Black Suits You

by Novoneel Chakraborty

  I guess ours began because it was destined to. It happened on 2 November 2005 at around seven in the evening by the only ATM outlet of a nationalized bank a few metres from the sprawling campus of the private Jamuna Bai College of Engineering and Management in Wakhnaghat, Solan, in Himachal Pradesh where I was completing my engineering. I was trying to withdraw cash from the standalone ATM that evening before the suddenly announced Diwali holidays, when I found my debit card being sucked in by the machine. I panicked and went out, trying to spot the security guard, but there was nobody around. There was no bank either nearby where I could lodge a complaint or ask someone to open up the ATM machine to retrieve the card. I was panicking because I was there to take out cash for the middleman, Ramesh, who used to do all the Tatkaal tickets for the students’ homebound trips during the holidays. He was waiting outside my college. He would collect the cash from students, write down their names and provide them their respective confirmed tickets the following evening. Without the cash, I wouldn’t have been able to go home on that Diwali.

  With the security guard gone, who otherwise paced up and down in front of the ATM either playing Altaf Raja songs aloud on his mobile phone, sleeping, staring at the college girls or at times sharing a cigarette or two with the college guys, I came back inside the ATM. Anxious, I started tapping all the buttons on the machine, hoping that the card would come out on its own. But it didn’t. I looked at the ATM door because I had heard someone knock. I could see a pair of legs in rugged jeans waiting outside the ATM. The person’s face wasn’t visible from inside because of a couple of printouts pasted on the glass door citing certain bank rules. The knock sounded again and this time with ascended urgency. Before I could react, the person pushed open the door and peeped in.

  ‘Excuse me, but are you looting the machine or something, because you are taking way too much time?’ he asked.

  If he thought he had cracked some wise-ass joke, then he was wrong. I found it rude.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the machine sucked in my card,’ I told him.

  ‘Oh!’ He now stepped inside the ATM without really being invited and checked the machine himself by pressing a few buttons. When nothing happened, he stood there contemplating, with one hand folded and the other perched on his chin.

  ‘Either your card has expired or there’s some problem with the machine,’ he said.

  ‘It’s my father’s card,’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t know if it has expired or not.’

  ‘Call the bank’s customer care.’

  ‘I don’t have the customer care number.’

  ‘We can get it off the Internet. No big deal. But first, you should let your father know about it.’

  ‘I will, but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  I moved the hair out of my face with my hand and continued, ‘But right now, I need cash. I only had this card with me.’

  ‘By any chance, do you need cash for Ramesh?’

  I looked at him incredulously and asked, ‘You too?’

  He inserted his card with an ironical smile and withdrew the cash from the machine.

  ‘Yes. My friends are lazy bums and wanted me to collect the cash for them too. Anyway, how much do you need?’

  ‘Six hundred,’ I murmured with embarrassment.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Sorry but I can’t take that.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m charging each of my friends fifty bucks extra as interest since I’m paying for their tickets. So it’s their money actually.’

  I hesitated momentarily, then smiled tightly, realizing that he was joking about the interest and he wanted to help me out after all.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll return it soon,’ I said and took the cash.

  ‘Please do, else I’ll charge high interest—steaming momos every weekend.’

  I smiled just like he did.

  ‘I think I can afford that much interest,’ I said, pushing the ATM door open.

  ‘Just my luck then,’ he said and stretched out his hand, ‘Kiyan Roy, Mechanical, third year.’

  I told him my name. And we shook hands. Did you notice how from ‘I’ and ‘him’ suddenly it arrived at ‘we’? Was that the precise beginning of our love story? I think it was.

  2

  Starmark Book Store, South City Mall, Kolkata

  13 February 2016

  Saturday, 7.00 p.m.

