does to you. Brahmi’s keeping the pain of Adolf’s death at arm’s length and harbouring hope and that’s much worse.
It wasn’t until the next period that we discovered a bunch of badly scribbled papers in the desk left behind by the girls. On every note there was a single message: BRAHMI LOVES SAHIL.
‘There’s no need to complain, Raghu. It’s just a prank.’
‘So?’
‘The teachers would think Sahil was in on it as well. Let it go,’ said Brahmi.
‘What they
did was stupid. Today it’s these notes, tomorrow they will take decisions that will hurt their entire family,’ I scoffed. ‘I’m telling the vice principal. She will decide what to do. A minimum three-day suspension I want for them. Not one day less!’
‘Why are you so angry?’
‘Because . . . it’s . . . it’s just wrong!’
‘If you want to get them suspended, do it. But I won’t talk to you for as long as their suspension lasts.’
She stormed out of the class. I sat there, the notes in my hands, the reason for my anger staring right at my face. It was plain and simple. I wanted my name where Sahil’s was. Even if it was a prank. Have I not felt like putting the word love between our names? Of course I have. But neither am I one of those stupid girls nor my reckless brother. Saying something like that is a bond of a lifetime.
‘I didn’t complain but if they do it the next time, I would tell the teachers.’
‘They left the same papers with Sahil Ahuja as well. He came to apologize and assure me that he had no part to play in it.’
‘He came and talked to you?’
‘Yes, he did.’
I had never seen Sahil Ahuja talk to anyone except the teachers whom he terrorized. He always took the last seat of the class which was a vantage point for audacious behaviour. From there he routinely threw good and crude jokes alike at the teachers, little paper bullets from rubber slings at us, and frequently got expelled from the class. Though now he ranks middle in class, he had failed twice in the fifth standard. Being two years older than all of us gives him three extra inches of height, making him the only person in the class who’s not shorter than Brahmi. Sahil smiled when he caught my eye. I turned to Brahmi to find her smiling back at him too. And I could be overthinking here but I saw Sahil Ahuja looking at us through the day. I kept leaning forward and backward in my seat to block his view of Brahmi’s hair.
It was only later while we were in the Blueline bus and away from Sahil Ahuja’s imposing presence and his devilish smile that I remembered what I had been meaning to ask Brahmi.
‘My Dada stayed out the entire night. The girl he is in love with was in Delhi and they were in the same room,’ I said.
‘My cousin too had a love marriage. So when are they getting married?’ she asked.
It was the first time I smiled today. Brahmi knew what being in love means. Isn’t it just wonderful when you can sleep and wish to wake up the next day? I don’t feel like killing myself today and it feels absolutely awesome.
15 May 1999
Today was the first day of our summer vacations.
While our classmates celebrated the time off from school Brahmi and I opted for extra assignments for the time. She didn’t say anything explicitly but she opted for them after I did. But then again hope is a bad thing. Maybe she didn’t do it for me but for the same ulterior motives I had. Our school was renovating the physics and biology labs during the summer vacations and we could be the first ones to try out some of the equipment. Since we are both non-medical students the summer vacations were the only time we could go to the lab and cut open some frogs like our classmates in the biology section.
‘They might ban dissecting animals soon,’ Brahmi complained.
‘That’s sad. Are you sure about handling knives?’
‘It will give me practice,’ she said and chuckled.
‘That’s not a laughing matter.’
‘Is it not?’
Today we didn’t meet to cut open a frog. I had to meet Zubeida Quaze and I asked Brahmi to tag along. I needed someone on my team. I had maintained a demeanour of equanimity but Brahmi had seen through it and suggested bunking school. ‘Don’t worry, the auditions for the debating society are today,’ she had said. We both went first, fumbled, got rejected and then sneaked out. Where, I had asked, and she brought me to Lodhi Gardens, where we picked flowers and got chased by watchmen.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘I have no choice,’ I said.
‘You look nervous,’ she said and gave me her water bottle to drink from.
‘I am not nervous.’
‘But why do you want to meet her? You can be with your Maa–Baba on this and ask Dada not to get married to her.’
‘I can’t do that to Dada. Dada is in love. You know what heartbreak feels like.’
We were to meet Dada and Boudi, wasn’t she to be my sister-in-law, at United Coffee House.
‘Shouldn’t they be here yet?’
‘He’s being cool. Being late is cool for him.’
‘What?’
‘His definition of being cool is warped. As you can see. In love and not sure if he’s going to get married! How nonsensical is that?’
Brahmi laughed. ‘True.’
‘Can I ask you a question, Brahmi?’
