Swear You Won't Tell?

by Vedashree Khambete-Sharma

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I said arrogant bitch. I’ll wait, you go look it up in a dictionary, okay?’

  ‘You think you’re so clever, no?’ Mahira spat. ‘Reading books, using big-big words all the time? Knowing words doesn’t make you smart, okay? It just makes you a … a …’ she hunted around for a word.

  ‘Articulate?’ Avantika provided, straightfaced. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Laxmi trying to hide a smile.

  The murmuring was growing. Girls sitting nearby were turning to look. Some had begun gathering around the little scene, nudging each other and whispering among themselves. Had it been two ordinary girls, one of the school prefects would’ve showed up by now. But Aisha was a prefect. You didn’t back-answer prefects. Things were going to get interesting.

  Now if this had been a boys’ school, someone would be getting pulled by the neck-tie and thrown on the ground right about now. Then there would be some awkward punches thrown, a few kicks here and there, maybe a minor scuffle, till someone gave in and then they’d all shake hands and go back to class. But since that was neither ladylike nor, frankly, half the fun, the girls stuck to what they knew.

  A malicious smile crossed Aisha’s face.

  ‘Tch, tch, tch, swearing,’ she said shaking her head. ‘That too in front of a prefect. I think Miss Gomes should hear about this. And then, who knows? Maybe she’ll kick you out of the class play and we won’t have to see your bad acting.’

  Avantika gave her a blank look that didn’t betray the sudden panic she now felt. Each class put up a play once in the course of every school year. This year, class IX A was putting up A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the mid-term school programme and she had bagged the role of Puck. Aisha, with her long silky hair and grey eyes, was playing Titania, the Queen of Fairies. But Avantika didn’t mind. She thought Puck was a riot and she enjoyed every minute she played him. Being kicked out of the play would … hurt.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said nevertheless. ‘Good luck finding a replacement at such short notice.’

  ‘Oh that won’t be a problem,’ Aisha smirked. ‘Laxmi, can take the part. Right, Mimi?’

  Mimi? Avantika glanced at Laxmi, who looked away. They barely spoke these days. There hadn’t been any fight. It had all been very polite. But it wasn’t like before. Before, they had been close. Friends. Best friends even. Now, they were … classmates. One of whom was apparently called ‘Mimi’ by her friends. Yuck.

  Avantika turned her attention back to Aisha.

  ‘She’ll overshadow you, if she does,’ she told her. ‘Your Titania is just…,’ she made a face.

  She returned to Wuthering Heights, only to have Aisha pull it out of her hands. This was a library book. A lovely old edition, with a crimson leather binding and wafer-thin pages that you could bury your nose in and just … smell. If it tore, it would mean a fine and explaining to Aai and Baba exactly how it tore and begging them to not come to school and complain about bullying. But more importantly, if it tore it meant … it would be torn. She let go of it without a fight.

  Aisha peered at the cover, opened a page at random and read for two seconds.

  ‘Boring,’ she said, tossing it back her. ‘Just like you.’

  Behind her Mahira laughed uproariously, as if a great joke had been cracked.

  ‘You just don’t learn, do you?’ Aisha said, bending down till she was level with Avantika. ‘You think you can just insult me and my friends and I won’t do anything about it? I’m used to winning, Avantika. I never lose. Especially to four-eyed losers like you.’

  On cue, Mahira trilled, ‘Four-eyed loser, hahaha!’

  Avantika looked at the pulao in her tiffin. Aai had made it because she had told her how bored she was of eating chapati-bhaji every day. It was yummy. It would be a shame to waste it. But if she let Aisha get away with this, she’d have to go through more of this. Her gaze fell on her water-bottle, lying innocently next to her tiffin. How much trouble could she get in? Only one way to find out.

  She squinted up at Aisha. Then, in one quick motion, she had grabbed her Squeeze-E2 bottle and squirted all the water inside it straight on to Aisha’s face and eyes. The girl staggered back in shock, stumbled and fell. Involuntary laughter broke out among the girls standing on the sidelines. Avantika was up like a shot, bending down to face her.

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ she said, with a smile.

