Cold Feet

by Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

  Shaking her head, she checked her own phone and the name on it made her smile. Mo. Her best friend ever! Even though she had only known him for six months, they had this incredible connection. Sometimes she couldn’t believe her luck. What were the odds of running into your soulmate in the line for a movie? That’s how it had happened for her and Mo. She was going to watch this film alone and he had been with two friends, and the two of them were standing in line for tickets together. It was a really long line and they got talking. Soon, they were watching the movie together, she and the three of them, and then they went out for dinner afterwards. Mo had just stayed in her life and made her supremely happy. There was the teeny tiny insignificant fact that she was in love with him, and he wasn’t, but that was besides the point. She had no doubt that eventually she would wind up together with Mo and they would be very happy. ‘How’s the party? I’m so bored tonight,’ was his text and she wished he were here. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for him to be because, after all, this was a girls’ night, but he just made everything so much more fun. She was also pleased that it was her he was texting when he was bored, and not one of his many other friends, or random Floozies. She thought of them as a collective—one Floozy, several Floozies.

  Women flocked to Mo. Not because he was particularly good-looking, but just because he exuded so much personal charm that you couldn’t help but be won over. Often, when she was his plus one at a party, she saw other women size her up later, wondering, ‘What is she to him?’ and she always smiled a smug smile because, no matter how early Mo detached himself from her and made another woman the focus of his evening, he always, always, went home with her, dropping her off and then going home himself. It could’ve been part of his game plan, leave ’em wanting more and all that, but she never thought of it that way. Mo and she were shiny, bright, unstoppable.

  ‘Party is okay,’ she replied, fingers flying over the keyboard. ‘Not sure how long I’ll stay though, you want to hang out later?’ This wasn’t true until a minute ago. She had fully planned on staying at the party till the very end, but a Mo-evening beckoned and that was far more enticing than any party games she could play. Amisha would understand if she knew the entire story. Amisha was getting married! Married people didn’t have a right to their single friend’s life if the single friend was hoping to no longer be a single friend. This was the way of the world.

  What did I say to him when we last spoke? Oh, um, let me see. I did talk about further commitment. Maybe that’s what scared him off? But everything was going so well! He is so nice and so wonderful, and all my friends say he’s the perfect man. I mean, until like last week, we were the perfect couple. Totally. In every conceivable way. Maybe we weren’t having sex all the time, but we’ve been dating for a really long time, so that’s not unusual, is it? I wonder if I can ask Amisha, in a subtle, casual fashion, how often she and Derek have sex? I don’t think it’s very often. Derek’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t look like the type to fuck like a bunny. That has to mean something. It’s not like this whole commitment thing is a surprise to him. I thought he was serious. It’s not even like there was a switch, an isolated incident I can put my finger on, it’s just that he’s become so distant. We were meant to go out this weekend, I can call him about that, can’t I? It’s a legitimate reason! I mean, I don’t know whether I should make plans or not. Yes, I’ll call him. I’ll wait till the end of this party, and I’ll casually call him later tonight and be all like, ‘Hey, so are we doing anything this weekend?’ and not mention that I’ve been upset. He hates when I make a fuss about things. Ladli took another sip of her wine, finishing the glass and reached over for the bottle.

  God, the girl with the strange outfit was really going at the wine, thought Shayna. What was her name? Ladli? That was somewhat of an odd name, but she seemed like an odd sort of person. She was wearing a loose kurta top over a faded tie’n’dye skirt. Her long curly hair had two strands braided and wound around her skull in an attempt to be all medieval princess-y theme. Plus, every now and then her lips moved soundlessly like she was having a conversation with herself. Shayna felt a twinge of compassion, wanting to go over to Ladli and offer some words of comfort, but then the wine was sending tendrils of sloth down her arms and legs and she couldn’t be bothered. Ladli was surrounded by her friends, including the other girl she had come with, who seemed normal enough. She could seek support from them.

  ‘Are you very bored?’ asked Amisha, suddenly dropping into the chair by Shayna and making her jump.

  ‘Oh. No,’ said Shayna, politely.

