by Annie Zaidi
What is happiness anyway? I wanted to tell him that I was aching all the time, but still, I was happy. I never had a chance, though, because suddenly he wanted to end it.
He was coming down to see me after . . . eighteen months? Two years? I wasn’t keeping track of time because that caused pain, too. I only remember that it was long enough for me to have three haircuts. I had had to make three appointments for the hair-stylist to come home and cut my hair. It was also long enough for two abortive flings with visiting friends. It was nothing. Just a way of telling myself that time was passing, to prove that I was doing fine without him.
My wounds had changed colour. Time does that. Maybe that is what healing feels like. My pain threshold was concrete and I thought I could deal with it – facing him. Just as a friend. Or an old acquaintance. I invited him over. He had tried calling me before, saying he wanted to meet up, but I had refused. Whenever he called, he kept saying it was imperative that I remain. Just stay, he would say, in my life. Don’t disappear. And I would say, where would I go?
Standing in my balcony, he had once said, finally he felt like he had something to be grateful for. And he had touched my cheek.
I remembered that. I remembered everything, but remembering wasn’t the problem. You can remember and forget at the same time. After a while, words and actions aren’t the same even in your memory. You can sit in the same balcony with the same eyes and look out at the same view, so that nothing changes except the falling of the leaves and their growing back on the amaltas. Yet, nothing is the same from morning to morning. They call it ‘fading memory’ for a good reason.
So I called him. Lunch or dinner, whatever you prefer, I said. He picked dinner. I wished he hadn’t. Dinner would be harder. I knew how it would unfold. He would arrive ten minutes after the appointed time. That much was polite. And he would bring two new jokes and half a dozen old ones, so I would have to remind him I already knew them by heart. It would hurt to hear them again, to realize that I remembered each one.
Then I would ask him if he wanted a drink first and he would accept a mild one, wine or whatever I was having. He would have to help open the bottle, and he would remember that I am not good at bottle-opening. And that would hurt too. I would have to excuse myself, lock myself up in the bathroom for two minutes, and breathe deeply. When I returned, he would be looking at my bookshelves, like strangers do when they come into your house the first time, trying to build a bond with you through the stories both of you have in common.
It was almost like I had expected. He did arrive ten minutes late. He didn’t bring wine or flowers like other men do when you ask them home. He stepped in as if he owned the place, like he was only a man coming back home – tie loose, collar button undone, jacket draped over one shoulder. It was strange to see him like that. He hadn’t come home like this even when he had some claims over me.
He stepped in easily, without the hesitation of meeting friends who are no longer so close. But he didn’t hug me the way friends do when they are frequent visitors and treat your place like their own. He stepped across the threshold, then he just stood there waiting. Waiting for me to close the door or do something. So I stepped forward and he brushed his cheek against mine and quickly withdrew.
I asked him to sit. He decided he had an urgent phone call to make. I nodded and went into the kitchen. He got on the phone. I didn’t know what to do in the kitchen, since I hadn’t had a chance to ask him what he wanted to eat. He was talking quite loudly and, except for my bedroom, he walked into every room. The kitchen, living room, balcony, then back into the living room. He sat down on the sofa, stood up again, went back into the balcony.
I filled a glass with cold water and took it out to the balcony. He was no longer on the phone, just standing there, elbows on the railing. He took the water and muttered a blessing. I waited, tray in my hand, like a child or a good housemaid. When he finished drinking the water, I asked him if he would like tea. Or wine. He asked what I wanted. I didn’t want any, but I said, wine. Then I added, the bottle isn’t open.
He shook his head at me, wagged a finger. I shrugged and smiled. I was thinking I might die. My heart was a slab of black granite and it was being ground down by something fifty thousand times heavier.
I only had red wine. He looked at the bottle, the name and year and other things on the label that I never look at. He opened it while I broke one wine glass. They were nice glasses. I had a few nice things now, since my family would force on me an occasional trip to the market.
He commented on the niceness of these things. I didn’t bother to thank him. I sent him out with two glasses while I swept and mopped up the broken shards off the floor. I must have gotten a tiny splinter in my finger, because there was a smear of blood later on. I washed twice with Dettol soap and got a band-aid out.
He was taking another phone call by the time I joined him in the balcony. He hadn’t waited for me to start. He never did. His glass was already half-empty. I picked up my glass and waited for him to get off the phone. He said bye, hung up, and then sat down quietly. He wouldn’t look at me.
He began talking about balconies. The balcony across. Some old lady was sitting there. So I told him all about her. How I watched her in the early mornings and late evenings. She did her laundry herself, although there was a maid who did the washing and hanging out of clothes for the rest of the family. I knew it was a personal thing with some old ladies. They made a fuss about doing their stuff themselves.
This old lady seemed anxious; she would often lean over the edge of the railing and peer into the street below, as if she had dropped something. What with her hunched back and skeletal frame, I said, it wouldn’t take much for something terrible to happen. When we have our summer storms – hot wind, dust, impossibly strong whirlwinds – I get a little scared. I’m twice the size of the old lady but even I feel like I might be blown right off the balcony. I felt like the clothes might be ripped off my body and I might be carried over all the terraces in the neighbourhood and dropped naked into the market.
