‘We don’t need a study and a guest bedroom,’ said Amisha. ‘We’re not going to have that many house guests, surely?’
‘Meesh,’ he looked at her, indulgently but firmly, ‘we can’t put a desk and a bed in there.’
‘Who needs a bed?’ She was beginning to see them so clearly in that house. A house made for newly married couples. ‘We’ll have a spare mattress and we’ll put them on it when they come. A spare mattress can fit under our bed.’
The kitchen was lovely as well, she remembered. There was an island counter in the middle, taking up more valuable space, but fitted with long stools, so you could have an informal meal right there. It opened into the hall, so it enjoyed the benefit of that split AC. The shelves were haphazard and random, painted bright primary colours and all open, so you could arrange your jars against the blue and the red aesthetically. A picture: Derek reaching up to the green shelf for the rice and she, stirring something over the stove, she wasn’t sure what, but it smelt delicious. He kissed her forehead and set the counter with bright red plates and floral patterned napkins folded around their silverware. Laughing, they ate, and she said something brilliant and witty and he looked, just for a second, like he was as lucky to have her as she was to have him.
‘The only good investments ever,’ her father had told her once, when she had been in college, bored to be at the dining table with him when he was clearly about to launch into one of his ‘future’ talks, ‘are gold and real estate. Stocks, never. That’s like gambling. And this new-found craze for buying art is just ridiculous. If the markets ever crash, no one will want to buy a pretty picture, but they will want your house or your jewellery.’ Her father always talked like that, like the world was going to end, or they were going to fall into ruin, and it would be up to her (she imagined herself in this scenario dressed in a sari, for some reason, even though she never wore saris, and with her hair in careful disarray) to save the family. Her family. Inside the house, which her father spoke about as an investment, and which she pictured as a grey, once-beautiful bungalow, would be her three children. Her husband would have been killed by whatever disaster was causing people in the horizon to walk with all their belongings on their back. Something like a mix of the Partition and the Apocalypse. And pretty and spunky Amisha would be pleading with the man with the banknotes to buy her house and her gold so that she and her children could escape too.
Even then, even in her fantasies, she had assumed the role of a single woman. After all that, Amisha had never bought a house, though her parents owned theirs—a nice flat in a nice neighbourhood in Delhi, and her father still had conversations with her across the same dining table about investing her money.
‘Rent!’ he was wont to say, waving a fruit spoon. ‘Rent is like throwing away money! Do you have enough money to just throw it away?’ But in Bombay, unless you were very very rich, you couldn’t own a nice flat in a nice neighbourhood, or at least, her idea of a nice neighbourhood. The far-off suburbs of Bombay were probably just as nice as the ones closer south, but to actually live there, you’d need to agree to not have a social life at all.
There were advantages to the way her parents ran their lives though. Her room for one was the same room she’d had at ten, at seventeen, at twenty-three. It hadn’t had a makeover since she was fifteen, however, so the walls still had the posters, dog-eared at the corners, and the bulletin board with photos of friends she hadn’t seen in years, still hung jauntily, with a couple of notes from friends. There was even her collection of stuffed animals in there somewhere, thankfully no longer on the bed as they used to be, but stuffed into a trunk and shoved under it instead. Her parents’ furniture was mostly the same too, nothing thrown out, only a few things added in. They had more things than they had house, as a matter of fact. The house was as familiar as her parents, as comfortable as the old jeans she left there, as satiating as the favourite childhood meal her mother would make in her honour when she visited, and they’d eat it around the table on which she’d once hit her head when she was three.
Her parents had bought the house shortly after they’d got married, but it hadn’t been ready till she was about two, so they didn’t have any newlywed memories in it. But if Derek and she owned a house, they’d be lovers all over it, and then new parents, and then, she imagined a teenage boy, sitting at the kitchen island, eating his cereal, but wait, there’d be no second bedroom in that house so how would they put in the space for the teenage boy? Their son? Quickly, her fantasy began to run through the practicalities of it all, till she got it. The upstairs neighbour would let them buy his flat and they would have this one as well, and so, they would have a duplex. Enough space for their son and their little girl, who appeared suddenly, shyly, into this dream, seeming about eleven, and curled up on the couch reading a book. They’d be tall like Derek, and good-looking like most interracial kids are, golden-skinned and the best of both cultures on their faces.
