Cold Feet

by Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

  The jewellery box arrives and Aunty B opens it, and we’re all meant to lean forward, mouths slightly open. Fazia does, and what the hell, I do too. I love the moment right before you open a box. It could be anything. At birthdays, when I was little, I spent the longest time just holding the present, shaking it occasionally, till my parents got impatient and said, ‘Just open it!’ But nothing compares to what it could have been, not even what it actually is. I suspect that’s probably my life’s biggest problem.

  Aunty B gloats over her jewels for a second and then turns to me. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘wear these tonight.’

  The earrings are absolutely gorgeous. I don’t know whether you’ll notice them, but they’re chandelier and shiny and they make me look sparkling and interesting. ‘I couldn’t,’ I say, weakly, feeling horribly guilty about all the mean things I had just been thinking about her, but she smiles and holds them up to my face and I slip them on. She turns my face from side to side and sighs and says, ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and mean it.

  ‘You have that look,’ says Aunty B, leaning back, pouring herself more Scotch. ‘You’re in love, no? Well, these will bring you good luck.’

  I can only hope she’s right. I put on my earrings and step into the Bombay night, towards you.

  9

  How Not to Be Needy

  ‘Miss? Miss?’

  Akshara snapped to attention. She had, in order to daydream, given her class a ‘surprise test’, which made them all moan and complain, but it meant she could flip through her lesson plan book purposefully and look like she was working, when really, all she was doing was thinking about Mo. Luckily for her, the school encouraged them to give surprise tests often, to see how well the students were absorbing that week’s information. It was something the teachers had taken to with alacrity, so much easier for them to have a ‘free period’ and to keep the students absorbed in something.

  It was lazy, but Akshara had defended it to herself by thinking, well, at least I’ll know if they were paying attention last week. She had also placed the basic rules of analysing a text on the board, so the students would have something to refer to while doing her test. The student hovering above her, though, looked amused and weary at the same time—a common expression for a certain kind of teenager. Which Noel Patrick Fernandez hovering above her was. He was in the music club, she knew because, every three months, the music club held a concert, in which Noel was often featured, strumming his guitar and singing some kind of soulful song with his voice going up and down in imitation of or homage to the young men with pretty voices whom he favoured. And all the girls would look at him with that universal adolescent expression of lust, eyes up and then down, and then smiling deeply and meaningfully into their book bags.

  Akshara thought he reminded her of Ankit Sood, the Noel Patrick of her school, a basketball player instead of a musician, but who had had all the same qualities, including reducing fifteen-year-old Akshara and her friends to liquid each time he passed them in the corridor. This had made her slightly resentful of him and—completely unreasonably—slightly resentful of Noel Patrick as well. It wasn’t just her though—most of her colleagues had the same feeling about him. Just the other day, Rita Shah, leaning against the staff room window watching him play to a group of acolytes outside, had said, ‘I just want to slap the smirk off that boy’s face!’ It was a very un-adult feeling, but Akshara knew it came from the fact that no matter how old she grew, she would never be as cool as Noel Patrick was, right then.

  ‘What is it, Noel?’ she asked, trying to infuse some kindliness into her voice.

  ‘I’m done with my test, Miss.’

  He did get done annoyingly early and, in the past, Akshara had let him sit there, while the rest of the class wrapped up, but an unemployed Noel Patrick was a distraction, and pretty soon there would be discreet giggles coming from his corner, the girls abandoning their tests to crawl closer and closer to him. But today the passage had been challenging enough to engage even the smart kids till the end of the class, she thought, but Noel Patrick was God, the God of class ten, and Gods were unfazed by challenges.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, trying to buy time, ‘would you like to revise it?’

  ‘I did, Miss,’ he said, smiling lazily. She empathized so much with Rita Shah just then, oh, to be able to smack him for being smug! She thought of last night, and saw Mo placing a restraining, calming hand on her shoulder, and she managed to smile back instead. ‘Go to the library, then,’ she said, ‘just to the library, and spend the rest of the period there.’

  Noel Patrick’s eyes flicked across the class and as if on cue, Kiran Sharma got up, and came to the front with her test.

  ‘I’m done too, Miss,’ she said, biting the corner of her lip, nervously.

  Well, well. Noel Patrick and Kiran were not a pairing Akshara would have made. Kiran was soft and shy, not one of the skinny, hard-bodied, hard-eyed girls who ruled the school, but someone who was consistently average in her class, and prone to stammering before a presentation. But she had just joined the music club, Akshara remembered, and stood in the back row of the choir, and it was likely that she had caught Noel Patrick’s eye then. Akshara liked Kiran, felt protective of her, almost, and she wanted to tell the girl not to put all her eggs in the Noel Patrick basket. But if Ankit Sood had reached out to her—even though he had broken as many hearts as the ones drawn around his name in the girls’ room—she would have gone. She didn’t blame Kiran. After all, wasn’t she doing exactly the same thing with Mo?

