by Annie Zaidi
‘Delhi.’
‘Delhi proper?’
‘Sonipat.’
‘Have heard of it. But I have never been outside Delhi,’ she said. ‘It’s unusual to meet someone from Delhi here, isn’t it? This far up, I mean.’
‘Is it? Everyone I know is from Delhi. Everywhere I go, I bump into people from Delhi. It’s quite frustrating. And now, everything around me is also slowly becoming Delhi. Ghaziabad, Faridabad, Gurgaon, Mehrauli, Noida – it’s all Delhi. One big blob, that’s where we belong.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I like peanut butter.’
‘Have another sandwich. There is one more.’
‘Nonono . . .’
‘No, you must. Please.’
‘But you’ll still be hungry.’
I shrugged. ‘There’s paratha–rajma at the dhaba.’
She took the last sandwich, broke it in half again. I watched her wolf down her half in a single morsel.
‘So, you’re at IP?’ I asked. The look on her face told me, so I quickly added, ‘My first guess was the School of Economics at DU, actually.’
She smiled. ‘I dropped out.’
‘Oh? Why?’
She waved one hand about in the air. Dismissive, asking me not to ask.
‘So where do you study now?’ I asked.
‘Nowhere.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to follow you to DU and hang around outside your classes or do anything stupid like that. You can tell me.’
‘I did already. I don’t study.’
‘Really? I just figured you were a student. You have a student-y face.’ I grinned and she rolled her eyes. ‘So what do you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, come on. You can tell me. You were just saying that we are strangers. I will disappear after a few hours. Into the mist. It will be like talking to yourself.’
‘Or like killing the priest after making a confession,’ she said.
I laughed. ‘So are your secrets that dramatic? You’d have to kill me if you told me? Well, anyway. I’ll take the risk. Come on, we can be each other’s timepass.’
‘Timepass?’ She giggled. ‘Do you know what we mean when we say “timepass”?’
‘We?’
‘We girls. When I was a student, a girl said so-and-so is my “timepass” if she hung around with a guy, but didn’t want to marry him.’
My smile must have gotten twisted on my face. I saw her expression change. My hands sifted through the half dozen things in my bag and found a paper cup. I poured myself some coffee and drank it in one bitter gulp.
‘Some girls did that.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘Anyway, I’m sure guys have their own terminology for girls they are only using as timepass. What did you call them?’
We called them half a dozen things, but I wasn’t about to tell her. I shrugged, as if to say that I wasn’t one of those guys.
She handed the flask’s cap back to me, and I replaced it after pouring the rest of the coffee into my paper cup.
‘I’m waiting to get married,’ she said suddenly. ‘Sitting at home, waiting.’
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She was standing in the aisle, rocking back and forth on her heels.
‘I don’t look it, do I?’
‘No,’ I said, a little too quickly. ‘I mean, it’s got nothing to do with how you look.’
‘People say I don’t look it. I look like I’m going to “do something”. You know? All my life I thought I’m going to “do something”. Even when I was five or six years old, people would look at me and say “she is so mature”. “Sensible”, “serious”, “mature”. You know, it scared me. In school, when we were about twelve or thirteen, we used to say a girl looked “mature” if her boobs were too big.’
I almost choked on my coffee. She gave me a sly glance.
‘What? Now you’re going to think what kind of girl is she, saying boobs to strange men.’
‘No. I was just taken aback,’ I said. ‘I mean, I didn’t know girls looked at each others’, um –’
‘Boobs?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can say “boobs”. I’m not going to be offended.’
‘Okay. Thanks. That’s good to know. You were saying?’
‘That I didn’t have any boobs.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t, actually.’
‘Well, yes. I don’t see.’
‘I mean, I still don’t have any boobs. Not worth seeing.’
I opened my mouth to say something, but caught myself in time. There was nothing I could say without getting into trouble.
‘Anyway, I wasn’t “mature” as far as I could see,’ she continued. ‘But all the uncles and aunties said I was. I would spend hours staring at myself in the mirror. I would look at my friends and compare our bodies. None of their fathers said that they were mature. I felt singled out. I felt watched.’
‘Then?’
‘I must have been, what, seventeen? I was taking part in an inter-college drama competition. We were all bunking classes to rehearse. We had lied to our teachers that the principal had excused us from attending classes. Then we got caught. Two days before the festival. It was the Psycho teacher, I remember.’
‘So you did study Psycho!’
‘Yeah. Psycho, Socio, Pol. Our Psycho teacher was really strict. She had a face like a sad dog. Like a bull dog who could bite you if he wanted to, but doesn’t think you are worth the trouble. When she found out that we were lying, she lectured us for twenty minutes on dishonesty and priorities. We all stood there, hanging our heads as if we were ashamed of ourselves. We knew we would go back to rehearsals afterwards. Then she suddenly turned to me and she said, “You too! I thought you were mature.” And I remember, I went red. I was so angry. I wanted to throw something at her. A duster or a box of chalk.’
