Losing My Virginity and Other Dumb Ideas

by Madhuri Banerjee

  She stopped mid track. ‘Honey!’ she drawled, ‘they’re not supposed to stimulate your brain. They’re supposed to stimulate your clit!’

  ‘Shhhhhh … There are kids in here,’ I said, looking around and blushing.

  Seriously, sometimes hanging out with Aditi was more an embarrassing experience than a pleasant one. But then she would do these nice things like buy me sunglasses without a thought and one couldn’t help but love her. She went hunting for a decent pair of jeans and I looked through the racks, following her.

  I started off on a theory that had been brewing for the past few months in my mind, ‘Men are a complete waste of time. Look at what you are doing. First you have to shop for new clothes, new shoes and new accessories to impress a guy. Then you have to play dumb to get down to his level, then you wait for him to call, then you have a fight, which leads to a heartbreak, and then you start the process all over again. What’s the use, dude?’ I exclaimed in one breath.

  Aditi took five pairs of designer jeans and a few tops and walked into the dressing room. The lady didn’t say anything to her, so I did, ‘You know you’re only allowed three pieces of clothing in there, right?’

  ‘Ya,’ she said. ‘But I’ve come here so many times that the dressing room lady knows me by now and figures it’s easier if I take all of them in at one go rather than be here for hours chewing her head.’

  Point! So I kept quiet.

  She came out parading a few jeans and decided to pick one. Half her budget was blown on that.

  ‘Isn’t it better to keep a gold necklace for later when you really need the money than blow it on a pair of jeans that you don’t need now?’ I asked prudently.

  She looked at me as if I was a moron.

  ‘Later, I’ll be dead. Right now,’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘I need to look good for the men who will buy me stuff for later anyway.’

  One could never beat Aditi’s logic, and I had to admit she did look good. Her long, chestnut hair, carefully retouched in the L’Oreal salon every two months and a lean body that was worked out at the gym at least thrice a week made her look like a model in her size 28 jeans. Instead of being an assistant director in Bollywood, she should have been a heroine.

  But today her logic about men was all warped for me.

  ‘Men,’ I started, ‘need to intellectually stimulate me for me to go anywhere with them … No! I don’t like that colour. It’s hideous!’ I said in between, referring to a pink paisley top she had chosen. ‘The men I’ve met are mentally vapid and physically challenged.’ Aditi and I had the kind of conversation most outsiders wouldn’t get. We could have one main topic and several side stories and never lose track of any of them. We multi-tasked with our discussions!

  She poked her head out of the dressing room and asked startled, ‘You mean they have a small willy?’

  ‘Shhhhh …’ I said, for the second time that day. Then I looked around and added, ‘No, I mean they’re all average looking and short anyway.’

  Aditi liked shocking people. That was her thing. She spoke loudly and laughed even louder so people would notice her and be scandalized. I had become so used to her that I knew when she would take off on something. But it still made me cringe sometimes when she couldn’t act normal, always wanting attention from everyone wherever we went. But I kept quiet. Aditi was a good friend and I really didn’t need to annoy her to prove a point.

  She came out of the dressing room, carrying the clothes she wanted to buy on her arm. She signalled to me to go towards the cashier with her while she commented, ‘Look at the statistics. 60 per cent of our male population is below the poverty line and ugly. 10 per cent is rich and ugly. 10 per cent is old and ugly. 10 per cent is adolescents and ugly. That just leaves 10 per cent who are good looking. Now these men might be around our age, they might be married and they might even be too full of themselves to notice you. But to find someone who is intellectually stimulating and good looking, well the statistics are completely against you!’

  I couldn’t believe she had thought so long and hard about that answer. Or maybe she was just bullshitting me. But I began to wonder. If you went by that logic, every single woman had compromised in her relationship. And that no woman was completely happy.

  So I replied to Aditi, ‘We never compromise when we take up a job. We don’t compromise when we buy new jeans. So why should we compromise on relationships that are supposed to be the most important aspect of our lives? When I go to buy something and it doesn’t fit I don’t say, “at least” the colour is right, or if we have to buy a house, we don’t give a crore and say “at least” it’s in a nice locality even if it is too small. We don’t take anything in our lives we’re not completely satisfied and happy with. So why do we take crap from men? Or for that matter, crappy men? Why are we saying “at least” he is funny, or “at least” he is rich? Why do women compromise on the biggest thing of all? The men!’