There was a shop down the street, to the right. He asked what it sold. I told him. He asked if I shopped there. I told him, no. It was expensive and the owners were arrogant.
He muttered something about so many people, so many lives, and the city grinding away . . . who knows when it would grind to a halt. I said he was being unusually philosophical, wasn’t it too early in the evening? He laughed and asked for a refill.
I got him a refill. It took longer because I had to quickly wipe my eyes and pat my face down with cold water before I went back.
When I handed him his glass, he noticed the band-aid on my finger and began to say something about my carelessness. I didn’t contradict him. He fell silent. Then he asked how things were. I shrugged.
He was careful not to look at me. He looked into the distance. He lit up a cigarette. I said I thought he had quit. He said, yes, for five weeks. Which was better than the ten days he managed on his last attempt. But what did I have to say for myself?
I said, I had nothing to say for myself. He wanted to ask how I was managing, but he didn’t. He must have heard about me sitting out here all day. Months. Years. My own brother may have told him. You can never trust the family with your dignity.
He renewed offers of help. He said he could help tide me over if I needed time to go away, take a course in something. He had money to spare. I said, no. He pressed on. He could treat it as a loan if I preferred, he said.
I didn’t say yes or no. I had gone crawling back to him so often. Always, some small need. I had never taken his money, but who knows. Life makes you do all sorts of things. Things you never thought you would do. I just might need a loan. I had never been a very independent type and there was no other man in the picture.
I thought he might ask about other men, but he didn’t. I wanted to know if there was some other woman. But I didn’t dare ask. I was sure I would begin to cry. It was imperative to not cry. Last time I saw him, i
t ended that way – him sitting in this balcony, me trying to ask if he would like to stay for dinner, him saying no, he had to go, me breaking down, him saying he still cared for me, him walking away before I had finished crying.
It was imperative not to cry this time. So I began to tell him about my neighbours. They had two cats; I woke up at night when they howled. He asked why cats howled; dogs were supposed to howl. So I said, maybe they only yowl, not howl. Then the dogs in the street hear the cats and get upset. They bark madly. I cannot sleep, I said.
He asked about my flatmate. Didn’t she also have a cat? I told him about the misfortunes of my flatmate. Then I told him about my brother, about his film, his partner’s brush with the cops down south, and how they wouldn’t take his complaint down because he didn’t speak Kannada. Then I told him about a friend who was going to Somalia to click pictures of civil war.
He clicked his tongue and said that all my friends were certifiable. I jabbed my thumb in his direction. We both laughed. His eyes never softened, never rested on my face for more than a second.
Then he sighed and said he was happy to see that I was doing okay.
I wanted him to leave then. But he was my guest, so I said I would warm up the food. It was in the fridge. He said there’s no hurry, or was I already hungry?
His eyes wandered into other people’s windows. He scanned terraces for overhead tanks or twirly metal staircases. He counted terraces loaded with old household junk, stuff even the servants didn’t want to take away. He counted windows with air-conditioners and he said, how things have changed from when we were growing up. We used to think only film stars had air-conditioning in every room.
He was doing it again. Prying open my heart, digging for my stories again. I said nothing. He asked if I had air-conditioning in my house when I was little.
Reluctantly, I told him about my aunty who had an air-conditioner in her bedroom. In the summer holidays, when we went to visit, we kids were allowed to sleep in her room, on mattresses on the floor.
He asked if my aunty and uncle didn’t sleep with each other during the vacations. I told him about how they slept on the same bed but with a child sleeping between them. He teased me about how aunty and uncle used us as props in an elaborate game of making furtive, forbidden love. He said, you kids must have woken up and spied on them. He wanted me to laugh, I think. He laughed a long time himself.
He asked if others in the family resented it, that one bedroom with an air-conditioner. I said, I don’t know. Nobody likes each other in families, anyway. He said, he never knew any two women in a family to get along. I said he was sexist. He said he was. He laughed again. I said my grandmother may have resented the air-conditioner. He asked if my grandmother paid the electricity bill. I asked, no, did yours?
He didn’t remember his grandmother. He asked what mine looked like. He had never asked things like this before.
I went in and brought out a photograph. He looked at it a long time and then he said I looked like my grandmother. I said, yes. I didn’t want to say any more, but he kept asking questions. I kept answering until I felt like there was a balloon swelling inside my chest, crushing my stomach and lungs, scratching my throat. I was going to burst any moment.
I went into the kitchen quickly and filled two plates. I put them into the microwave and stood there waiting until they were heated. Then I returned to the balcony.
He began to tell me a crazy story about a friend who got caught by the police while trying to break into his own house. I told him about a crazy man in a village in Italy, a thief who broke into a house, stole some chilly-paste, rubbed it all over his body and stood naked in the fields until the police came to catch him.
He said something about fragility. I didn’t say anything.
He said there were so many things that eat into people’s souls, and you can never guess until it is too late. There’s always guilt and the temptation to run. But even escape routes are too painful to contemplate. He was leaning against the railing again, looking down into the dark street.
