—You get over it. You can move on, Sabz insisted, clearly under the misimpression I was having a conversation about her, or anyone here but myself.
—But what if you don’t want to move on?
Mallika’s eyes were conflagrating my Knock-Knocks tee. I tried to burn my own into my tea, then worried I might frock up my fortune.
—Then there’s always a risk your short-term becomes long, said Kavita, looking at Sabz now. —Like a year long.
—It wasn’t a year! Sabz argued. —Okay. An academic year. But that’s much, much shorter.
—Whatever, said Kavita.
—There’s always that risk anyway, isn’t there? Mallika put in now. —The second you step out the door, all the city’s offerings spread out before you. Society is obsessed with sex. Horny OK Please.
—You think it’s obsessed because we’re having too much — or not enough? I ventured.
—We need to have much, much more sex! Sangita laughed bawdily. I thought of the Wife of Bath, that gap between her teeth. —Then we can stop thinking about it all the time and just get on with our lives.
I guess she’d say that, storing herself up for Deepak and all.
—There is plenty of mating, Kavita dissented. —But not enough soul mating.
I dared look up from my saucer.
—You know, I was in this bar earlier, I told them, —and I saw this piece of graffiti that said: If you’re reading this right now, you’re my fucking soul mate.
—Priceless! Mallika squealed. —That just highlights the random nature of the whole enterprise. Or the fact you have to be piss drunk to believe in soul mates.
—Maybe it was your soul mate? Sangita mused.
—It was in the women’s room, I said, shaking my head.
—So? Sabz snapped. —Why can’t two women be fucking soul mates?
—Well, maybe if they fucked and mated only each other, they could, Kavita pointed out.
—Well, maybe they’re ready to do that, Sabz replied. —Maybe if they didn’t have to pay the price for eternity for a few months’ error …
Kavita’s mouth was a closed book, but her eyes a jungli one, and she rose now.
—Excuse me, she announced shakily, staring pointedly elsewhere.
Sabz reached for her hand and missed.
—Kavita, she whispered, near desperately. —I … I can. I do …
We followed Kavita’s gaze … to the face reader, who had finally arrived, bringing along her own impervious expression. Kavita bolted towards her. Sabz dropped her head into her hands.
Mallika tilted her own, eyes on me.
—What bar? she asked, too calmly.
—Huh?
—What bar did you see that graffiti in? The soul mate thing?
—Um … I don’t know.
—Since when do you go out drinking without us? Who were you with?
—I wasn’t with anyone….
—So? Now you drink alone?
—I just went in to use the toilet.
—When? Went in from where?
—I was shooting some stuff in … around here. There. And … that bar just seemed like a more sanitary option for a technical break.
But Mallika wasn’t going to drop it so easily.
—What were you shooting?
Sangita glanced at me, then gloriously intervened. —Graffiti, obviously. With me. Chappal. Waroda. All that street art?
Sangita, it turned out, was the real face reader.
Just then my phone, on the table, buzzed again. Mallika reached over and picked it up.
—Nooooo! I screamed, like a kid whose crush list’s been nabbed in the playground. I wrestled it back from her so hard the table shook, non-coffee splashing the surface.
—Um, I was just handing it to you, Mallika said, stunned. —Dimple — what? Are you having an affair or something?
I stowed the phone into the outer pocket of my camera bag, spastically shook my head, and continued extending my No! in reply to this query.
She flumped back in her seat and stared at me.
—Oh … my … god.
She looked like she was about to whomp the table, but she just tightened her grip on its edge. —I was just kidding, but … you are!
—I’m having … an artistic experience? I said. Who was she to talk to me about affairs? Then again, who’d know better?
—I knew it! So. Who is he?
—You don’t know him.
She narrowed her eyes. The rest of my audience was captive, speechless.
—Honest, I said. —I mean, I barely know him.
—Oh, like that’s better?
—I mean … but I do know him. In, like, a spiritual way.