  ‘Are you sure you’re done, Kiran?’ she asked anyway, just to be sure. Kiran hesitated for a moment and then nodded at the floor. Noel Patrick had already left, she could hear his whistle down the quiet corridor, someone would come out and catch him and then she would be blamed. I give up, she thought and then said, ‘Okay, Kiran, you may go.’ Kiran scuttered off before she could change her mind, and Akshara surveyed her class for a second, feeling a warm rush of affection for them, for the whole wide world.

  For Mo had not begun a sentence with the word ‘look’, which was a great thing, because as everyone knows, a sentence that begins with ‘Look …’ is never a good sentence. Or, ‘Here’s the thing’. That hadn’t been used either. Instead, after she had gone home and seen her roommate off, she had packed a small overnight bag and gone back to Mo’s, and they had ordered Chinese, and his friend had come over and they had all watched a movie, then his friend had left, and Mo and Akshara had walked him to the door, just like a proper couple, and said good night. She had to leave for work earlier than him this morning, and had showered while he was still in bed, but when she got out of the shower, he was awake, waiting with two cups of coffee and toast. He liked toast. She found that endearing. Neither of them had mentioned her outburst, the declaration of ‘like’ that had come spilling from her, but after it had been said, there was a certain level of comfort. I like you, and you like me, and that’s the way the world should be. It was like they had turned their friendship inside out and the most tender bits of her were now scattered on the floor, but she wasn’t afraid. For the first time in her life, she felt like she knew. Even if this was Mo, even if there were still some nagging questions, she pushed all those to the back of her mind and concentrated on just knowing.

  Like a yoga inhalation, she breathed in on ‘I know’, even if she didn’t, the words circulated around her brain until she felt like she actually did. Zen. That was all there was to it.

  The bell rang and dreamily, she rapped on her desk, ‘That’s it now, guys, you’ve had enough time.’ Her students weren’t that much younger than her, and they liked her, she knew from the way they clustered around her when she was supervising an after-school activity, for example. Sometimes they let her in on the gossip they were sharing, which she only condoned as long as it wasn’t outright mean or distasteful. Inserting phrases like ‘you guys’ or ‘take five, people’ was something she did on purpose, a little pathetic, she th
ought, trying to speak like the young people in order to fit in, but she figured they’d prefer that to Tanisha Jha’s quavery, ‘Children, children!’

  Two of her favourite students dropped their tests off, giggling to each other. ‘What’s up, Miss?’ asked Tanya, the bolder of the two.

  ‘Nothing at all, Tanya. Did you have a good weekend?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tanya, giggling some more, and Nikita, her friend standing next to her, gave her an almighty nudge, which nearly sent her flying.

  ‘Gently, Nikita,’ said Akshara. ‘Whatever it is won’t be helped by you bruising Tanya.’

  ‘As if I could bruise her, Miss,’ said Nikita, scornfully. ‘She’s got skin like an elephant!’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Tanya, but she was still in a good humour. ‘Miiiiiiiss?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Akshara, taking the last test paper and putting it on her pile. ‘Spit it out. What is it? Did you miss a question? I’ve warned you about time management.’

  ‘It’s not the questions, Miss. It’s … did you send Noel Patrick to the library?’

  Akshara smiled to herself, shuffling her papers around and preparing to stand up. ‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘And then did Kiran go also?’ asked Nikita.

  ‘I believe she did,’ said Akshara, now picking up her bag and putting her things away.

  The two girls grabbed each other and gasped in unison. This is going to be the lunch-break gossip, thought Akshara, wryly. ‘Is that all? I thought all this sudden interest might have to do with the actual subject I teach, but I guess I’ll go away heartbroken.’

  ‘Oh no, Miss,’ Tanya smiled wickedly, ‘we all just love English and you teach it so well.’

  ‘It’s my favourite subject, Miss,’ added Nikita.

  Akshara laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘Thanks, you two. Now, you should get going before you’re late, and I’m late.’

  They swished off, all bold and confident teenage girls in a manner she envied, and she wondered if she had time between classes to switch her cell phone on and check for messages. Mo would be busy all day, she knew, but still. Maybe he had sent her a text?

  ‘How Not To Be Needy.’

  Don’t let him think you’re always sitting around waiting for him! You had a life before you met him, there’s no need to put it on hold just so you can wait for his call. Go out, meet some friends, go shopping, even if your mind is only on him, it doesn’t mean your body has to be!

  ‘What do you think, Miss?’ asked Nivedita, the girl who ran the school website. It had been Nivedita’s idea, a year ago, to replace their old-fashioned paper magazine full of amateur ‘creative writing’ and photographs of events that had happened months ago with a website that was updated every three days. Students could log in and blog as well, but since it was a school product, Nivedita had to spend hours moderating the content. She also had to make sure everything was approved by the student adviser, which, since she taught English and occasionally worked with the creative writing club, was Akshara.

  ‘It’s good, but maybe change that last sentence a little? It’s a bit suggestive.’

  Nivedita squinted at the screen. ‘You think? Maybe you’re right.’ She deleted ‘your body has to be’ and replaced it with ‘he has to know.’ The prescience of the article struck Akshara then, and she asked, ‘Why are you putting this up?’