  Aditi didn’t reply. Instead, she changed the topic, which was so typical of her. She could never be wrong. And when she didn’t have an answer or was uncomfortable with a question, she would change the topic completely and pretend as if the earlier conversation was over with her last statement. It was a very ostrich way of living life, but she had mastered it.

  ‘Now we need to pick out some new clothes for you. With your new haircut your old clothes are not making you look glam enough.’ Aditi went on to pick some brightly coloured, shiny shirts and some short skirts.

  ‘I’m never going to wear these short, overly revealing things!’ I exclaimed in exasperation since I was feeling too lazy to even try them out.

  ‘Trust me. You might not wear them now, but when you do find a man, you’ll want to.’ She shoved me into the dressing rooms and I went off muttering something.

  I was so glad that she had forced me, because when I emerged, I looked amazing! She was right—as usual. So I went and spent a small fortune on new clothes to wear and no one to wear them for. But at least I was ready!

  I was ready to fall in love and get married. Oh sorry, lose my virginity! Did I just mix the two? Maybe the lines were getting blurred after all.

  Eight

  I met him in Goa.

  I was actually there on work, chaperoning the Princess of Finland, along with her many bodyguards. It was extremely hot in the afternoon on the second day of her visit and the Princess couldn’t take the heat—coming from a land of icebergs. So she decided to stay in the hotel and go for a spa. She gave me the rest of the day off.

  I quickly changed into a red off-shoulder blouse and white mini skirt that Aditi had picked up for me and went off by myself to find a shack and drink away the afternoon and most of the night. After walking on the beach to find just the correct shack to sack in for the next twelve hours, I came across Sunny’s. The shack was closer to the rocky edge than the beach and there weren’t too many people at two in the afternoon. So I got myself a table overlooking the sea and ordered a beer. Surprisingly, the shack was cool despite having no air conditioning and just an air cooler blowing at the tables. And since it was secluded, I didn’t have to deal with pesky couples, kids or rowdy office parties.

  I started humming to the music playing in the background. This was the life! Soothing retro music, cool breeze, a beer and solitude. These were the times I loved my job as a freelancer. Just as I was about to call out to the waiter for some fried calamari, a man walked in and sat at the table next to me. Madonna’s Like a virgin faded in. Irony was my aunt.

  The man was gorgeous.

  No, that’s an understatement. He was a Greek God personified. Everything about him screamed, ‘Model’. He was tall, with dark, wavy hair, light brown eyes and a body that could pass off as one of the bodyguards from Finland. He was wearing a white linen shirt and khaki shorts and sunglasses. He sat down at the table next to me and placed an order. I was trying hard not to stare, but it was difficult.

  After some time, the waiter appeared with a plate of fried cala
mari and put it on my table. I said flummoxed, ‘I didn’t order this.’

  The Greek God spoke, ‘No, I did.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the waiter and switched the plate to his table and left.

  His voice was melodious. Not the waiter’s, the Greek God’s. A lovely deep baritone. I nodded towards the plate and then looked around for the waiter, ‘That actually looks good,’ I said, ‘I’m going to order one myself.’ The waiter was already on it. He knew anyone who came to Goa could never resist a plate of fried calamari especially on a hot afternoon with a chilled beer already in place.

  ‘Here, I’ll lend you some till you get a plate.’ The Greek God said unexpectedly.

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ I blushed. I took off my sunglasses and pushed them to the top of my head so he could notice my eyes, the only good feature about me apart from my wrists, but that hardly counted.

  ‘I’m serious. Here, grab one.’ He handed the plate to me and I took one piece and put it in my mouth. Then he took a fork and picked a calamari with it. I was mortified. Why hadn’t I thought of using a fork? I had unceremoniously touched his plate. I didn’t know what to say. I began to blush again. But he seemed nonplussed and introduced himself.

