‘Nimit,’ snapped Anupama, before turning back to Charlie.
‘So, do you want me to bring this inside or—’
‘No, that’s okay. Just leave it here,’ she said, moving aside to let him in.
Charlie shuffled in and set the box down beside the door. Anupama noticed that he had those fleshy veins popping out of his forearms, like a criss-crossing circuit of thick greenish wires just beneath the skin. How did men get those?
Behind her, Nimit’s mobile beeped with a message.
‘Di says she has left the country with her French boyfriend and two illegitimate children,’ he announced, reading from his phone.
Mortified to the bone, Anupama glanced back at Charlie. ‘Kids,’ she said, with a weak smile.
He mirrored her grin. ‘Sorry for disturbing your lunch. And thanks again,’ he said. Anupama smiled in acknowledgment and shut the door with as much cordiality as she could muster. ‘Bye-bye.’ Damn it!
‘Who was that?’ asked Nimit.
‘Charlie. Our new neighbour.’
‘We have a neighbour named Charlie?’
‘Something wrong with that?’
‘He didn’t look like a Charlie. And since when did you start saying “bye-bye”?’
After lunch, Anupama carried the box of plastic bags back to the kitchen and set it back in its original place. She was about to straighten up when her eyes glimpsed something gleaming inside, and when she gave it a closer look, a cold shiver ran down her spine.
It was a packet of cream biscuits.
Why?
Had he forgotten it? Or was it a gesture of gratitude? But why would he gift someone like her a packet of cream biscuits of all things? Was it a sign? Was the universe playing some kind of cruel joke on her?
She gingerly picked it up and turned it over in her hand, as if the answer lay in its packaging.
Chocolate. Not vanilla. Lots of people ate cream biscuits. It was just a silly coincidence and here she was making so much of it.
In a swift series of movements, she swung on her heel, pedalled open her dustbin and dumped the offending packet inside. On second thought, she decided to get the broom and sweep under the sofa too. No point waiting for the maid. For some reason, that damn strand of hair had really started to bother her.
2
Gone were the days when yellow was just yellow.
A discreet glance at her watch told her that they had been staring at those three sample tiles for almost fifteen minutes now. And the worst part was that they were all ... bloody ... yellow. Granted, there were miniscule shades of difference between them, but, come on, how much attention did one pay to these details while urinating? It was the futility of it all that got to her. Fifteen minutes of her day lost just because the prissy little client standing between her and Renu couldn’t make up his mind about which shade of yellow would be the best choice for the rear wall of his bathroom.
She knew she should be grateful, in a way. Had it not been for this job, she would have spent most of her days curled up on the living room floor, drunk on cough syrup, brooding over memories that were too pointless to think about anymore. However, try as she might, she couldn’t shake off the tiny suspicion that her part-time employment as a vaastu consultant at Renu’s agency had little to do with her knowledge of vaastu and Feng Shui and more to do with an old college friend’s sympathy, in spite of her fervent denials. She didn’t mind the salary of course, notwithstanding being on the payroll for a job that barely required her to step out of her home more than four or five times a month.
The argument finally ended with Anupama resorting to her last defense and declaring that as per the energies of the house, the middle yellow shade was the most conducive option to go with. What these “energies” were and how they communicated with her, no one questioned, as long as she kept the mystic look on her face intact. There was a time when she felt guilty about it, until she realized that it wasn’t wrong, technically. Vaastu really didn’t give a crap about whether the shade of yellow you were selecting was mellow or royal. Yellow was yellow. Period.
The client, Kay, seemed happy enough, as he sashayed out to get some refreshments.
‘So what was up with you this afternoon?’ asked Renu. ‘You sounded drunk. And depressed.’
Anupama kept her eyes on the tiles. ‘Just one of those days, you know.’
‘Went to that site again, huh?’
‘Which site?’
‘Bitch, please. You haven’t looked me in the eye since we met. I know you logged onto JD’s and checked out the guys.’