‘You’re not paying attention, are you?’ asked Derek. His eyebrow was raised at her, but he was smiling. This wasn’t the first time Amisha had gone into a daydream about their future right in front of him, but usually it was when they were both silent, with him reading or on the computer or something, and her pausing in what she was doing and gazing at him, the perfection of his eyebrows, the cleft in his chin. Sometimes he looked up, as if drawn by her scrutiny, but usually, he seemed oblivious to her spinning her dreams. This time, he just patted her arm, and said, ‘Focus. I know it’s boring, but we have to make a decision by the end of this week.’ He flipped over to the next set of photos of a large, ordinary three-bedroom house. There was nothing wrong with it, except it wasn’t her house.
‘I have made a decision,’ she said.
‘We discussed it, we know that house is impractical,’ said Derek—with a slight touch of annoyance.
She didn’t know where this well of stubbornness within her had been hiding all this while. She was usually pretty tractable, but now, she felt like if she didn’t get this, if she didn’t get this house, she would always regret it. ‘I want this house.’
‘Guests sleeping on a spare mattress is just tacky,’ said Derek, his eyebrows funnelling together.
‘Then we won’t have a study. We both have offices, why do we need a study? If you have to work from home, work at the dining table.’
‘Oh, that’ll be really comfortable,’ he shot back.
She was losing him, she had never opposed him before, she was losing him, and she couldn’t say why it was so important, but she had to win this argument. She had to win. ‘Look,’ she said, tiredly, already anticipating her loss, ‘it has a frog bidet. Isn’t that adorable?’
He was anticipating her loss as well, which is why he leaned across and stroked her face. ‘We can live without a frog bidet,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I can live with working at the dining table.’
He flicked through the photos on his tablet again, stopping at one to show her. ‘This one has nice built-in shelves by the bedside. Isn’t that nice? We can read in bed, you can put your creams in there, or something.’
She gave it a cursory look and nodded.
‘You’re tired,’ he got up, gestured for the bill and put the photos away. ‘Let’s sleep on it, and we’ll get the best possible house. Nothing that you won’t fall in love with, sooner or later. I promise. Like me.’ Here, he winked, kissed her on the cheek and went back to work.
When Derek and she had met, it had been not at one of those parties where she was eventually all alone by the end of the evening, but at a café. Her favourite place in the city to get a meal when she didn’t feel like she needed company. The waiters knew her, more often than not, and she got her usual table-for-one, in the al fresco section, under an umbrella, with enough view of the road to watch people coming and going, and enough privacy that she didn’t have to interact with anyone. She’d order some form of pasta, sandwiches on days she didn’t mind things getting a bit crumby, and then go off to peruse
its large selection of magazines and newspapers. These she’d take back to her table, no one else seemed to read them, and she’d do the crossword over an iced tea. It had been a full Saturday, and her table got free just in the nick of time, and she had just slipped into it, when the manager came up to her and asked if she minded sharing it. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am, it’s just that he says he’s come a long way and is new to the city.’ Sighing, she shrugged and allowed it, and ‘he’ was Derek, of course. She had put all her walls up around her, reading the paper blatantly in his face and not bothering to make conversation. He had left before her, but when she called for the bill, the manager said he had taken care of it. He had left her his business card. She remembered not being able to recall anything about him, how absurd that seemed now, when all of him was more familiar to her than anything else, even her own face. She had sent him an email with thanks for the meal and, because she was feeling daring, an offer to buy him drinks the next time. And now they were getting married.
Sometimes she wondered what her life would have been like if she had refused to share her table. She shivered at the thought. It would be bleak, that’s what it would be, she told herself, and yet, and yet, she found herself dialling the broker’s number and asking for a second look at the flat with the frog bidet and the balconies with awnings.