—Don’t tell me he’s been feeding you that Old Soul shit. Like We met in a past life and all that crap? Did he ask you if you’d read Shantaram?
—I’ve never had this kind of connection with someone before, I whispered.
—That sounds familiar. Didn’t you say that verbatim about someone else not so long ago? Sabz asked. It was interesting no one was mentioning Karsh’s name now that we’d moved on to the mortification segment of our impromptu adda. I was grateful, but didn’t want to thank them in case they reconsidered.
—Um. Yes. Probably. And it was true at the time … but maybe different people are right for you at different times in your life?
—Don’t you think the same person could be right for you at different times? Sabz appealed urgently. Kavita was hunched over at the face reader’s table, nodding fervently, her back to us.
—That a quote from your mystery man, Dimple? Mallika correctly conjectured. —Like, you’re right for the eight o’clock show, and then someone else is on for the ten P.M. performance. And wifey covers the daylight hours. Some people think many people are right for you at all times!
I was beginning to long for the relaxing analgesic company of nonintuitive people.
—Who is he? Bombay’s a small town, she probed.
—Amongst the middle class and the wealthy, Sabz corrected. —It’s hardly a small town otherwise.
—So, Mallika persisted. —Name?
—I couldn’t tell you, I admitted, unusually (and probably not credibly) truthfully for me these days. Cowboy? Like she’d buy that? Anyway, that appellation was between us, however made-up it was.
—Sworn to secrecy? So he’s married, Sabz hypothesized.
Mallika nodded. —Probably from South Bombay, then. Bombay Gym type. Kids in boarding school. Wife listening to self-help DVDs, setting her intention to manifest her desired reality bullshit. Summer flat in South Ken.
—I don’t really know, I confessed.
—Then he’s from Bandra, Special Agent Mallix concluded. —In SoBo, people only screw people with memberships at the same clubs. In Bandra, however, people only screw people they just met.
—Who said anything about screwing? I fumbled. —And I know a little. Like, I think he lives … just on the other side.
—Worli. Same thing. Frankly, I think the Link was built to facilitate Bandra-Worli hookups.
—Even the Link, I said, losing myself momentarily in the memory of that night, returning from Cuffe Parade, that bridge a sail to an uncity within this city. —It’s like a symbol of our connection….
Sabz snorted. —Ten years to build, double the budget, and in the end, doubtful it saves any time at all, with all the traffic now clogging the arterial roads on either side! Symbol of connection? Have you ever checked out under the Link, Bandra-side? You know how much farther out the Kolis have to go now to fish?
I had to concede I didn’t.
—It’s not really the end, Sangita piped in. —The Link is only half-finished. Five minutes into it, and it drops off into the sea, so bring your buoy — that’s a slip road that gets you to dry land.
Sabz was still highly agitated. —Most of this city can’t even afford to cross it! I heard the government was supposed to build a walkway, but seems they’ve scrapp
ed plans for this, too.
—Really? I just kind of thought it was beautiful, I admitted sheepishly, considering how, although now it could get you all the way across, this fabled bridge could still only be half-finished, halfway crosswater … when it was stranding-you-halfway-across-the-water half-finished the last time I came here, too. Somehow it made sense.
—That’s so NRI.
—You’re an NRI, too, Sabz! Anyway, forget it. I don’t want to frock over the fisherfolk. Or the non-toll-affording class.
—Dimple doesn’t want to fuck the fisherfolk, Mallika sighed significantly. —Or the poor. Only the mysteriously unnamed wealthy of Worli! He’ll never leave his wife, you know.
—I don’t want him to.
—So he has a wife!
—I don’t know. But I just want to know he’s out there.
—Or he’s in there, more like.
—Mallika, I said tetchily. —Since when are you so against —
But she cut me off, a quietly raging fire in her eyes now.
—Dimple. Don’t turn into a home wrecker. Not yet. Not ever.
I was tempted to ask Mallika what the exact status of Ravi’s home had been upon her entry, but didn’t think I was in a position to be chairing the Q&A.