‘Shh!’
‘I just don’t get what you’re so embarrassed about. We’re not in the fifth grade anymore. You can have a sex drive. It’s legal, I swear.’
‘Renu, I swear I’ll flush you down this toilet if you don’t shut up!’
‘Get a permanent membership, at least. If you want, I can even sponsor your first session. Baaki it’s up to you whether you want to continue screwing the same guy or no—’
‘Shhh!’ hissed Anupama, as Kay entered carrying a tray with three iced teas.
‘I heard screw,’ he said. ‘What’s cooking, ladies?’
‘I was trying to get her to sign up on JD’s site.’
Anupama stared at Renu, aghast.
‘Oh yeah, they are the best,’ he said casually.
Anupama stared at Kay now, aghast. ‘You have hired their services too?’
He nodded, taking a sip. ‘They have a gay segment on their site as well.’
‘It’s almost the same as the straight segment,’ explained Renu, ‘but with more abs and less body hair.’
‘Can we please get back to the tiles?’
‘The tiles are done and stop changing the topic. You need this.’
‘No, I don’t. You think I’d actually hire a whore—’
A duet of horrified gasps from Renu and Kay.
‘Honey, I should douse your mouth with soap water!’ he cried, clutching his chest.
‘Never, ever, demean JD’s boys by calling them whores again,’ warned Renu. ‘You never know which one of their clients might jump out of the crowd and tear your hair out.’
‘So what are they then?’
‘Sanctums of healing intimacy,’ chimed in Kay, ‘where beauty, charm and wit are fused in delicately balanced doses to cure the urban aliena—’
‘They are studs you can fuck as well as talk to,’ cut in Renu. ‘Sex is just part of the deal. The point is that they are really, really good company, and that’s why they are so much in demand. Picture a perfect date where you meet this charming young guy who happens to be besotted by you. He talks to you with all his heart, listens to everything you have to say, understands you, supports you, makes you feel like you are the most beautiful woman—’
‘or man’
‘person in the world, and then rounds it off with a passionate bout of lovemaking that would make you believe in miracles all over again.’
‘And what if someone catches you?’
‘Big deal. Just say he is Misha’s friend or something.’
‘Ugh. Please! You think I’d ever hook up with someone my daughter’s age?’
‘I don’t think you have a choice there, sweetie,’ said Kay. ‘You won’t find a single forty-plus in JD’s profiles, I assure you.’
‘And who said I am forty-plus?’ asked Anupama.
The bathroom became as quiet as a cemetery. Kay looked at Renu. Renu looked at the wall.
‘I think my croissants are done. Excuse me,’ he mumbled, shuffling out hurriedly.
Anupama turned her eyes back on Renu, who was still pretending to concentrate on the wall. ‘I really love the pattern we have here, you know. Very contemporary and experimental …’ She took a few deliberate moments to notice her. ‘What?’
Anupama stomped out without a word.
Her sullen mood persisted throughout the drive back home. Renu pretended not to notice it, even though she knew that Anupama had no
ticed that she had noticed it, so Anupama pretended not to notice she had noticed either, which Renu noticed. Soul sisterhood could get rather complicated that way.
‘Anu, I have had a really long day,’ said Renu, wearily. ‘So if you have a problem, just do me a favour and get it out of your system instead of giving me these zombie vibes.’
No response. Renu sighed.
‘If you don’t want to call JD’s, then don’t. I was just trying to help—’
‘No, Renu, you were trying to fix me, just like everyone else,’ hissed Anupama through pursed lips.
‘Fix you? What, are you broken or something?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘I repeat, I’ve had a really long day—’
‘Just … be … a … friend, Renu. Can you do that? Don’t be my therapist. Don’t try to give solutions like everyone else. And for God’s sake, don’t feel sorry for me. Just let me be. Do you think that’s possible?’
Renu stared at her for a moment or so, before turning her eyes ahead.