‘Did you?’
‘I started crying.’
‘Noooo.’
‘I couldn’t help it. I cried. That made it worse. She called me separately to the staff room and lectured some more.
About behaving like an adult, taking responsibility.’
‘Then?’
‘I finally understood then. When they said “mature”, they meant obedient. And dishonest.’
‘Dishonest?’
‘Suppressed. Emotionally deceptive. Liars of some kind.’
‘That’s a bit drastic.’
‘It’s true. When people say a child is “mature”, they mean the child has already learnt the tricks of the adult world. And they thought I was like that. When someone said how pretty my frock was, I would say things like, “Really? You think so? Should we get you one like that?” And all the grown-ups, daddy’s friends, they thought it was so funny. They loved asking me questions. They’d ask, “What have you been up to?” I would say, “Nothing very productive. Watching the world go by.” Stuff like that.’
‘Kids just copy adults.’
‘If someone scolded me, I wouldn’t cry. I would hang my head and say sorry. If some other kid stood first in class, I would come home and tell my mother, “I’m sure she worked harder than I did.” You know, I was a liar through and through. Not the ordinary kind of kid who lies when she steals toffees, or makes excuses for not doing homework. I lied about how I felt. I never cried when I was hurt or sad. I guess I was mature.’
She sat down on the seat across. I crumpled the sandwich wrapping into a tight silver ball.
‘So, when did you cry?’ I asked. ‘You must have cried sometimes.’
She was silent for a while, then she stood up and faced me again.
‘So!’
‘So?’
‘You tell me now.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Your secrets. I told you. I don’t even tell this stuff to friends.’
‘So I have to tell you things just because you are telling me things?’
‘I tho
ught that was the deal.’
‘We have a deal?’
And just then the horn sounded. I hadn’t noticed, but the driver had climbed back into the bus and was summoning all the other passengers. They straggled in and everyone looked uniformly miserable. A few more sharp parps of the horn, and the conductor came on board. He banged the door shut and we were off.
She looked like she was considering getting up and returning to her own seat. But there were only six other passengers and all of them were sitting up front. So she stayed where she was. The bus shuddered and the conductor turned the radio on. I sighed and shut my eyes.
‘Hey!’
I opened my eyes.
‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome. Just don’t throw it all up.’
‘I never throw up,’ she said. ‘I’m a hills girl.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Nainital. My family moved to Delhi fifteen years ago. For my sake, actually. My parents thought I was going to “do something”. Top of the class, then my theatre stuff. They thought a girl like me shouldn’t be buried in a place like Nainital; I needed exposure. So my father asked for a transfer. When he retires, he will go back to the hills.’
‘But you are sitting at home, waiting to get married.’
‘Correct.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s what I’ve seen. Why should I not emulate it? My parents are good role models.’
‘So you want to be like your mother?’
‘I want the same assurances.’
‘Same thing.’
‘But my mother,’ she hesitated, ‘is nice. She’s really nice. She cares about what’s going to happen to the sweeper’s daughter if she’s pulled out of school, who will marry our cook if we don’t get him a servant’s quarter? Skill enhancement for war widows. That’s what she does. Cares.’
‘She sounds lovely.’
She looked away for a moment, out of the window. ‘But I’m not.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not a lovely person. And my mother was stunning in her time. I’m not stunning.’
Another of those tricky statements. No correct response to it. I turned up my hands as if to protest. She smiled.
‘I don’t mind not being stunning. Not any more. I’m old enough now.’
‘Are you? You must be . . .’ I scrunched up my eyes and peered at her. ‘Let me see. Sixty-two?’
She laughed. ‘I’m twenty-six. How did you know?’
‘Twenty-six year olds don’t stop caring about their looks.’
‘I’m getting married.’
‘You’re getting married? Wait a sec, is that what you meant by “waiting to get married”.’
‘Yeah. After this trip.’
‘Just a sec.’
I stood up and banged the luggage rack with the flat of my palm. The conductor turned around in his seat.
‘Bhai, volume down. Please.’
The music came down a couple of notches. I sank back into my seat and leaned across the aisle.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Why what? Why am I getting married or why am I making the trip?’
‘Both.’
‘I’m getting married because it is time. And I am making the trip because I want to.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. What? Lots of women travel to places alone these days. Even as tourists, not just for work.’
‘I know.’
The bus gave a lurch and the music began to blare again. I half-rose in my seat again but didn’t have to say anything. The conductor turned the volume down after half a backward glance at us.
‘So, you are going to do this, this small dream you’ve been dreaming. The valley of flowers. All by yourself. Then you settle down into the mundane business of having sex and rearing your offspring for many, many years. That’s the idea?’
Her eyes grew hard. She turned her face to the window. I went on.