—Not fun when it all hits the fan, she continued. —Getting ambushed by the wife’s sister and friend and told what a mess you’re making. And actually receiving a call from said wife, a plea to cease and resist, saying the two of them can heal if they’re just given a chance without you in the way.
Two foamless cappuccino cups at LoZo’s painting a thousand words …
—And worst of all, she murmured now, —he thinks so, too. Even though he cares about you, even though you’re not looking for him to leave her, he’s not looking to leave. But where does it end, if you don’t know what you’re looking for? It’s not so great having a secret love, if it keeps the love secret even from yourselves. So I say, when love enters the room, hit the fire exit.
She seemed a little sorry. A strange look to see on Mallika’s face.
—Well, I whispered, —that’s not exactly my situation….
She appeared unconvinced.
—Believe in romantic committed love a little longer, she urged me. Sabz nodded fervently, as if these words were for her. —Home wrecking’s not as fun as it … doesn’t look. Wait until you’re certain it’s already wrecked, and always, always knock first. And, Dimple, you have my word he’ll never hear it from me — from any of us — but why would you risk everything you have for this?
All of them just stared at me.
—Look, I said. —It’s not what you think. But even he knows it’ll end at some point.
—He, Sangita echoed softly.
—Mystery man, Mallika supplied. —Did he say when?
—He said, I replied, with relief, honestly, —when the karmic circuit has been completed again.
They just shook their heads with pained sympathy. I felt their pain. It didn’t sound so cosmic in this context.
—Look, Dimple, Sabz said now. —I know you have to follow your heart, and that’s a complex thing. But believe me, don’t let your crotch lead it around on a leash.
—I’m sorry I brought it up, I said. —Or, you did. We’ve just been exploring Bombay together. That’s all.
This was kind of true?
—Yeah. Horizontally? Mallix queried.
That was kind of true, too. We’d started horizontal at the Star Chamber and just sprawled out from there. When I cast a glance in Sangita’s direction now, she looked away. But Mallika leaned in, speaking earnestly:
—Dimple. Just remember. It’s a fantasy — you’re away from home. It’s a parallel reality. You don’t live with him, don’t know his context.
—Is that so bad, not knowing? I challenged. —I’ve had enough reality. Isn’t that why Bollywood films are so popular? The whole country’s trying to escape!
—I thought you hated Bollywood films, Sabz said, looking wounded.
—What are you trying to escape from, darling? Mallika laughed. We were getting up to go now. —It’s not like you’re really part of this country.
For some reason, that almost hurt the most.
—I’m trying to be, I said quietly. She hesitated.
—Just be careful, Dimple, she said, a little more gently. —You might get hurt.
I’m already hurt! I wanted to scream. But I managed a smile.
—Don’t worry, I said. —Point taken.
Kavita returned then, face salt printed, eyes shining. Sabz’s own visage twisted with concern.
—Oh god! What’d she tell you?
This time when she reached for Kavita’s hand, Kavita grabbed back.
—She told me, Kavita replied, tears now spilling onto upturning lips, and tongue telling truths that surely had not come from the face reader, —that I do, too.
Sabz leapt up, pulling Kavita into a eureka embrace and an unabashed kiss on the mouth.
—For Chrissake, Mallika sighed. —Get a room.
—We have one! Sabz smiled. —At your place!
—We have two! Kavita declared, nodding at me.
—And we have each other, Sabz said, very seriously now. She slid the geode off her finger — yet somehow it still remained on that finger, two rings wedged together where I’d seen one — and onto Kavita’s.
Outside, to make her own conscientious-citizen Marlboro Lights contribution to Bombay’s pollution level, Mallika lit up. I was probably contributing as well, with my mere sordid presence.
A couple ricks pulled up for that sordid presence and company. Kavita, Sabz, and Mallix nabbed one; they were going to pick up Kavita’s stuff, then head to Mallika’s, since there Kavs and Sabz could have their own room.
Mallika took one more long drag, chucked the stub of her smoke on the pavement, crushing it under her surreally skinny pothole-defying heel.