  ‘Good, I’m really glad you’re here.’ Amisha’s eyes had reached the glassy stage. Pretty soon she’d get all teary and give them all hugs or something. Subtly, Shayna shifted, so her body faced the other way. ‘You’re my oldest friend at this party,’ went on Amisha, oblivious. ‘And I know we don’t hang out very often, but it means so much to me that you’re here.’

  She paused and Shayna sensed it was time for her to interject something soothing and thoughtful. ‘Um, thanks,’ was pretty much all she could come up with, but Amisha giggled and put her arm around Shayna’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. ‘Anytime, sweetie! Derek is so fond of you also. Like, he really thinks you’re awesome.’

  ‘Who?’ asked a bossy-looking woman from across the room.

  ‘Shayna, here,’ said Amisha, to the bossy woman and the whole room, since everyone had turned to listen. ‘She’s like Derek’s favourite person.’

  Derek’s favourite person indeed! She hadn’t heard from Derek since she had done him a favour and befriended his fiancée. He probably couldn’t wait to be rid of her. She hated people who used other people like that. She’d had a couple of people like that in her life before, when she was in college, new girls, whom she had been so friendly with, and introduced to everyone and, six months later, they were talking and laughing with all the people she had introduced them to, while with her, their interaction was waving at her in the corridors. She was too nice to people, that was the problem.

  ‘I thought I was Derek’s favourite person,’ said the bossy woman loudly, and then laughed a nasal laugh. ‘I’m going to have to take it up with him, huh, Amisha?’ Amisha simpered into her lap, God, so thrilled that her fiancé was generating all this discussion. Pathetic. This was all so dull and boring. No doubt there would be silly bachelorette party games and so forth. Led by the bossy woman. But no. Shayna was pleasantly surprised when Amisha announced dinner and a couple of the girls leaped up to help her put the takeaway Chinese food into serving bowls.

  She really had gone all out, dim sums and soup and a main course and dessert. Maybe there was something to be said about grown-up parties after all. Still, she mused later, skipping down the steps to go home, she really wouldn’t swap her life with anyone. Anyone. And that was a fact.

  ‘Good party?’ asked Mo, opening the door for Akshara.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said, slipping in, wishing she could throw her arms around him and kiss him fiercely on the mouth. She settled for drinking a glass of water instead, and sitting down next to him, on the couch, watching an episode of a TV show they both liked on his laptop. He was so close she could smell him—his lovely, freshly laundered smell—and if she tilted her head just a little bit, she could lean on his shoulder. And, the wine making her bolder, she did, and he didn’t react, just shifted so that she could be more comfortable. ‘Okay? I’m not too heavy?’ she asked, and he said, ‘Nah’ and Akshara was happy.

  ‘Hello? Oh, sorry, did I wake you up? Oh, no, I am sorry. I just, I just wanted to know if we were hanging out this weekend? I mean,’ cause I could make other plans? What? Yeah, I guess this could’ve waited. I just needed to know. Like soon. Oh, you’re busy? With what? Sorry, sorry. Don’t be mad. Go to sleep. I’ll see you soon. Yeah? Okay. Goodnight, Ankur.’

  Meanwhile, Amisha was cleaning up. The party had wrapped up almost immediately after dinner, no one lingering for coffee or more drinks, and while t
his was a little annoying, she was nevertheless still pleased with how it had turned out. Everyone had chatted, the food was almost over, which was always a good sign, she herself had had a wonderful evening, and that was all that mattered in the end. Her knees felt a little wobbly after all the drinks she had had, and she glanced around once at the messy room ruefully. Derek wouldn’t approve of her leaving everything here and going to bed, ‘the best way to get cockroaches,’ he always said. He also washed the dishes at night, while she left them to soak for the maid to deal with in the morning. But Derek isn’t here, she thought giddily. Derek was in Bangkok and this was her bachelorette party and so she was going to go to bed, leaving the house in a shambles. This thought made her feel oddly liberated and sneakily guilty, like when she used to come home after curfew and her parents hadn’t woken up, and she snuck in and got into bed without them being any the wiser. It was the same getting-away-with-things feeling. She crawled into bed, waking up the cats that hid from parties under the covers and stretched, luxuriously, diagonally. This was the best part of her bachelorette party, the chance to be single again, she decided, right before she went to bed.