‘Fine,’ she said brusquely.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She turned off the ignition. Only the sound of raindrops on metal could be heard about them now.
The silence dragged on. Renu began a slow tap on her steering wheel with her index fingers, in sync with the symphony of the drops overhead.
Anupama glanced over at Renu, who had switched to her cool and detached stance – the one she had perfected in college to serve the dual purpose of warding off any unwanted creeps, and keeping her dear ones at bay when she was too pissed off to speak.
‘Oh, so now you’re mad at me.’
‘I’m … just … being … a … friend,’ she said, drumming on the steering wheel idly.
‘Let it out, Renu.’
‘What? It’s not like I am your therapist or anything.’
‘You have two minutes of ceasefire.’
‘I am just so fucking sick of it!’ she burst out. ‘You don’t want to do anything, you don’t want to go anywhere, and you don’t want to meet anyone. All you want to do is mope around and feel sorry for yourself and expect the rest of us to just ignore it. Tough-love time, honey. You know I’m sorry about Rajeev, but it’s been almost two years now. And with all due respect, the guy was an asshole. What are you punishing yourself for, then?’
It just took an instant, and Anupama felt that familiar flush of pure, unbridled rage rising within her. Her heart was beating loudly, and she could feel the heat waves creeping up her neck. She was reaching a dangerous point of no return, so she quickly closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, blocking Renu out. This was crucial. She couldn’t afford losing another friend to a meltdown. So she waited for the anger to abate, and when it didn’t, she opened her door and stepped out into the flooded street, the slushy water swallowing her legs almost up to her knees, drenching her sandals and salwar. She could feel the rain splattering her hair and shoulders. She could hear Renu yelling out to her from behind. But she kept on walking until her feet carried her over to the other side of the road, where she flagged down a cab and got in. She didn’t even know where she was going. All she knew was that she wanted to get away.
Her mobile rang with an incoming call from Renu. She cut it and switched off her phone. Her heart was still thumping wildly, almost as if she were having a nervous breakdown. Unfortunately, the taxi she had chosen turned out to be one of those dhinchak ones with multi-coloured rice-lights blinking all around her and a Bhojpuri number blasting off the bass speakers behind her head. She wanted to ask him to stop it, but her voice didn’t come out. Her throat was still too tight. At times like these, she felt she would never be able to breathe again. However, she had always pulled through, just like she knew she would pull through again. People like her, they couldn’t go so easily. Their very existence was a karmic penance that had to be served out in its entirety.
‘Where to, madam?’ asked the driver.
She took a moment to catch her breath. ‘CST station.’
The driver dithered. ‘Oho, that’s quite far…’
‘Do you want me to drive?’
He promptly slid the car into gear.
The rain was still bucketing down when she reached home. Anupama held her handbag over her head and ran in through the gates, taking care not to slip over the tiles. The old, withered watchman – now an heirloom of the building more than its guardian – was dozing as usual in his cabin, the uniform hanging off his bones, his thick glasses hanging off his nose tip, dithering on the edge. His glass of tea was still half-full with a weak layer of malai floating on the surface – the sole remnant of its youthful prime. The open visitor’s book on his desk was blurred and blotted with streaks of water running across the pages, until you couldn’t make out whether the person who had visited Mrs Desai at 1.00 p.m. was a Patel or a Palkar – stuff which could tear a marriage apart in the wrong hands.
As she passed by the old chap, Anupama felt a twinge of sympathy tinged with contempt.
Anupama reached the lobby just as the outer grilled door of the elevator was slammed. She called out just in time to stop the second from shutting, and scurried over. To her discomfort, she found Charlie inside, wearing a transparent raincoat with little daisies printed on the outside. She hoped he wasn’t in a chatty mood again. The last thing she wanted now was a conversation.
‘Hello, Mrs Arora,’ he said, beaming. His smile reminded her of those vintage toothpaste ads she had adored in her teens, and found herself despising him for it. No one had a right to look this happy and this good in this weather.