  ‘There is a game of sorts for everyone present today,’ the emcee said aloud on the mike. Nobody looked at her. All eyes, from the time Kiyan had come in front and taken a seat after unwrapping the bestselling edition of the trilogy box set, were trained on him. And they looked at him with broadly three emotions—awe, respect and lust. Though Kiyan was Bong, his roots were in UP, not Bengal. And this was the first time he was visiting Kolkata. He was in casual attire this time, a black round-collared tee accompanied by torn blue jeans with Converse shoes. His red-bordered Calvin Klein underwear was peeping out slightly from the low-waist jeans. As he turned to take his seat, many girls checked out his firm ass over the jeans and moistened their lips.

  Everyone in the audience was handed a paper chit and asked to write a question of their choice that they had always wanted to ask the author.

  ‘And there’s no need to write one’s name on it either. The lucky ones will have their questions answered,’ the emcee announced.

  A total of 170 chits were put inside a big glass bowl and presented to Kiyan. He smiled as he picked up one of the chits. He unfolded it. His eyebrows were raised as he read the question out aloud on his mike.

  ‘What’s your size?’

  The crowd burst into laughter.

  ‘And let me add,’ said the emcee beaming, ‘that you can’t take much time before answering.’

  ‘It’s 42.’

  Everyone’s jaw fell open.

  ‘Since nothing was specified, I presume whoever asked this wanted to know my shirt size, right?’

  Half the crowd laughed while the other half expressed disappointment

  ‘That’s true actually. We hope the other questions are specific,’ the emcee said and requested Kiyan to pick up another chit.

  He read out the next one, ‘Are you committed?’

  ‘Every author has an alter ego. If the author is committed, the alter ego is single. If the author is single the alter ego is committed,’ Kiyan said and looked at everyone.

  ‘Confused?’ he asked.

  The crowd cried out a collective ‘Yes!’

  ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way,’ he said. Anyone who had an issue with the evasive reply forgave him when they saw his charming smile.

  Kiyan was quick to pick up the next chit.

  ‘Why does a relationship fail?’ he read aloud.

  ‘Not that I’m some kind of relationship expert, but I believe sometimes the speed of a relationship in our mind is more than the speed of a relationship for real.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Could you please clarify a bit more for us Kiyan?’ the emcee insisted.

  ‘Sure. What I mean is what we commit to easily is often an illusion. The thing we know as love-at-first-sight is an illusion. To love is to know, to understand. You can’t fall in love and then understand someone because there is a very high possibility your understanding is biased. You can know someone and fall in love during the process. So, from the time we say it’s love-at-first-sight, we are simply committing ourselves to an illusion that in no time seems like reality. And when illusion becomes reality for anyone, he or she is bound to head towards a failed relationship sooner or later.’

  ‘So, in a nutshell, what you are saying is one should understand what is real and then commit to it.’

  ‘Precisely. All I’m saying is if you want a healthy relationship then embrace what is and not what should be.’

  There was mild applause. As Kiyan took time to pick the next chit from the glass bowl, he noticed a girl standing right behind the last row of seats among a few others, with a DSLR camera pointed at him. Their eyes met aft
er she finished clicking. She smiled at him. The intent with which she did so made him ask himself, could she be the girl who sent the pen drive with the close-ups? From a New Delhi book launch to Kolkata? Kiyan wondered. Maybe she studied in New Delhi and lived in Kolkata. Or maybe vice versa. Or maybe . . . how does it matter? But the incident had registered with him. An author’s mind is always curious about anything untoward. And the close-ups along with the word puzzle were weird enough to pique his interest. He smiled back faintly and picked up another chit.

  ‘What is a story according to you?’ he read aloud.

  Kiyan took a deep breath before he spoke, ‘Let me first tell you all that there is nothing called a good story or a bad story. There is a story you believe in and a story you don’t believe in. That’s the best thing about art actually. Better than science. Art is malleable, not science. Art is subjective, unlike science. Art is not conclusive. Science always needs to be so. Answering the question, I would say . . .’ For a moment, he went blank when he saw the same girl gaping at him in a way as if she was lost in him. Not that he hadn’t seen such faces during the New Delhi crowd, but what he knew about this girl was she had a penchant for details. What was she noticing right now? Kiyan wondered and heard the emcee clear her throat softly.