It was even more perfect than the pictures of it. Everywhere she looked now, she could picture so clearly—her life with Derek. That little recessed alcove for the silver-framed photographs of the two of them and that section for the TV and the couch in front of it. No built-in reading tables in her bedroom? No problem, the low window ledge would do perfectly for that. The broker had to go take a phone call and he left her alone for five minutes when he went outside. She wandered through it again, no, no mistake, this was the flat. She went to the kitchen, swinging herself up on to the stool and gazing around with her chin on her fist. They would entertain here, and maybe they wouldn’t have a teenage boy and a pre-teen girl, but they’d have an infant, and infants could fit anywhere, they were small. Her cats would like the balcony and the window seats. Her parents wouldn’t mind how small the guest bedroom was when they visited, nor would his friends. And in the evenings, she’d string up fairy lights and every night would be like a party for two.
‘Okay,’ she told the broker, when he came back in, ‘draw up the papers, we’ll take it.’
‘But, sir said this wouldn’t suit,’ said the broker.
‘If it suits me, it’ll suit him,’ said Amisha. If she wished hard enough, it would come true.
5
Instant Karma
You are sweaty when I spot you again, waiting for a rickshaw at a busy turning. I am already smugly ensconced in mine, a prized free rickshaw that I stole from someone else on the road by just walking a few steps ahead of them, waving my arm and jumping in. I leave them no choice. I am like the Robin Hood of public transport. I take from the people who look like they should be walking and I give to people who look tired or just like they could use a ride. The aunty I left behind me was fat, in pink tracksuit bottoms and had just come from the gym. Let her walk, I thought, she’ll thank me later. You look weary and wary; every now and then, when you spot a rickshaw, you snap to attention, waving your arm frantically to flag it down, but they’ve all been full. You’re wearing harem pants and a tube top, your bra strap cuts into your lean brown shoulder, and there is perspiration in the fold of your neck, the crooks of your elbows and dappled across your nose. You begin to flag mine down too, stopping, arm mid-wave, when you see it’s occupied. ‘Stop,’ I tell the rickshaw driver, and he does, and I lean out to you. ‘Do you want a ride?’
You’re weighing the pros and cons of this, I can see, but I am another woman, and you want to set down your bag, which is cloth and not made for the fat book and laptop you’ve shoved into it. You want to sit down, to go home, to get out of the traffic, somewhere more soothing. You cannot imagine that I’m imagining your bedroom, and the vanilla-scented candle you’re sure to have there. You cannot imagine that I’m looking at your poor dusty feet, some of the scarlet nail polish chipped, and imagining myself cupping them, cleaning them, and placing the sole to my lips. You smile at me instead, you’ve decided to take me up on the offer, and oh joy, you’re climbing in, just for a moment, bending over, and I can see more sweat, running down the front of your chest.
‘Thank you,’ you say, ‘I just have to go around the corner, but this bag is so heavy I can’t walk very far with it.’
‘No problem,’ I reply, cooler than I feel, my heart is thumpthumpthumping. I am as sweaty as you are, and it’s not just the humidity. Your arm brushes mine as you lean over to direct the rickshaw driver, and I can’t talk, I can’t form sentences any more, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. And sooner than I’d like, we’re outside your apartment, it’s not what I would imagine. It needs a coat of paint and looks far too shabby to house someone as sparkling as you, but you’re getting out and waving some money at me.
‘Oh, no,’ I say, ‘it’s not necessary, really.’
‘You’re sure?’ You cock your head and smile at me, already so happy to be home, and I know it sounds stupid, but I’m filled with contentment for having brought you that joy.
‘I’m sure.’
You squeeze my arm, say, ‘Thank you!’ and skip away through the open iron bars that separate you from me. Glumly, I go home myself. You weren’t on my way, and my little detour cost me another fifteen minutes in traffic, but I wanted to stay in that rickshaw for longer, feeling where you had sat, your eyes catching mine for a fraction of a second. I wish I were bold, but boldness was never in me.