‘Let me guess. You had always imagined you’d be making this trip with a lover. It didn’t happen. You had a boyfriend, but he didn’t like flowers. Or he kept postponing the trip. He kept postponing everything. He wasn’t ready for marriage. Then you broke up with him, and it made you angry to think how many dreams had been set aside for his sake. The wasted years. You probably had bad sex and put up with it, thinking it didn’t matter, because this was what women did. And he still wouldn’t marry you. So you signed up for the arranged marriage deal. And this trip to the Valley of flowers, this is your quiet mourning for yourself.’
She glared at me. ‘You think you’re such a smartass, don’t you?’
I shrugged. ‘As smart as an ass can be.’
She stood up and returned to her own seat, ahead of mine. The bus gave one more lurch. The music blared again. I realized that I didn’t even know her name. So I asked. She didn’t reply. I tapped her on the shoulder. She didn’t turn.
I got out of my seat and slipped into the seat beside her.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Coming closer so we can talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘Listen. I’m going to use the word “sex” a lot.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you about sex.’
‘You said I could use the word “boobs”.’
‘Boobs are about suckling. Childbirth.’
I rolled my eyes. She sulkily pulled a magazine out of her bag and disappeared behind it. I touched the magazine with my fingertip.
‘Hey! Okay, I won’t talk about sex. I’ll talk about something else.’
The magazine stayed in front of her face. Former Miss World in semi-unbuttoned shirt.
I tapped the magazine with my knuckles.
‘Knock knock?’
‘Then go to hell.’
‘Knock knock’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Offendin’.’
‘Offending who?’
‘Offendin’ need is offendin’ deed.’
The magazine was lowered. A smile danced around her eyes. It was her turn.
‘Knock knock.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Stupid.’
‘Stupid who?’
‘You!’
And she went into muffled peals of laughter. The conductor turned around to look at us. We both sunk lower in our seats.
‘Okay, I’m stupid and offensive. Happy?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Do you like chakli?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, okay.’
She pulled out a plastic packet from her bag. Chakli, chips, a water bottle, plum cake. She followed my glance and touched the cake.
‘You’re a sweet person?’
‘That too, thanks.’
Her elbow met my chest. I laughed.
‘I meant, you don’t seem to like salty things. Even your sandwich was sweet.’
I shrugged. ‘I’ll eat most things, most times.’
She held the cake out. ‘I don’t have a knife or fork. Just bite into it.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Eat it like an apple.’
‘You can’t eat a whole cake like that.’
She took the cake to her mouth and took a bite out of the side.
‘Like that. Go on.’
I took a bite and then we kept passing the cake back to each other.
‘So!’ she said. ‘What’s the big secret?’
‘You tell first.’
‘That’s not fair. You know too much about me already and I don’t know anything at all. Except that you wear size nine shoes.’
‘You haven’t really told me much. I did a lot of guesswork and it hit home.’
‘So shall I guess about you?’ She turned around in her seat so she could look at my face directly. ‘PhD at JNU?’
I shook my head, and ran my hands down my unshaven cheeks. I had not even looked at a mirror for a week.
‘That scruffy?’
‘Well, only as sc
ruffy as a PhD at JNU.’
‘That’s stereotyping of PhDs.’
‘It’s a type. Fabindia. Expensive shoes. Cribbing about food.’
I laughed. ‘You know a lot of PhDs?’
‘No more questions from you. You are . . . twenty-five?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Work in media?’
‘Broadly.’
‘Documentaries?’
‘No.’
‘NGO? Research?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, I give up. Tell me. Go on. I’m not going to follow you to your office.’
‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘I got fired last week.’
‘Oh!’ She reached for the bottle of water. ‘Do you want some?’
‘No.’
‘So that’s why you have the Devdas look? I was imagining that you must be heartbroken over some girl.’
‘Sorry to disappoint. Work is more important to me than relationships.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, really. Work defines you. Like when you asked me “who are you?”, you didn’t want to know whom I was dating. You wanted to know what I did. And I do nothing, so I guess, the answer to your question is, I’m nothing.’
‘Come on.’
‘It’s okay. I’ve been there before. I lost a girlfriend once. My first. Soon after I lost my first job. And I felt worse about losing the job.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You cannot love someone and still feel that way. Love is the strongest thing there is.’
I tried to laugh pleasantly, but it came out wrong. I looked away.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ she said. ‘You think I don’t know what I am saying, because I never had a job, because I didn’t want a career. So I don’t know how involved you get, how it becomes your identity. You think I don’t even know what it’s like to spend my own money, and am only getting married so I can live comfortably. So I shouldn’t talk about love.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You did. You can say things without opening your mouth.’
I sighed. ‘Look. I don’t really buy this love thing. It’s a notion. Like god. Like democracy and freedom. It’s a beautiful idea, but it’s never there in its full, promised version. We’ll never know the real thing.’
‘So you’ll deny that it has any power.’
‘I don’t let myself get seduced by fake images. It is like going to a movie. You pay to watch a lie, a fantasy. But you know that’s what it is. You get involved with the lie. A few hours later, you step out of the dark hall and you snap out of the lie. The problem with love is that people think the movie will last forever. It doesn’t.’