  Nivedita rolled her eyes. ‘What can I tell you, Miss? There are some students who have been asking for advice and want a dating section added to the website. Like I don’t already have so much to do!’ Nivedita was solemn and serious; she was the kind of girl Akshara could see heading her own company in her mid-twenties. But sometimes she was too solemn and serious, like she had forgotten how to be a teenager.

  ‘I’ve told you before to get some help with the writing,’ she suggested now, gently. Nivedita might complain about the amount of work she had to do, but about the website she was as protective as a mother with a single cub.

  Proving that point, Nivedita tossed her head. ‘No one else would do it properly and it would take ages to explain it all to them. I’m okay doing it on my own.’

  ‘It’s your last year in school,’ said Akshara. ‘Maybe it would be a good idea to start training someone to take over from you? It would be a shame if the website went offline after you left.’

  She also wondered whether the students would be okay taking dating advice from Nivedita who, as far as Akshara could remember, hadn’t had a single ‘boyfriend’ or even male friend. She was single-minded, not un-pretty, but her seriousness made her look older than she was. Never a charming trait.

  ‘I know,’ Nivedita conceded, sulkily. ‘I suppose I could get one of the juniors to come in and help.’

  ‘I know they’ll be happy to do it,’ said Akshara, encouragingly. ‘It’s extra credit after all, and it means working with the computer!’

  ‘I think the computer might be a bigger draw than the website,’ said Nivedita, half-smiling. The school, unlike other fashionable schools, didn’t have a Wi-Fi zone and also, didn’t encourage students to bring in their laptops. There was an ancient computer lab, with one fast machine, the one Nivedita was currently occupying.

  Some students filtered in and out, tossing her envious glances, but she ignored them. ‘Can I use the computer?’ asked one girl, and Nivedita said, ‘No!’ and Akshara thought the girl would go away, but she just stood there and said, boldly, ‘You’re not doing anything.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Nivedita, ‘I’m working on the school website actually. So, go away.’

  ‘There’s another school website now, actually, which a lot more people read,’ said the girl.

  Akshara tended not to get involved in student quarrels, but this made her raise her head. If there were another website, this was the first she was hearing of it. ‘What website?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘That’s what I came here to check, Miss,’ she said. ‘I heard about it in my third period.’ She showed them the palm of her hand upon which she had written down a URL with a ballpoint pen. ‘Can I?’ she said, with exaggerated politeness to Nivedita.

  ‘Miss?’ said Nivedita, looking annoyed and helpless.

  ‘Just for a minute, Nivedita,’ said Akshara, soothingly. ‘Let’s see what this new website is.’

  It certainly wasn’t school-sanctioned, that much was clear when the orange-and-black background loaded. With tiny background music and flashing fonts, Akshara could barely make out what she was reading, but the two girls were engrossed. She saw as far as ‘Whoz da biggest S-L-U-T of 9C? We’ll give you a hint, she comez to schul in a blue Wagon R!’ before she realized that this was something she could get into trouble for allowing two students to read.

  ‘Who made this?’ she asked the girl, who was reading open-mouthed. The girl didn’t answer immediately, and Akshara grabbed her arm above the elbow and gave her a little shake. ‘Who made this?’ she asked again.

  ‘I don’t know, Miss!’ squeaked the girl and Akshara, remembering herself, dropped her arm.

  ‘Close it immediately,’ she told Nivedita, ‘I’m going to tell the Principal.’ She felt distinctly uncool making this statement, but she didn’t know what else to do.

  Later that night, sitting across from Mo in his living room, she told him about it, and of course, he had to go online and find the site for himself.

  ‘This stuff is gold! Did you know Rinky Jain is dating three different guys at the same time and no one knows it?’

  ‘Mo, stop it! We’re not meant to read it.’

  ‘Why not? It’ll give you an insight into your students’ lives. Look, Rakesh Malhotra was caught cheating.’

  ‘That’s private information! This could seriously harm someone.’

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ he looked up at her and grinned. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  She found out the next day, when she was yanked into the Principal’s office and told that Kiran had tried to kill herself beca
use of something on the website.

  ‘Is she okay?’ asked Akshara, badly shaken.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said the Principal, wearily. ‘But we have to close it down. And find the students responsible. Kiran’s parents are adamant on that.’

  Akshara nodded and then asked, puzzled, ‘But why are you telling me?’

  ‘Because,’ said the Principal, spreading her large pale hands, ‘I think it’s one of your students, Noel Patrick.’

  10

  Our People

  When Amisha was about thirteen years old, a gangly girl, with braces and out-of-control frizzy hair, she had been frog-marched to the wedding of a cousin–aunt (a cousin of her mother’s, who happened to belong to Amisha’s generation, making her more of a cousin than an aunt) in Agra. This was before Destination Weddings were a thing, and the fact that the bride and groom had chosen Agra instead of Delhi, where the groom was from, or Bangalore, where the bride was from, had drawn some admiration, and some brickbats. The brickbats from the older generation didn’t like coming so far and staying in the dormitory-style guest house that had been booked for them. Amisha’s mother, out of loyalty to her cousin, tried to keep the calm between the generations, and made Amisha run around fetching and carrying for the crones, so that they wouldn’t have a single reason to complain.