  Nine

  ‘Where are you?’ Uday demanded, over the phone.

  ‘I’ve … ah … just stepped out for some coffee,’ Avantika replied.

  This was technically true. If ‘coffee’ could be translated into ‘conversation with Shweta in the course of which I hope to get some facts about Laxmi’s disappearance’. She had, in fact, considered inviting the woman out for coffee, but had rubbished the plan after thinking about it. Shweta didn’t have any reason to agree to a meeting like that. She’d called anyway and hadn’t been surprised to have her call cut off. Shweta wouldn’t answer calls from strange numbers. For that matter, she probably wouldn’t answer Avantika’s call even if she did have her number. No, it would have to be an ambush. But a carefully thought-out one.

  Which is why right now, she was waiting outside Bhagwanwadi Municipal Hospital’s Maternity Ward B1, feeling more out of place than a vegetarian at a bacon breakfast.

  The corridor was dingy and painted a toxic shade of pistachio green. Bits of plaster had crumbled from the walls that were lined with surplus relatives, who had been shooed out of wards by irate nurses. One of these nurses had earlier informed her that Dr Shweta Kakkar was conducting her morning rounds, and unless someone suddenly gave birth, would be available to talk in twenty minutes.

  Avantika had been a little taken aback by this. Somehow she just couldn’t imagine Shweta as an ObGyn. But then, that was doctors for you. Nowhere on their faces did it say what part of the human anatomy was under their supervision. You could talk for hours to a perfectly charming man you met at a party and discover much later that he had been a proctologist2 all along.

  ‘Really. Coffee.’ The disbelief in Uday’s voice was quite clear.

  ‘Fine, you got me, I’m actually in Mordor, throwing away the one true ring in the depths of—’

  ‘Shut up. Nathan has been prowling around your desk. Any moment now, he’s going to come up to me and ask where you are.’

  ‘Tell him you don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know this—you’ve been going AWOL pretty often this past week and one of these days Nathan is going to—’

  ‘Yell at me? Make my life miserable? Threaten to fire me? No, wait, he already did that—’

  ‘Avanti—’

  ‘I know, I know. Look … I’m working on something … important, okay? Once that gets wrapped up, I’ll be a good little girl again. Promise.’

  There was silence on the other end. When Uday finally spoke, he sounded as if he was trying not to sound worried. ‘Whatever it is you’re doing… just be careful, alright?’ he said. ‘If something happens to you … it’s a bitch finding new feature-writers these days.’

  She snorted and hung up. Uday could be such an old woman sometimes. She glanced at her watch. She had been standing here for twenty minutes now and the general gloom was getting to her. That, and the woman in the violently purple saree, who was complaining loudly over the phone about how her daughter-in-law had given birth to a daughter again. If Shweta didn’t come out soon, she was going to end up doing something to that woman. It would be painful. For the woman. Just then, the door of the maternity ward opened and a very harried Shweta emerged, followed by a few gormless-looking interns. She was wearing the standard white lab coat over a block-printed salwar kurta, which did little to disguise her reed-thin figure. A surgical green cloth mask hung about her neck and her limp hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, which made her gaunt face seem severe. As she passed by, Avantika noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the strands of grey in her hair.

&nbs
p; ‘Shweta? Shweta Kakkar?’

  Shweta turned around. Avantika waved cheerfully and said, ‘Oh my god! What a small world! How are you?’

  Shweta’s eyes narrowed with the effort of recognition and an uncertain smile appeared on her lips. ‘Hi… erm—’

  ‘It’s me! Avantika Pandit. St Agatha?’

  The smile dimmed a bit. ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘It’s so good to see you! Listen, it looks like you’re busy but if you have five minutes, I’d love to catch up.’

  ‘Um … I’m sorry … I don’t think I have time today,’ said Shweta with a fake smile.

  At which point the most gormless of the interns pushed his rimless spectacles up his nose and squeaked, ‘Actually ma’am, we have the next half an hour free.’

  Poor guy. Shweta shot him a look of such menace that he positively shrank a few inches. Avantika pretended not to notice. ‘Great! How about a quick tea? The canteen is upstairs, right?’