  ‘Hi, I’m Arjun.’ The Greek God had a name, a name that was eulogized in Indian mythology. I was swooning. I needed to get a hold of myself. Maybe it was because I had too many drinks on an empty stomach, or maybe because he oozed sex. I felt as if I was swirling.

  I took my hand out to shake his and found the courage, ‘I’m Kaveri.’

  After what seemed a long time but was actually a few seconds, he asked, ‘Like the river?’ I nodded. He continued, ‘So you’re south Indian?’ I nodded again and added, ‘Partly. And partly …’

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said without missing a beat. I smiled. I might have been looking like a tomato. Suddenly hiding my big stomach and small cleavage was the top most priority on my mind. So I leaned forward and sat up a little as close to the table so he couldn’t see too much of my body.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked, sipping on my beer and all the while thinking that it would be so wonderful if we got married and had sex!

  He took a long gulp of his beer and said, ‘Partly not beautiful and partly from here.’

  ‘Ohh but you are …’ I mumbled. Oh god, I wish I could have kissed him. I was going mad.

  ‘What?’ he smiled and asked.

  ‘Um … I mean, you’re from Goa?’ I corrected myself.

  He nodded. He stopped drinking, eating, being. He just kept looking at me. In a deep, intense way and his eyes said a lot more. But I didn’t want to misread them. That was it. I knew then that what we had was chemistry.

  ‘Yup, from Ponda,’ he said, finally looking away and then asked looking back at me, ‘What brings you to my land?’

  ‘Work,’ I replied and smiled. I tried to sound normal. Instead a squeaky girlish voice came out and he smiled. I had not done this in a long time. Flirting didn’t come easily and my back up called Aditi wasn’t around to make me look good.

  ‘Oh, you look like you’re doing a lot of work!’ he smirked.

  I smiled, ‘I have an afternoon off.’ I ran my fingers through my hair, desperately wanting him to fall in love with me.

  ‘Let me guess, you’re an agent to a Bollywood star?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed softly, trying to be coquettish.

  ‘You’re a model in search of real food?’

  I laughed out loud, secretly happy he thought of me as a model. ‘No! I’m a freelance interpreter.’

  ‘What’s an interpreter?’

  ‘A person who translates languages for delegates coming from different countries.’

  ‘Oh, there’s a job like that? Wow. That must be cool.’

  ‘Ya. Sometimes. And sometimes it can be extremely taxing,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘What do you do?’ I asked politely.

  ‘I’m in TV.’

  ‘Are you an actor?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said very seriously, knowing how good looking he was, ‘I work in syndication for the media.’

  ‘Wow, that’s exciting,’ I said, not knowing what it really meant but wanting to impress him.

  ‘Hardly exciting. Makes you travel a lot and you get to drink a lot of airport coffee.’ He left it at that and looked away. And I didn’t pursue it. I guess he didn’t want to talk about work. We sat there for a while not talking and just looking at the sea.

  ‘I love this place,’ he mumbled after some time.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I agreed.

  ‘It’s so much better than beaches across the world that are more famous.’

  I looked at him stunned and asked, ‘Like?’

  ‘Miami, Hawaii, Mexico, France.’

  ‘You’ve been to all these places?’ I asked.

  He turned to me and said, ‘Oh ya. My work made me travel to all these places. I hate travelling though. If I have to do so, I will, but otherwise my idea of a perfect vacation is right here.’

  ‘Home, you mean?’ I said. He nodded. I didn’t want to tell him about my world travels. I loved travelling. I thought it enhanced you as a person. And I didn’t want to tell him that I would rather be travelling than be home with my parents. Just then, there was a strong gust of wind and the ketchup that was on the table fell on my lap. My white skirt was completely stained.

  ‘Shit!’ I cried out.

  He got up immediately and poured water all over it and I was shocked. We both just stood there with our mouths open for a while till I started giggling.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, smiling a bit. ‘I thought that would help!’

  I started wiping the sauce and my wet skirt with some napkins. It became worse. We both began to laugh and I gently held his arm pretending not to fall over with laughter. ‘I’m such a klutz,’ I proclaimed, all my coyness coming to naught.