I asked if he would rather go back into the living room. He said, no. So we stayed out in the balcony for the rest of the evening. He never looked at me for more than a second. When he asked if I was sleeping well, I said I wasn’t. He said, I should try getting help. I asked if he would like coffee.
I made coffee. I asked if he would come back again one of these days. He said he didn’t know. I asked about his sister. He told me a slightly rambly story about her in some village, local politics, her incredibly decent kids, and how odd that was, considering she had messed up just about everything else in her life. I told him not to be a bastard. He said I didn’t know his sister.
I did not remind him that he had never allowed me to get to know her. I had seen pictures from their baby days. So I just said that she was a very cute baby. He teased me about judging everything by how it looked. What did a cute baby picture have to do with responsible adulthood?
I made a face. He said I was a child. I said I was an adult. He pointed out that I drank milk. Even now. I said milk was a sign of responsible adulthood; I could get osteoporosis any day now.
The old lady stepped out into the balcony across. Her bedroom door creaked so loudly, it drew our attention. She had a pile of wrung-out clothes on one shoulder and a wet towel round her head. She would probably grow even more hunched if she lived any longer. Maybe she would need a stick. Her blouse barely covered the underside of her sagging breasts. I don’t think she wears a bra. I never saw her hang out any bras on the clothesline.
She took her own time hanging the clothes out, pegging each one neatly – saree folded thrice along its length, then blouse, then petticoat, then a pair of underpants that were so loose and odd-shaped, they could only be described as underpants. Then she gripped the balcony railing with both hands and peered down into the street, as if she was waiting for someone.
We watched her do this. Minutes passed. Then she raised her head.
He asked, is she looking at us? I said, she might be. She often stands in the balcony, just looking. He asked if I spent all my time watching the lady. I said, not at night.
He was quiet for a while, then he said he hadn’t seen an old woman bent over at the waist like that. Not for the last few years. I said, yes, that’s why I drink milk. He laughed.
The old lady’s gaze seemed to shift and focus on us. She was looking at him and then at me. We were too far away for it to mean anything, but I felt like she was looking directly into my eyes, and I looked back into hers. The silence was total. Then she turned around and went inside.
Suddenly, he began to yell at me. He said, sitting here won’t change things. I had to take responsibility for my own life. Don’t do this, he said.
I looked away. Then I began to tell him about the Xerox shop downstairs, in the basement. They are cheap and fast. I told him, I had used them for his bulk printouts, that time when he had been too busy and his reports needed to be printed out, remember? Five sets had to be printed, copied and sent off to five different addresses. The shop sold good envelopes too, the tough sort with an inner cloth lining. And they sold felt-tipped pens too. In fact, if I leaned over the railing and shouted until some kid on the street noticed, then if I pointed to the door and lowered a basket with instructions, the xerox people would do the job and not make any mistakes. Not that I needed anything xeroxed. But if he needed xeroxes, he should remember the place.
This is a good locality, I said. Those youngsters in that balcony, see? They have a lot of loud music, two or three times a week. Each of them takes turns to prove she alone knows what a good party is all about. Rhythms change. Number of people invited changes. You feel bad for not being invited. But of course, they don’t know you, so you don’t feel too bad. The youngsters don’t feel bad about anything for too long, at least, not this lot. I wish I still had that, I said. Maybe I never had that. Some people don’t have that. They just keep feeling bad.
I waited for him to
say that it was time for him to leave. He said it.
I smiled and said, okay. He asked me to take care of myself. I said I would; I did. He said he didn’t believe it. I said, okay. He said, what’s okay? I said, it’s okay that you don’t believe me.
He hesitated at the door. I stood there, a hand on the doorknob, the other hand fingering the double-locking mechanism on the inside. He noticed. New locks, he said. Good. I kept telling you to change the locks and get something more secure.
I smiled. See, I do take care of myself, I said. Listen, he said, stay. Don’t disappear. I want you in my life. And I said, I haven’t moved an inch. I’m just where you left me.
LOVE STORY # 5
(aka The one that went up in smoke)
There was no need for her to step out that day. But she did. And that was how it began.
Oh, the malice destiny brings to the lives of content men! He was used to her stepping out. Once a day, she went out to buy groceries or to run errands that must be run to maintain their beautiful apartment. On Fridays, she went shopping in town. She bought knick-knacks. Baubles, beads, books, bubble mixtures for the bath, saris, sandals, socks, dupattas, lipsticks, mascara, massages, pedicures. Anything that made her feel good. Also, twice a week, she went to her NA meetings.
This was a taboo subject. He knew, of course, where she went. She had told him, saying that she would tell him once, and just this once. It was the second time he had asked her out to dinner. Between the soup and the stroganoff, she told him she had a problem. She was trying to sort it out at NA. That NA stood for Narcotics Anonymous. That she might need to attend meetings. Maybe for the rest of her life. She didn’t want to talk about it. He must not ask questions about her . . . her problem.
It made him stall. It made him suffer. But it did not stop him. It was a known devil and if she could live with it, so could he.