by Milind Bokil
Then it struck me that the best place to meet her was on the way back home. I had to meet her either in the narrow lane or on the road leading to her house where she would be alone. The lane was normally empty and would serve as a good place to meet her.
I had to plan it to the last minute. The classes got over at five past seven. The girls would spend a few minutes chatting and then they would walk back home. It would take them say ten or fifteen minutes to walk the distance. I had to meet her after she had said her goodbyes. I realized I had to while away an hour at least. But I did not have a wristwatch with me. How would I know the right time?
‘Baba, I need a wristwatch,’ I asked, when we sat down for dinner.
‘Watch?’ Baba asked, arching his eyebrows.
‘Yes. How do I keep track of the time? I go for the tuition classes these days.’
Baba looked at Aaisaheb. Ambabai focused on her food. She’s a smart cookie and does not want to give her opinion in such situations. Aaisaheb did not say anything either.
‘Else, give me her watch,’ I said, looking at Ambabai. ‘I need it only in the evening.’
My trick worked. Ambabai looked up and waited for Aaisaheb to respond. Aaisaheb came to my rescue.
‘You have a spare one, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you allow him to wear it? You have kept it for him in any case.’
‘Okay,’ Baba agreed. ‘Don’t forget to wind it up every day.’
The watch was old but functional. It had a steel strap. I would have preferred a black leather one, but since I had got what I wanted, I decided to keep quiet. I wore the watch to school the very next day.
The classes went on as usual, but I was there only for one reason—Shirodkar! I was unable to concentrate on anything else. We boys used to meet, as usual, at our adda, but there was no fun now. We had stopped teasing Sukdi and I would be very quiet if Shirodkar passed by. Surya too would just gaze at Kevda. There was a science exhibition in school and Chitre was busy with his experiments. He was making a railway signalling system, so he would come in late, sometimes carrying yellow and red wires with him. Phawdya would arrive as usual, huffing and puffing his way up the stairs.
I had planned to bunk the tuition classes that day, but then it dawned on me that I needed to time the entire activity of following Shirodkar. I managed to give Pingle a slip and then noted the exact timings, minute by minute. The class got over at 6:56 and we were out at 6:58. The girls left at two minutes past seven and reached the temple at five past seven. They went into Suvarna Novelties and spent around six minutes there. They left the place at eleven past seven reaching Gandhi road, fourteen past seven at Dedhiya Kirana and then stood for a few minutes at the entrance of the lane leading to Shirodkar’s friend’s house. I was noting the timings as I followed them. It took half an hour for her to reach home. Had she come in directly she would have taken fourteen minutes. It meant she was likely to arrive anytime after ten minutes past seven.
The next day I bunked the classes. I left home and wondered how I would spend an hour. I deliberated if I could spend time at Phawdya’s stall, but then it would make him suspicious. He knew I had tuition classes at that hour. I went to the free Municipal library. Anyone can come and read there. The building is quite old and has a high ceiling. A few large trees outside it provide shade. There are a few fans and some large relaxing chairs inside. Several people simply come there to take a nap. You can spend a thousand hours there without anyone bothering you.
I whiled away my time and left at quarter to seven. I could have left at seven o’ clock as it would not have taken more than five minutes, but I did not want to take any chances. What if the clock in the tuition class was running a bit slow?
I wandered around for a while and reached the tree five minutes before seven and stood under its shade. I had around twenty minutes to spare. I was willing to wait for twenty thousand minutes. There was a huge peepal tree on one side. I recognized the tree from the shape of its leaves. We used to keep them pressed in our books. I had a vantage position as I could see both the lanes leading to her house. There was a huge yellow lamp across the street so one could clearly see a person approaching. The lane was silent.
Small flies buzzed around the lamp while mosquitoes hummed overhead. I could hear the chirping of crickets too. I had willed myself to take this chance, but there was a deep sense of fear—the kind of feeling one gets before the beginning of an examination, or just before the announcement of the results. My eyes and ears were alert and the body was tense. For a few moments, I had a strong urge to run away. And yet, I did not feel like moving away from that place. Time crawled and, when I looked at the watch, it was ten past seven. She was expected any moment now. My body was tingling with excitement. I wanted to quickly run and pee at the edge of the road, but I could not make myself move from the place.
Then I heard a cycle bell. I got nervous for a moment and thought it would be nice if I walked about a little to show I was not lying in wait there, but the cyclist did not notice me. He pedalled away vigorously and I continued standing there.
It was quarter past seven now. My eyes darted to my watch every other second. It had a radium-coated dial, which glowed in the dark. The seconds hand ticked away rapidly. But Shirodkar was nowhere to be seen.
I was getting a little worried now. Did I make some mistake in my calculation? Was Shirodkar likely to have crossed the lane earlier? But that was not possible. I was there at seven. And no one had passed by. She was probably chatting with her friends and would arrive by 7:30.
I decided to hold fort. A man accompanied by two small children walked by. I was tempted to move, but then they had already seen me, so I continued to stand at my place. The children looked at me, but they did not say anything.