—Dimple? Sangita? Rick? she asked.
—We’re going the other way. North, Sangita replied. —Can’t have Mummy and Daddy thinking the whole flock’s fled.
Then, to Kavita: —No issues. I’ll tell them you’re safe and sound with your NYU friends.
The trio zipped off. I stood with Sangita, I realized now, at the foot of the very landslide of slope where I’d entwined with a near stranger till I couldn’t see straight just … hours ago?
I wanted to not see straight again. Life along the lines was too sharp, suffocating.
But why did it ache so much to curve, to bend?
I stood there, unsure of where I actually wanted to go.
—You can push off if you’re late, Sangita. I’m not sure I’m going to Andheri tonight. I might need some time on my own.
—I figured as much, Sangita said quietly. —So I thought I’d get rid of the lot for you.
She hesitated.
—Dimple, she said. And then she asked the question no one else had pressed me on. —What about Karsh?
I felt the tears instantly rise.
—What about him? I said, and they shed. She lay her hand on my shoulder.
—Maybe call him? Talk it out?
—Isn’t it a bit late for a spiritual person? I mean, don’t they rise and set with the sun and all that?
—What are you talking about?
—He’s not in Bombay, Sangita. He’s on a … retreat. So there’s not a lot of talking going on.
—Vipassana? Silent yoga?
—I don’t know if he’s vipping anything. He went to Matheran. Or Madurai. Where Krishna was born. To a Hare Krishna ashram.
—Mathura, she corrected me. —Probably Vrindavan, where Krishna spent his childhood, near Mathura, his birth city.
—Hooray, hoo-oo-ray! I sang and clapped Hare-Hare mantra style, sauf joylessly.
—Dimple. There’s no need to mock the religion just because you’re having difficulties with Karsh. It’s a beautiful philosophy — all about love and devotion and surrendering to that beauty. The b
eauty of the blue-skinned god …
—Whatever. Blue balls is what I’m left with if I sit around. I’m just being open to options is all.
She paused.
—You can talk all you want, Dimple. And I understand life throws up confusing situations, things you weren’t expecting. But in the end, you’re deceiving the person you love. You’re still together, right? I mean, you haven’t broken up.
—Not in so many words, Sangita, but bloody hell — he’s living at an ashram! He’s given up all worldly pleasures! He’s in search of purity!
—And he can’t find that with you….
Ouch! I didn’t think she meant it that way, but still.
I did a little side-to-side, shrugged a little sadly. Shrugging made me think of the core dance move of bhangra, which made me think of Karsh. Thinking of Karsh made me sad, which made me shrug sadly again.
I was through with words. Aloud was overrated. When I spoke, it seemed like I was engaged in a sleazy, slimy, selfish, and very, very bad thing. I sounded like the victim: naïve, blind. Like he was a player.
But maybe I wanted to play? Wasn’t play good? Especially for artists? And all those coincidences, that synchronicity — didn’t it add up to something? A negative of love if not the full-blown positive, a beforeimage if we weren’t destined to have an afterimage?
It was the after-being-with-Cowboy part that was messing with my head. Did my lust have my love on a leash — or was my heart towing the rest of me along with it? Either way, it was pretty clear my crinkum-crankum and heart were Siamesically twinned, whichever one was calling the shots.
I guess I’d known everyone would tell me not to do this. Maybe I’d wanted them to. Because I was starting to feel something unstoppable in me — a dark sweet pull, a shaft of light and shadow-dance beneath a door ajar. It was a little scary watching from a corridor. But there was no fear inside that room.
Now, quietly, Sangita said, —It won’t last forever….
—I’m not looking for something to last, I choked up. —Nothing lasts!
It hit me then that maybe she meant the way I was feeling, or the way he was — that her words were perhaps a this-too-shall-pass to that sad shrug. Sangita was very still, and then suddenly busied herself with picking at a turquoise stain on her shirt. I felt a pang.
Bombay Blues Page 30