She nodded.
‘Did you think you will marry the boy you cut your wrists for?’
‘Both of them.’
‘You cut yourself twice for love?’
‘Isn’t love death by a thousand cuts? I’m glad I am through with two. Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘What did the second boy do?’
‘I didn’t cut myself for him but for how stupid I was to keep lying to myself that he will change, that he really loved me, to believe in every lie he told me. I was punishing myself.’
What I felt at that moment was a lot of jealousy mixed with a feeling of incompetence. I was a relationship novice and had no advice to share or similar anecdotes to bond over. The only girl I have ever liked—before Brahmi—never knew I liked her and that was five years ago.
Once they arrived and we settled down, Dada leant away from us and towards the man on the other table who was listening to the commentary of the first World Cup match. England–Sri Lanka.
Next to Dada, Zubeida sat in her distracting and flowing black burqa. Only her round face was visible through it, like it had been framed.
It looked suffocating but her smile betrayed no such emotion. She looked at Brahmi and me, still smiling warmly, her brown eyes devoid of any malice. Her burqa screamed ‘Them! Those people!’ but her eyes said ‘Us. We.’
‘You’re so beautiful,’ said Brahmi.
‘That’s so sweet of you. You’re very cute yourself,’ said Zubeida and touched Brahmi’s hand lightly.
‘Thank you,’ said Brahmi and smiled.
‘You’re so quiet, Raghu. You wanted to see me. Your Dada told me you have some questions for me. Don’t you?’
‘I have three questions,’ I said.
‘Raghu? I can’t believe you’re going to do this—’ Dada started to say.
Zubeida interrupted him. ‘Let him ask.’
‘How did you meet my brother?’ I asked.
‘Oh. I thought you had some tough ones for me. This one is easy. Your brother and I were in IIT Delhi. Though we never talked in college. It was when we started going to the same office that we started to talk. So I met him way before I first talked to him. Phew. What is the next one?’ she asked and looked at Brahmi who smiled back.
‘Why did you fall in love with him?’
‘Raghu? That’s rude,’ said Dada and kicked me under the table.
‘It’s not, Anirban. It’s only fair he has questions,’ she said and looked at me. Not even a single hair peeked out of her burqa. She continued, ‘Umm . . . well . . . your Dada is the most intelligent, kind man I have ever met. The choice, if you put it like that, was obvious. I understand your reservations, Raghu. My family would react the same way if they come to know. Before Dada I hadn’t even been friends with a boy. Love was never an option for me.’
‘My last question. Why didn’t you fall in love with someone from your own community? A Musalman boy? We could have avoided all of this.’
‘You can’t choose whom you love. Did you choose to be friends with your gorgeous friend here?’ said Zubeida.
‘Of course I did. She was the most intelligent girl in my class. The ch
oice was obvious, unlike yours. Weren’t there Musalman boys in IIT or at your office?’ I asked irritably.
Zubeida laughed. ‘There were but I never talked to them.’
‘Then why did the two of you do this when you knew how your parents would react? It’s just wrong, isn’t it, that you should decide to hurt them like this? When you had choices, why didn’t you choose otherwise? It’s not as if you wouldn’t have found anyone else! They are billions of Hindus and Muslims alike. Then why?’
‘Raghu. You shouldn’t talk to her like this,’ Dada said angrily.
‘Your Dada is right,’ echoed Brahmi.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ said Zubeida. ‘Is anyone of you hungry? Do you want a milkshake? I have heard they have the best milkshakes here!’
‘I don’t want a milkshake.’
‘You can keep asking me questions, Raghu. I’m here for you,’ she said, smiling softly at me.
I tried refusing the milkshake, I tried hard not to drink it, and I wanted to hate it when it swished around in my mouth. I failed on all three counts. I failed at hating Zubeida Quaze.
‘What should I call you?’
‘Call her Didi,’ said Dada.
‘I will think about it.’
‘You can call me anything,’ said Zubeida.
‘I can’t call you Didi because what if you two get married.’
‘Raghu!’ interrupted Dada.
‘Dada, I’m not talking to you. I just remembered I had one more question. Sorry? Can I ask that too?’
‘Please go ahead, Raghu.’
‘Are you getting married to Dada? And don’t tell me you haven’t decided on that because why would you be in love if you don’t intend to get married? Am I right, Brahmi?’
‘Absolutely!’ said Brahmi.
‘You are so cute,’ she said to both of us.
‘That’s not the answer to my question.’
‘I might but your Dada has to agree to it,’ said Zubeida and looked at Dada lovingly.