That night, I turn on the TV, and there you are, heavily made up, indicating the clouds that are about to pass over our city. I mute the TV, no offence or anything, but if I wanted to talk about the weather, I could think of a billion people who’d be happy to talk about it with me, and I watch your mouth move. The same mouth that you thanked me with. The same body, under that button-down shirt that sat next to me today. I watch you and, well, okay, I might as well spit it out, I imagined you naked, in a large white bed, with me, your mouth no longer smiling, your eyes black and longing. This makes me sound creepy, and I’m not creepy, I swear, but oh, I want you, I want you, I want you. And then I think to myself about how many people must be watching you right now, thinking the same thing; even the cameraman, probably, as he shoots you, is thinking about the sudden slope of your nose, the tilt of your chin. And this makes me depressed and despairing; for how could I compete with this army of people all of whom desire you as much as I do? Not more, no one could desire you more than I do.
I wonder where you were going this evening, where you were coming from—a friend’s house? A shopping trip? Did you buy tampons? I want to know about your day, as you lie next to me at night, I want to know the mundane. I want to know when you go to the dentist, and what you think about the rising price of onions, and the colour of your toothbrush, and whether you eat an apple top to down or in the middle. A friend of a friend of a friend was friends with the wife of a famous movie star, who had began quite ordinary—the wife that is—but for her single-minded focus on the movie star. She wanted to marry him, she told her friends who were ordinary people like you and I, and then, after about six years, she did. If I think about you hard enough, maybe my star will shine for us too, maybe the universe will conspire to get us together, and it is with this comforting thought that I finally fall asleep.
The next time someone brings you up, it’s at an ‘office dinner’, which basically means that a number of people from my office were working late and decided to go out to dinner. We picked a shady Chinese joint which has been popular for years, maybe you know it, or have passed it and noticed it out of the corner of your eye. Someone says that they’re going out later that week to one of those big nightclubs in a big hotel.
‘Who else is going?’ asks my colleague and deskmate Vivek, who has grown a goatee which i
s meant to be trendy but is really just depressing.
I work in cinema, Bollywood, and we all try to be cooler than we are, except me, whom no one notices. I read things, I listen, I go to meetings sometimes and sit at the back. I’m not meant to be noticed.
‘Oh, a bunch of people,’ says the one who is going out. ‘Maybe Shayna and some others.’
My stomach rolls over at your name, and I want to ask if it’s really you, if it’s the same person, but I don’t know how to ask without it sounding weird, so instead I help myself to more chilli sauce, even though I’ve completely lost my appetite.
It’s Vivek who asks, though, bless his heart and his wispy beard, ‘Shayna, that weather girl chick?’
‘Ya,’ my other colleague looks up. ‘You know her?’
‘No, but she’s hot, man,’ Vivek does a manly ha-ha, which is in contrast to the rest of his skinny little self. ‘I’ll come.’
‘Okay,’ the going-out person has lost interest, while I find myself swallowing my hakka noodles as fast as I can and squeaking, ‘I’ll come too.’
‘Really?’ Vivek looks at me and almost, not quite, wrinkles his nose.
‘It’s a club.’
‘I know it’s a club. I’ve been to clubs,’ I say, wanting to smack him.
‘With music?’
‘No, the clubs I went to were completely silent and we were all ordered to stay in a meditative state.’ This is what you do to me, my shining star, you make the words that would otherwise linger like a bad aftertaste at the back of my mouth come spilling out and lay themselves like gems across the table. Everyone laughs.
‘Friday, 9 p.m., okay? We’ll pre-drink somewhere and go.’
I nod. I confess now, to you, that I had no idea what a ‘pre-drink’ was. I imagined it like little caps of mouthwash-coloured liquid that we passed around to get ready for a night out. I also confess that I had never been to a club before. Vivek’s instincts, if not his intentions, were right. It didn’t seem like my sort of thing. But anywhere with you would be my sort of thing.
Cold Feet Page 5