  1

  You are Young and the World is Your Oyster

  It is the end of the night, the end of the party and you are tired. There wasn’t much place to sit anyway, and by the time you got in, around eleven, ‘fashionably late’ (a phrase that always makes you think of late as a garment—deep purple with gold embellishments), there were no seats left, and you’ve spent the entire evening on your feet. Every now and then, like a flamingo, you raise one leg and twirl it around the other, but this is not helping any more, and your calves are calling out to be taken home and put to bed. You were lucky enough, however, to score a spot quite close to the old AC, which some conscientious friend of the host keeps turning off ‘because of the smoke’, but which, surreptitiously, you have been turning on again, with the heel of your shoe against the switch. At most Bombay house parties, you are required to take off your footwear at the beginning of the evening, but since you got there late, and there were already at least two sticky spillages on the floor, you had kept yours on.

  The same AC Nazi has made loud remarks to someone in your earshot about how rude it is of some people not to respect the wishes of the person whose house it is and take off their shoes by the door. But you have pretended not to hear her, and the host is lovely, and he doesn’t care, and you know the only reason she does is because she wants to sleep with him anyway. You don’t particularly feel like being drawn into the play she’s trying to make you a part of, showcasing her talents front and centre, and casting you in a cameo as the inconsiderate Bandra socialite who tried to ruin everything by her negligent attitude to shoes and was given her comeuppance.

  You are also having a hard time conveying the fact that you want to leave to the young man who has had you cornered for the last forty minutes. He’s talking about something quite earnestly, you tune in and out, you’re pretty sure he’s either talking about his dead dog or his ex-girlfriend. Either way, the point of the story is that he’s emotionally traumatized, and he wants your sympathy. You have a stock sympathy face that you pull out now, head slightly tilted, mouth in a straight line, ready to turn up or down as the occasion requires.

  This is not helped by the fact that you’re in a state of gentle paranoia, you’re convinced the red wine you’ve been chugging all night has stained your teeth and your lips. Your teeth are an easy fix—you run your tongue over them, repeatedly, tasting the stale smoke and the cheap wine, but your lips, which you rub every ten seconds need to be examined in the mirror, and yet, to cut off the young man mid-flow seems somehow cruel, so you keep nodding, keep listening and, after a while, get annoyed with him for commandeering your attention for forty minutes, for fuck’s sake, does he think I have no one else to talk to? You let your attention obviously drift. There are reasons you are still at this party, for one, it is a particularly lame Saturday night, usually Bombay is a pincushion of options, just pick five at random and you’re set, but tonight, this is all there is. The host is an old acquaintance, you haven’t spent much time with him in a one-on-one situation, but you’ve both liked what you’ve seen of each other at other, similar dos, and you’re both hoping that this might grow into an actual friendship, where you meet for real and on purpose, and bond, and he’ll be your friend, and you’ll be his. And finally, some of the best things that have happened to you in this city have been after two in the morning, the bizarre things, the surreal things, the magical things, and since you’re not sleepy tired, just I’ve-been-on-my-feet-for-too-long tired, you’re okay hanging about as the floor clears and the collection of empties on the floor reveals itself.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’ asks the young man, and you see the flash of hope in his eyes. Of course, in your own head, you’ve already made him into the subject of an email to your friend in London tomorrow; it’ll say: Random Dudes I Have Recently Met, and you’ll type in, ‘So this guy tries to pick me up with a story about his dead dog or ex-girlfriend and I had a hard time distinguishing which. What is with the guys in this city?’ This will make her laugh, she has been to some of these parties with you, so you don’t have to give context, but you like the thought of her in her coat and tights, imagining you in your summer dress and strappy shoes, and you like that you can make her laugh long distance. Your friendship was originally built on the two of you going to these parties together and laughing with your eyes at the people you met. Cruel, but it offered hours of amusement to the two of you, and what were a few twinkling eyes or hurt feelings when sacrificed on the altar of friendship? You do want to sit down, you think and so you smile at the man, whose name you have long forgotten.