  ‘I would say a story is a dangerous entity, as often it acts as a mirror to what we have been avoiding for a long time. That’s also why reading is such a personal experience.’

  ‘How wonderfully true that is!’ the emcee said. The expressions on everyone’s faces told Kiyan that they agreed. He picked another chit and read aloud, ‘I came to know that a girl named Tina gave you the idea for the trilogy. Is it true? And where is she now?’

  ‘Well, that’s true. Tina Awasthi is a friend. However, she planted the seed pretty unknowingly. I’m not in touch with her at present, but I hope wherever she is, she reads the trilogy.’

  A few acknowledging smiles later, it was time for the next chit.

  ‘Any tips for budding authors?’ Kiyan read aloud.

  ‘Live your story before you write it. For then you would be closer to the character’s emotions. Be the character for some time, even if it is in your head. Then, it will translate into your narrative. That’s all I would say.’

  Someone raised a hand in the crowd. That someone was the same person who had been aiming the DSLR at him time and again. The emcee gestured for her to ask the question. A bookstore employee handed over the mike to her.

  ‘Does that mean you’ve experienced what’s written in Handcuffs?’

  ‘In the trilogy, my protagonist screws with his own girlfriend’s trust, someone’s fiancé and his female boss. Did I experience it all? Of course not!’ he said with a naughty smile. People echoed his smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get what exactly you meant by live your story?’ the girl asked.

  ‘It means, whatever happens in your story should happen in your head and affect you with the same emotional vibrancy as it would affect your characters. Then, you don’t remain an author, an outside force, a voyeur to your characters but become their confidante . . . someone who is within them. That’s the most difficult challenge for any author—to get under the skin of their characters. Once that’s done, everything else flows from there.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled.

  ‘Cheers.’ He smiled back. Their eyes remained locked for a tad longer than they should have.

  A few more questions were answered by Kiyan, after which the emcee announced that Kiyan would sign books for the crowd. An immediate queue was formed. Kiyan was signing copies a little faster than he had in New Delhi, giving the readers a constant smile and appeasing their selfie requests. Never did he lose track of the girl with the DSLR who was somewhere in the middle of the line. In no time, she came face to face with Kiyan. He took the three books from her and asked, ‘Your name please?’

  ‘Mitakshi.’

  ‘Nice name,’ Kiyan said as he signed the first book for her. To Mitakshi, with love, he wrote.

  ‘Thank you so much. Even your protagonist’s name starts with M in the trilogy.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Kiyan paused and then opened the second book of the trilogy to sign on it. He was about to write the same thing when Mitakshi stopped him. ‘Could you please write something different in each book?’ She looked at him intently, and he couldn’t say no.

  ‘Sure.’

  You have an amazing smile. Keep smiling, he wrote and signed.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Mitakshi said and kept staring as Kiyan signed the third book for her. This time a little slowly.

  ‘You will be having dinner tonight, right?’ Mitakshi said. Kiyan, from the corner of his eye could see her hands, clasping her clutch and DSLR, were shaking a bit.

  ‘Of course I will. Like a normal human being.’

  ‘Please tell me you are dining alone.’ Mitakshi made a puppy face. Kiyan understood what she had in mind. Unlike New Delhi, there wasn’t anyone from the publishing house with whom he was supposed to dine. All he had to do after the event was head back to the hotel, eat alone and sleep. He gave Mitakshi a glance. She was an attractive girl.

  ‘Actually, I’m not dining alone,’ Kiyan said. Mitakshi’s face immediately fell.

  ‘Someone whose name starts with M is going to join me,’ Kiyan said with amusement in his eyes.

  ‘May I please die?’ Mitakshi said and quickly added, ‘I’ll wait for you.’ She took her books and stepped aside. As Kiyan signed the books for others, she kept staring at him the way one stares at a moonlit sky, awed by it.