It was getting dark now. The mosquitoes were biting me and the breeze turned cold. The winters here are not as cold as at Naru mama’s place, but it gets dark pretty early. It was getting colder now and the days were getting shorter. The smallest day of the year would arrive soon.
It was half past seven and then it was thirty-five minutes past. There was no point in waiting any more. I decided to go back, checking the tuition class en route. There was a chance I might meet Shirodkar on the way.
I walked down the road looking carefully. Although there was no need to do so as there was no one on the road. Besides, the street lamps were bright enough. Two old ladies went by, followed by a few men returning from office. But Shirodkar and her friends were nowhere to be seen. I crossed the lane where her friend stayed. I could smell the dinner being cooked in various kitchens. But there was no one standing there.
I walked all the way to the tuition classes, but there was no one outside. The next batch was in full swing.
My plan had failed. Possibly Shirodkar had taken another route. Perhaps she had some errand to run. Or she was sitting at some friend’s house. Anything was possible.
It was eight by the time I reached home.
Shirodkar came to school as usual, blissfully unaware of my efforts for her. Paranjpe ma’am was teaching the poem ‘Chitraveena’. She was wearing a blue saree with a matching blouse and looked beautiful. I was listening attentively. One could imagine the rain falling listening to the poem.
‘The cloud forms a black shadow on the blue waters
The rice fields burst forth with their ripe grains
The rains drizzle coolness
On the dense bamboo forests’
I knew every word of it. I could imagine a black shadow formed by clouds in the waterlogged paddy fields. I had tasted the ripe grains, thanks to Shankar’s father, and we had experienced the cool shadow of the bamboo trees in our mid-breaks. I felt as if the poem had been written exclusively for me. The poet somehow knew I would love it. The words kept ringing in my ears the whole day.
I wanted to bunk the tuition class that evening. It is convenient to bunk few days at a stretch as the same excuse holds for all the days of absence, but I was keen to find
out what Shirodkar was up to.
Shirodkar came in a little late just as our batch was entering the room. Her friend asked, ‘What happened yesterday? I did not see you.’
‘I will tell you later,’ Shirodkar whispered.
I felt like a fool. She too had bunked!
Pingle asked me the reason for my absence. I was tempted to say something about guests at home or a stomach ache but thought otherwise. These excuses could come in handy some other day.
‘I had a toothache,’ I said. ‘And the doctor’s place was too busy. I may have to go a few more times. I hope you will lend me your notebook.’
He nodded his head, falling for my words.
I bunked again the next day. I spent time in the free library. I wanted to go and stand below the tamarind tree because it was closer to her house, but it was a bit risky. Someone may ask why I was standing there for such a long time. I whiled away my time reading a few newspapers. There was not much to read though. Thanks to the Emergency, the papers have become very careful and do not publish anything sensitive. Earlier it was fun reading the editorial column that carried criticism of the ruling party. But now things were different. The government was clamping the voices, they said. In one paper, there was a dark black patch of ink striking away a news item. Perhaps that’s what they meant by ‘clamping the voices’.
I reached the peepal tree sharp at seven. I was on the lookout for the people whom I had encountered the previous time. If they saw me again they would wonder why I was standing there so often. But none of those people turned up. The lane was quiet but not desolate. There was adequate light and yet there were a few spots where one could stand in darkness. No one from the bungalows would see me standing there. It was perfect.
Then I became aware of the mosquitoes around. I could feel them biting me. Our town is known for its mosquitoes. Someone had joked we should rename our village Mosquito Nagar! The guests who come to our house complain about them all the time. Each house tries its own methods of driving them away. Some burn neem leaves while some of the others burn dried cowdung. Earlier we too used to try such tricks, but now we simply sleep under mosquito nets. Some mosquitoes are so big they leave a blood stain when you swat them. One Jagdale from Baba’s office is looking out for mosquitoes all the time, often ignoring his tea or his hosts. He does not mind swatting them on someone else’s back too. Aaisaheb does not like him at all because he once cried, ‘Vahini, look! A mosquito on your stomach!’ People wearing trousers are spared to some extent. But boys like me wearing shorts are in trouble. You would find boys constantly scratching one leg with the other. If you spot any boy in the world doing that, you can be sure he belongs to our town.
I stood there scratching my legs. I was quite sure I would not see her today. When one is desperate for something one does not get it. That’s the way the world is! I had a trick in my childhood—think of the worst. For example, I would imagine losing a match or not getting movie tickets. That way, if it actually turns out so, you don’t feel bad. And if it does not, you are elated. I convinced myself that I would not see her today. She would have bunked or she would have gone over to some friend’s place. She would not come today. She would not come today. I repeated the mantra.
But then she came! I saw her in the light of the street lamp. I would have, of course, recognized her from a mile away. I realized she might get upset seeing me hiding in the darkness, waiting to pounce on her. I decided to walk in her direction.
I met her halfway. As I had expected, she looked surprised.
‘Aiyaa, you?’ she said, her hand on her mouth.
‘What are you doing this side of town? You didn’t come for the class today, did you?’
I could not believe my eyes and ears! Here she was. She had actually stopped and was talking to me. In the silence of the lane, with no one around, she and I were actually having a conversation. With no one there to disturb us! My ploy had worked.