  It’s too late to ask him to remind you, because he has not only not forgotten yours, he’s doing that old How To Win Friends And Influence People trick of mentioning it in every second sentence. As you sit down on a slightly damp floor cushion, the young man tries to sneak in next to you, but you bend your knees so the space is all yours. You have to stop yourself from letting out a sigh of relief; so happy are your legs that they don’t have to work any more. It is the ‘So what do you do?’ section of this conversation, you’re willing to bet on it, and because your job is slightly interesting, you are forced to go into detail each time someone asks. Some days you wish you had a boring job, not because of what you do—you love what you do—but just so that you could have the kind of answer for these questions that makes people go all glassy-eyed and nodding-expression, after offering up a platitude like, ‘Oh, that’s so nice’.

  With your current job, however, people want to know everything. Every little detail, from how you started to how long you’ve been in it, to have they seen you before? (Answers: you stumbled upon it as a post-college time-filler internship and stayed, about six years now, most likely.)

  Then they bore into you and through you, they want to be you, for the five-minute conversation you have, and you have to play the part, look chirpy, toss your hair about, too bad you had it all chopped off just six weeks ago. Your boss was mad that you got the haircut, but then people began responding in a positive manner, and he got over it. You’re the best he has. You’re the best anyone has. You’re magic, and you’re young, and the world is your oyster, making you one helluva lucky pearl. At least, that’s what you believe, and you’ve never been one for too much false modesty. ‘What’s the point?’ you say, completely seriously to friends, when they mock you for your arrogance, ‘I know what I am’. This boy isn’t asking for humility—my God, what is his name?—he’s lapping it up, buying every glitter-laden blink you toss in his direction, your make-up tonight is meant to say ‘whimsical’, even though you think it says ‘over the top’.

  Whimsy isn’t something you do very well, whimsy is for the ugly girls, or, okay, you’ll be kind, the average-looking ones. You’re not average-looking, you didn’t even have a gawky teenage phase. In fact, you were the teenage girl people think
about when they say, ‘Ah, teenage girls!’ and look off into the middle distance. You were long-limbed and clear-skinned. Your smile was mocking, turning up at one corner. Your eyes were bright with intelligence and opportunity. And even though you hadn’t fully grown into your body yet, there was a coltish appeal that meant you usually got what you wanted. Now, you have a little more weight on you, which you could shed if you wanted to, but you kind of like the way it looks, rounding your stomach and weighing your breasts. It certainly hasn’t gotten any complaints.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ asks the boy. He’s leaned forward now, one hand resting on his knee, which is close to your knee. You’re on to him. You’ll begin talking and magically, like he hasn’t even noticed, the hand will shift from his leg to yours, almost by accident. You’ll shift, you usually shift in these situations, and he’ll do one of two things: persist in the your-knee-is-my-knee delusion, or say, ‘Oh, sorry’ and make an even bigger deal about it than it should be. He seems to be the oh-sorry type. Just to be safe, you change the way you’re sitting, from knees stretched out, to cross-legged, which is a slightly hard manoeuvre because of your heels, but you manage. You smile at him now, all prepared. ‘I’m a weather girl,’ you say, and wait.

  2

  Fool Me Once

  Akshara snuck into the kitchen and looked around her furtively. Reassured that there was no one within eyeshot, she lifted herself up on her toes to retrieve the half-bottle of vodka she had stashed behind the rice jar in the top cabinet. It was an in-case-of-emergency stash, and that night was definitely turning into an emergency. Dropping back on the balls of her feet, she stepped on something sticky that made her cringe, but she just reached for a wad of dirty tissues, wiped off her feet, trying not to think about it, and stood there, resting against the kitchen counter, clutching the vodka to her chest. This was not the way the night was supposed to turn out. For this, she had bought a new dress, a perfect new dress that spelt sexy! And casual! And all in the same frothy breath. She glanced down at her dress. From the angle she was standing at, she could see both down it and the stain that seemed to have appeared around the waist. Perfect.