  And before Shweta could protest, she linked her arm through hers and began walking away from the interns.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Shweta asked her, trying to wriggle her hand away.

  ‘Oh, I’m doing a story on municipal hospitals in the city. I work at Mumbai Daily now. But look at you—doctor and all. So cool!’

  Shweta didn’t say anything.

  ‘And an ObGyn!’ Avantika continued. ‘It must be so rewarding no? Bringing children into the world. You must feel so proud!’

  ‘What is your article about?’

  ‘Oh. It’s a piece on how despite modern healthcare facilities in the suburbs, a lot of people still come to municipal hospitals, especially teaching hospitals like Bhagwanwadi.’

  Which was rubbish, because it wasn’t much of a mystery. Municipal hospitals were cheaper. Teaching hospitals, more so, as patients who couldn’t afford pricey healthcare were just the sort of willing guinea pigs eager young medical students needed to practice their fledgling skills on. Shweta must’ve guessed as much, because she gave Avantika a searching look, as if trying to figure out if she was telling the truth. Avantika smiled innocently in response and Shweta looked away.

  ‘This way,’ she said, and walked into a large room with off-white doors.

  The canteen was done up in the best traditions of government issue decor. There were speckled beige cement tiles on the floor and, in complete and terrible contrast, brilliant white glazed tiles on the walls. White fluorescent tube-lights hung from the ceiling. Rickety tables with formica tops were strewn around in no particular order and each table was surrounded by four or five red moulded plastic chairs.

  They picked a table at random and sat down. A canteen boy in a stained khaki uniform approached and Shweta ordered two teas. They came in mismatched ceramic cups—Shweta’s had a chintzy floral pattern and a chipped handle, Avantika’s bore the remnants of a golden rim and an unreadable crest.

  Shweta sipped her tea in silence, while Avantika toyed with hers. ‘So… how’ve you been?’ She asked.

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘I’ll bet! It must be tough, no? I mean, working in a municipal hospital rather than a private one.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not like Grey’s Anatomy then?’

  ‘No.’

  Avantika took a sip of her tea. It was orange and loaded with ginger. Probably boiled well past an inch of its life.

  ‘You know who I ran into the other day? Mahira. She’s married now. To some bigshot businessman, from the sound of it.’

  ‘Um-hmm.’

  ‘What about you? Have you—’

  ‘Is that really any of your business?’

  Avantika blinked. Shweta’s face was expressionless but the ‘back off’ in her words couldn’t have been clearer.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s a personal question, isn’t it? If I’m married or not.’

  Avantika gave her a wide smile. ‘Oh, no, no, no! I was just asking if you’ve been in touch with anyone from school!’

  Shweta looked away and stared out of the window. ‘I’m in touch with some friends. Not all.’

  ‘I heard Aisha designs bags now. They’re supposed to be really cool.’

  Shweta smiled reluctantly. ‘She gave me one. It’s pretty.’

  ‘Nice. But then, you two were always close.’

  Shweta shrugged noncommittally, but Avantika could see that she was pleased.

  ‘What about the rest of your gang? What are they up to?’

  Shweta arched her eyebrows, ‘You’re very interested. Why? It’s not like you got along with us back then.’

  And what an understatement that was. Avantika waved her hands dismissively. ‘Come on, that was so long ago. Who holds on to stuff like that?’

  Shweta finished her tea and set her cup on the table. She placed a ten rupee note under it and got up. Looking Avantika straight in the eye, she said, ‘I do.’

  1998

  Avantika got up from the desk she was pretending to play the piano on, and strode over to Shweta. ‘How are you, my dear Earnest?’ she put out a hand, ‘What brings you up to town?’

  Shweta took a step back with a look of utter distaste on her face. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We’re supposed to be friends. Friends don’t shake hands.’

  ‘But Earnest and Algernon—’

  ‘… are friends. Friends hug. Ask anyone. You don’t have any friends na, otherwise you would’ve known.’