‘Hello, Charlie.’
A dim yet distinct awareness of her own train-wreck appearance struck her mind. She wanted to take the stairs now, but knew it would look ridiculous. Charlie slid open the door and waited as she walked in and pressed the button for the seventh floor. With two hard slams of metal on metal, they were on their way.
‘You look angry,’ he remarked.
‘Hm?’
‘You have that tightened look in your eyes.’
‘It’s just the weather.’
‘You still don’t have an umbrella?’
‘My friend picked me up.’
‘And she didn’t drop you back?’
Anupama glared at him. ‘No, Charlie. She didn’t.’
‘Sorry. It’s just that I don’t like closed spaces, especially elevators. So I end up talking to whoever is inside just to take my mind off it.’
‘What do you do when you’re alone?’ she asked, hoping he would take the hint.
‘I sing.’
Anupama looked up at him in disbelief.
‘Just to myself,’ he clarified. ‘To divert my attention. If you don’t mind, I could do that. This lift is quite slow.’
Anupama looked straight ahead. She should have taken the stairs.
A moment later, she heard Charlie’s low, quivering voice beside her:
‘O re khevaiya … paar lagaa more saiyaan ko … tarse re ankhiyaan…’
It was all she could do to keep a straight face. She cast a sideways glance at him to see if he was joking, but his left leg was fidgeting as if out of control. He was actually anxious. Of all the people she could have shared an elevator ride with on this day…
Charlie’s phone rang.
‘Oh, thank God,’ he mumbled, picking it up. ‘Yes, Mrs Saini … yes, the charges vary, of course. Depends on what you’re looking for … well, you could start by sending me your pictures, just so I could have a mental image, you know … Helps me prepare myself beforehand…’
Anupama’s ears pricked up.
‘…that depends on how much time you have … I’ve got two ladies right before you, so I will obviously need a break, but I assure you I won’t let you leave until you’re fully satisfied…’
Her trepidation turned into full-on alarm. Beside her, Charlie broke into a chuckle. ‘Of course, I understand … so what time does your h
usband leave?’
They had reached the seventh floor. Anupama quickly shoved the doors aside and scuttled out.
‘See you, Mrs Arora,’ she heard Charlie call out from behind her.
‘Bye-bye.’
She felt like slapping herself. Bye-bye? Again? The words had slipped out her mouth before she could stop them. What was wrong with her?
Trying hard not to break into a trot, Anupama crossed the hallway and rang her doorbell, taking care not to glance behind. She heard Charlie unlock his door and get in, and was relieved when the door closed again. What was happening to the world? Was everyone a horny bugger these days? She would have to warn her kids against fraternizing with this one.
She pressed the bell again, impatiently. After a few more seconds, Nimit opened the door. She already knew the excuses, so she didn’t bother complaining. He must have been in the washroom, and Misha must have been on the phone inside her bedroom. Lately, both these activities had increased in duration and frequency – something that worried her. Whoever came up with the genius suggestion of letting teenagers have their own space should have also provided a back-up manual of precautions against your children becoming sex maniacs. Or escorts.
Her thoughts meandered to Charlie’s mother. She felt sorry for the poor, unknown woman, picturing her in the middle of a family dinner, boasting to her relatives about how her son had managed to survive the big, bad city through sheer grit, honesty and talent. How traumatized would she be if she had overheard him on the phone just now, shamelessly discussing his hourly rates with random strangers? Where was this generation headed?
She knocked on Misha’s door and waited until it opened to reveal her daughter, still dressed in her college clothes, with her phone glued to her ear.
‘One sec, I’ll call you back,’ she said to the caller, before hanging up and turning to face her. ‘Hi.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘I don’t know … seven or something.’
‘So you missed lunch again.’
‘I ate out.’
‘With whom? Your French boyfriend and illegitimate children?’
‘Oho, I was just kidding around.’
Charlie Next Door Page 2