  In the next hour, the two were sitting opposite each other in Hakuna Matata, in Park Street. Mitakshi was the one who talked the most. And the more she talked, the more Kiyan felt she was childlike. She had a very different mental wavelength, perception and outlook. And he didn’t like girls. He liked women. He loved ladies. He adored matured, independent, opinionated and controlling women. Thus most of what Mitakshi spoke was forgotten immediately. And all he did through the dinner was nod a little, smile a bit and project that he was enjoying her company. Though Mitakshi insisted, Kiyan didn’t share his phone number with her. He had had enough of her already, he thought. Kiyan wrapped the dinner up within an hour, bade her goodbye and returned to the hotel.

  When Kiyan had been sent the close-ups in a pen drive, he had assumed there would be a sexy mind behind it, but he had found it to be bland. He was disappointed that he had judged wrong. As he headed up to his room and was about to close his door behind him, he heard someone say, ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  It was the laundry person. Kiyan opened the door as the guy went inside and kept all the clothes that Kiyan had asked be washed and ironed on the table.

  ‘It’s okay. I need to pack them,’ Kiyan said, seeing the laundry guy trying to keep the clothes in the cupboard. The guy smiled at him and left the room. Kiyan opened his American Tourister suitcase and lifted the pile of clothes up from the table and placed it inside the suitcase. He turned around and noticed a small bunch was still on the table. It was his underwear. He wore Calvin Klein briefs. He picked them up and was about to put them in the suitcase when he stopped, noticing a piece of paper hanging from one of his black briefs. As he took it in his hand, he realized it was a small card attached by a black thread.

  You said one should know the difference between illusion and reality. You pursued an illusion. I thought you were smarter than this, Mister Bestselling Author. Chase the reality. Chase me.

  A few seconds later, Kiyan’s thoughtful look changed into a smirk. Whoever it was knew pretty well that he loved games of this kind. He was glad Mitakshi wasn’t the girl who had clicked those pictures of him.

  * * *

  A Girl’s Diary

  13 February 2016

  Saturday, 11.50 p.m.

  The following night, after Kiyan helped me with the ticket money, I was in the sixth bogie of the Chandigarh-Lucknow Express, which left Chandigarh at precisely 8.50 p.m. My entire girl gang was possessed
by the thrill of going home. This was the longest we had been away, ten months. Last time we had been home was on Holi. And now it was Diwali. Being with parents was a part of the thrill. It was the fact that we would get to sleep away half the day, eat mom-made food and secretly drink vodka & 7Up for half the night with friends without any tension of going to the college the next day that made us so eager for the homebound journey. Add to that, we had decided to meet at one of our friend’s place and play cards with proper money during Diwali. The wager was that the winner had to throw a booze party for all of us.

  It was around one at night that I suddenly awoke on my upper side berth. Someone had entered the sleeper class from the toilet outside and struck my feet spilling out of the berth. It was good because I anyway wanted to get up to pee and smoke. I climbed down, wore my slippers and collected my cigarette packet and lighter from my bag on the way out. I was about to cross over from the compartment to the toilet when I noticed someone standing by one of the train doors. He had a cigarette in his hand and was taking a long puff. As he exhaled and casually turned around, he noticed me.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, hoping he would recognize me. To this day, I don’t exactly know why I said that. Why did I initiate a conversation? Agreed he was the same guy who had helped me with the ATM card, but still.

  ‘Hi.’ The way his eyes, for a second, stayed on my cigarette told me he hadn’t expected me to be a smoker.

  ‘I don’t smoke often.’ I couldn’t reason with myself why I lied to him. What would I want to gain from that lie?

  ‘Good. Smoking is bad,’ Kiyan said and threw his cigarette out. ‘I too smoke rarely.’ He came to stand opposite me by the other end of the door. It was funny how we two almost strangers were trying to justify our smoking habit to each other.