  ‘Oh, join the club,’ he said.

  ‘You? No!’ I said, feigning shock and laughing some more.

  ‘Ya, why do you think I’m all about the cutlery?’

  ‘Oh really,’ I said and squealed with more laughter. ‘I was wondering why a guy would pick a fried calamari with a fork when it’s easier with two fingers!’ I teased. He laughed some more.

  ‘I wasn’t the one who ordered ketchup.’

  ‘Hey. Ketchup tastes good with everything!’

  ‘Ya, I’ll bet you have it for breakfast with toast,’ he said while nudging me gently.

  ‘How did you know?’ Laughter followed. All our pretenses of trying to be cool for each other had gone out of the window.

  ‘I think I should go change or something,’ I said.

  ‘Oh don’t go. Just put my shirt around your waist and it’ll soak up most of the water.’

  He took off his shirt and handed it to me and said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘I’ll buy you as many beers as you want … if you stay,’ and then suddenly, he quoted a famous painter, ‘You can drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can’t drink any more than that.’ He finished with a flourish.

  I quickly looked away suddenly conscious once again and trying not to stare at his hard body. My mind was whirling with thoughts about how I could just rub my hands all over his perfect ‘pecs’. I started feeling hot and said shyly, ‘No don’t worry about it. I’ll just put some napkins on it.’ We sat down again and he looked at me and said, ‘You’re really stunning, you know that?’ My body started tingling. But my mind gave me the logic that I barely knew him.

  So I tried to change the subject. ‘Hey, you know what you just said? Those were Picasso’s last words.’

  ‘Really? I read it on a t-shirt somewhere yesterday,’ he exclaimed, ordering more beer for us.

  ‘Really?’ I asked, scarcely believing that the famous painter’s quotes could be put on t-shirts that are sold in Goa. ‘I thought only the Rolling Stones got onto t-shirts.’

  He laughed. ‘Okay, you’re right. I didn’t. I was just trying to impress you with some quotes
by famous guys.’

  ‘You mean a famous painter!’

  ‘Well, I was in Paris a few times and visited the Louvre. It was then that I became fascinated with art. I’ve never said that to anyone. Everyone will think I’m just a pansy!’

  ‘No you’re not! How could you be? You look …’ and then I stopped myself. I was smitten by a stranger. A stranger who looked like a Greek God and knew my favourite subject. ‘J’taime Paris,’ I said.

  And he replied back, ‘I still think the French are really foo foo though.’

  ‘Foo foo?’ I asked, sipping my beer.

  ‘You know, uppity, pretentious, wannabe. Foo foo.’

  I laughed till there were tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘There’s no such term, Arjun! But it makes so much sense!’ I said and then when I collected my thoughts, ‘But I still think the French language is very beautiful.’

  ‘It’s hardly a language. Most of the time the French are saying ‘aaah’, ‘oh’ and ‘um’. They gesticulate with their hands and you understand the gestures, not because they complete the sentence.’

  ‘But look at English as a language. The phonetics alone is a nightmare for students. Which should we follow, the British or the American system?’ I contested. I was actually having a debate with a stranger who had made me open up to him.

  ‘Personally, I think language is a manifestation of the behavioural pattern of a race,’ he said, while ordering yet more beer for us.

  ‘Meaning?’ I asked, interested that a man that good looking could arouse me intellectually as well. Ahem!

  ‘Well look at Bengali. It is a slowish language with a lot of emphasis on “o” and when do you say “oh”? When you are stretching lazily. Hence, the race itself is a lazy lot made to work hard, but the language is reflective of their nature. Look at Tamil. Tamil is spoken very fast; it’s not a languid language. That’s because Tamilians are always in a hurry to achieve something. They need a language to be curt and crisp and to the point so they can speak it fast. Phonetics is completely different. Get what I mean?’

  I nodded, but said, ‘That’s a very general statement to make though. I’m sure neither a Bengali nor a Tamilian would like to hear that! I mean, I know so many hard-working Bengalis and an equal number of languid Tamilians. Okay, what do you think about Hindi or Punjabi?’ I asked. And he told me some more theories he had. And I refuted him some more.