‘Umm…no,’ I managed to mumble. But I was at a loss for words. She must be wondering why I was not saying anything.
‘Sir taught us well today,’ she said, moving towards her house. ‘Don’t keep bunking like this.’
And then she was gone!
I stood stuck to the place. I remembered the phrase, ‘kimkartavya vimoodh’—someone who is stunned and does not know what to do next. I should have gone home straight, but I walked back towards the tuition class and then took a long route to reach home.
My mind was blank as I walked back. Ambabai remarked during dinner time, ‘Where are you? You seem to be lost in thoughts.’ I did not reply but continued eating. The chess games were on, and Kudalkar advocate came in to play with Baba. No one prefers to chat when a chess game is on and I could sit there without having to talk to anyone. Baba likes it when I sit and watch him play.
A plan formed in my mind as I watched them play. It was superb! I could meet her every day. The place was ideally suited. It was a narrow lane forcing the person to acknowledge the other person passing by. She had spoken to me without being prompted. What else did I need?
I soon realized the foolishness of my plan. Shirodkar had spoken to me. But she would have spoken to anyone—Chitre or Bibikar or Teredesai or Misal. Her questions had been innocuous; ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Why did you not come to the class?’ It was a question she would have asked anyone from our class. There was nothing special about it. She would never guess I had bunked class so that I could meet her.
She would be blissfully unaware of my situation. She would speak to me the way she did this evening—anywhere, anytime. There was no need to find a rendezvous for such a conversation. I knew Shirodkar was a simple, straightforward girl unlike Mande or Sukdi. She would not understand what I was attempting to do.
Naru mama had told me long back that one should be upfront with girls when it came to expressing one’s feelings. There was no point in beating around the bush or trying to flirt. One should express one’s emotions directly and face the consequence. At the worst, she would say no. OK. ‘Tu nahi toh koi aur sahi’ was Naru mama’s philosophy.
The thought of writing to her crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. Letters lead to mahabharata. It had happened in every school around town. Last year, when we were in class eight, there had been a huge fuss over Paradkar and Sontakke of tenth standard. They were writing letters to each other and someone discovered a whole bunch of them. Both of them had to leave school. They were hell-bent on committing suicide on the railway tracks, it is rumoured. Ponkshe kaka keeps on saying never give anything in writing. You are doomed when you put things in writing. Say whatever you feel like, but don’t write it down.
I decided against writing any letters, even though it was far more convenient to speak one’s heart through them. One could re-write, too, if there was a mistake. One cannot do that while speaking. I had to steel myself and speak up. There was no other way.
‘What do you say? How was my move?’ Kudalkar advocate exclaimed, breaking my train of thoughts. ‘See how I have trapped your father, Mukund.’
Kudalkar had trapped Baba’s bishop and was gloating over it. Baba examined the board and answered, unruffled, ‘I am fine with giving up my bishop, but are you prepared for a checkmate in three moves?’
Baba was right. Advocate saheb was in trouble. This was Baba’s favourite trick. Sacrifice an important piece, sometimes even the queen, and then checkmate your opponent! We laughed out loud looking at each other.
I let the next two days pass by. One was a Sunday in any case. I diligently attended tuition classes during that time. Shirodkar would not look at any of the boys, as always. I would sit there and simply gaze at her. Deshmane sir taught earnestly, explaining the problems on the blackboard, but no one asked any questions. In school, some of the oversmart guys like Bibikar would raise doubts just to impress the teacher, but that helped us to understand the problem. Watching the playground from the classroom was a great way to spend time in school. There was nothing of th
at sort in the tuition classes. Had Shirodkar not been present, I would not have come anywhere close to this dump.
I bunked classes again on Tuesday and spent my time standing below the peepal tree. It was five past seven. It was okay to stand there for a few minutes. My chest was not thumping as loudly as before. I was feeling a bit better. I had braced myself just a bit.
I stood waiting for her when I saw a man walking slowly down the road. He must have been very old, for he wore the dhoti in an old fashioned way. He had a walking stick in hand. He was wearing a black woollen cap and, seeing me, he came over and asked, ‘Beta, who are you?’ His voice was quivering and he probably could not see clearly. I was taken aback. Most of the people in our village have a queer habit of asking such questions. They invariably start a conversation with school children, asking unnecessary questions. They may also ask you to run errands. An old lady once asked me to deliver her bag from the atta chakki. I was a little annoyed at the old man’s question, but I told him my name. He asked further, ‘Whose son are you?’
I thought for a moment and then answered, ‘Mr Joshi’s.’
‘Where do you stay?’
For a moment, I was tempted to lie and say I stayed nearby, but that was dangerous. He may ask more questions and it may lead to trouble. He would be familiar with most of the households in this area and would know them on a first name basis.
‘I stay near Dhaparewadi,’ I said.
‘What are you doing here?’ he continued.
This old man was not willing to let go. I could land in trouble if he had a habit of taking this route every evening. I looked at my watch. Shirodkar was likely to come in any moment. I should have walked away seeing him come in the first instance. But I could not do that now. I said, ‘I am waiting for a friend.’