  Ouch. That hurt. Ever since Laxmi had joined Aisha’s gang, she had pretty much been a lone wolf. There were other groups in the class that she could’ve joined, but their friendships had already been cemented and there was no real place for a newcomer. Particularly one with a bit of a mouth on her. Still, it was probably her motor-mouth that had bagged her the role of Algernon in The Importance of Being Earnest, so she didn’t think she ought to complain too much about it.

  The interschool dramatics competition was coming up and this year, St Agatha’s would be putting up an adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s immortal play The Importance of Being Earnest. She had been so thrilled when she found out. She loved Wilde’s characters, Algy in particular. And the writing, the sheer comic genius of the man! It was going to be a blast, despite the fact that Aisha was going to be playing the part of Algernon’s sister, Gwendolyn. But then, the headmistress had insisted that Shweta-bloody-Kakkar be cast as Earnest, because apparently she ‘was a natural’. Yeah right. More like the old cow was a natural Ruchika Kakkar fan. Shweta’s mom.

  In her days, Ruchika Kakkar had been the star of the Hindi and English theatre circuits. Her Ophelia left the audience in tears, her Shakuntala moved them beyond words. But a bout of laryngitis had led to complications that severely affected her vocal chords. She lost her voice projection and with it, her future as a theatre actress. Today, Ruchika Kakkar was a respected theatre critic, and her daughter, a royal pain in the ass.

  It wasn’t just that Shweta believed she knew everything about acting. It wasn’t just that she believed she was a fantastic actress. It wasn’t just that she and Aisha had a made a point of ganging up on Avantika during rehearsals. It was all of it together, that was getting on Avantika’s nerves. But she was determined not to let it ruin the rehearsals and the play for her.

  ‘Fine, let’s try hugging,’ she said, trying to keep the sarcasm in her voice to a minimum, as she walked back to the desk that was moonlighting as a grand piano.

  They were rehearsing in the small assembly hall and the rest of the cast were standing on either side of the two desks that served as markers to separate the wings from the rest of the stage. The rest of the set—a Victorian drawing room—would be in place in time for the dress rehearsal. Fifteen seconds later, Shweta’s petulant voice rang out again in the near-empty hall.

  ‘No, still wrong! That’s not how you hug a friend, that’s how you hug a boy!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Boys, you nerd. You have heard of boys, right?’


  Titters broke out amidst Aisha and her minions. As she tried to ignore the laughter, Avantika wondered why Aisha wasn’t in the wings with the rest of the cast. She stole a quick look at the girl. Laxmi was sitting right next to Aisha, but she hadn’t joined in the giggles. She turned her attention back to Shweta.

  ‘Whatever. Either you show me what you think is the right kind of hug, or shut up,’ she said.

  Shweta gave an exaggerated sigh and walked over to her. Then she threw her hands around Avantika’s shoulders, tilted her own head to the side and rested her palms on Avantika’s back. A second later, she pulled away.

  ‘That’s how you hug a friend.’

  ‘No, that’s how you hug a friend. Algernon is a man. He wouldn’t hug like that.’

  ‘Oh please, like you know what Algernon would or wouldn’t do.’

  ‘Why? Why can’t I know?’

  ‘Because you don’t know anything about guys. You don’t even have a guy, right?’

  Avantika felt her hands clench into fists. ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘What is going on here?,’ asked a stern voice.

  Miss Shah, their English teacher and the director of the play, had just walked in. A slim woman in her late-thirties with salt-and-pepper hair, she wore a crisp handloom cotton saree and a forbidding expression. The only time her face softened was when she taught the girls poetry. Avantika liked her, both for her love for the language as well as for her no-nonsense approach to life.

  Now, her entrance had a dramatic effect on the rest. Girls who had been sitting with their legs stretched out on chairs, immediately adjusted themselves into more demure poses. Casual background conversations stopped. The cast unconsciously stood straighter. Only Aisha remained slouched comfortably in her seat, unaffected and indifferent.

  ‘See no, Miss, I was only telling her she’s not hugging properly and she started shouting at me,’ said Shweta. ‘Earnest and Algernon are supposed to be the best of friends. But how can I can pretend like I’m friends with someone who is so stupid?’