‘The kids are cute,’ I say, to make up. Everyone likes compliments about the children they’re in charge of, right?
‘They’re not mine, they’re my cousin’s.’ She says this so bored and blasé about the whole thing that I almost miss what she’s said. She didn’t just … but that would mean.
My jaw must be hanging open a little because she looks at me, gives a pissed off little laugh and says, ‘I guess gossip is gossip all over the world. Yeah, Mike was married to my cousin, Anita. Those are her kids. We had an affair. It’s not unheard of.’ Her voice climbs higher, not quite as blasé as she was, ‘It’s not illegal. Mike’s always had a thing for South Asian women.’ Pause. Looks me in the eye. ‘As I’m sure you’ve noticed.’ I find myself wondering what Meera would do in this situation. She’s been in worse, and always emerges with her flag flying and a thrilling story for the next cocktail party she’s at.
Think, Ladli.
I meet Nina, eye to eye and I say, calmly, ‘No, I hadn’t noticed. But that’s nice for you.’ Apart from straight out accusing me of flirting with her husband, there’s nothing she can do. Although she might be capable of it. This is a woman who stole her cousin’s husband. Obviously, she doesn’t play by the rules. But I’m now so into this story that I never want to get out. I want to know everything. I want to bury myself in the Loons, well, not literally, but in their life anyway, be the fly on their wall, observe this whole twisted family. But Michael looks so normal, I think, and mentally tsk and shake my head.
‘Don’t judge us,’ says Nina, standing up and whipping her tunic off. She’s wearing quite a nice white-and-gold bikini and she makes her way to the pool. ‘Or do. Who cares?’ She turns her back to me, leaps up high into the air, and then arcs and spins into the water so smoothly that there’s only a tiny splash and then there’s her foot, pushing away from me, with a tiny rose tattoo on the ankle. It is, beyond a doubt, the coolest thing I’ve seen anyone at a party do. I wonder if Anita ‘The Cousin’ knows how to do a swan dive. I wonder if she sits around on a deckchair while her husband is hosting a party, and is rude to guests. I wonder if she addresses everyone as ‘Darling!’ and I wonder where Anita is now, while Nina is living her life.
13
All the Old Practised Positions
The minute you spotted him, I knew that this evening was a waste of time. Just a minute ago, when you leaned back against the pillar, and exhaled with one practised move, I saw how stunning you were, how the yellow streetlight cast a soft glow over your features, making you look radiant and lovely. You’re wearing sparkles on your cheeks, and in the gap between your breasts, and you are shining and you pulse with vivid energy. I knew you didn’t remember who I was, but I couldn’t help hoping, and maybe I was looking at you too hard, looking you into me, because you looked embarrassed for a second and looked away. But I don’t know when I’m going to see you again, so I’m trying as hard as I can to keep you branded in my memory.
If maybe I could let you know how important this meeting is to me, to us, to our possible future together, maybe you wouldn’t be so quick to grind out the stub of your cigarette with the heel of your shoe and turn around, your eyes saying welcome to this strange old man who has come up to us. You think, a second too late, to appear not quite so eager, and that is when you cross your arms across your chest and let your eyes narrow into practised slits of indifference. But you’re not fooling me, and you’re not fooling this man. I’m not fooling him either, he takes me in with one glance and his eyes crinkle in amusement for a second, watching the byplay between you and me before he turns to you and kisses you on the cheek.
‘Ladies,’ he says, in a low, gravelly voice that’s meant to make us swoon but it only makes me cross.
‘Oh hello,’ you say, and without noticing it, maybe, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You want him? This middle-aged man, soft around the waistline, who is far too uncle-like for you? It makes me so angry and frustrated that my teeth are clenching, I don’t even say hello or nod in acknowledgement, but the two of you don’t seem to care.
The rest of the evening, Yusuf, for that is his name, plies you with the combination of attention and distance that seems to be so attractive to a certain kind of young woman. I thought you were better than that. I know I should drag my eyes away, but when he gets you practically entwined around him—imagine you ever being entwined!—I can’t help but watch the two of you, his arm already resting in that curve of your back that indicates ownership. Mine! Mine! Mine! And other people toss you glances and his arm tightens even while the rest of his body pulls away and you’re forced to move forwards.
I can’t watch, I shouldn’t watch, but I keep going. I’m not a drinker, but when more drinks arrive, I take them, and Yusuf insists on buying all of us a round of shots and you do yours with giddy glee, and I dispose off mine into a nearby flowerpot and he’s noticed this, he doesn’t miss much, your fellow, and pats me on the arm conciliatorily and says, ‘I’m not much for shots either.’ I don’t want his stupid comfort or his stupid drinks. This evening was meant to be about you and me and how can it be when your brain isn’t registering anything but the five inches that separate you from the Old Man?
Finally, this, the longest night in the world, is over, and the lights come on in the club, and someone offers to take me home. I refuse, because I’m still tracking you, but I can’t think of a good enough excuse. Your friend, Vidur, is making going home noises to you as well, but you’ve shrugged him off, and before I know it, it’s all four of us, I, you, Vidur and the Old Man waiting for the Old Man’s car on the main road. I don’t know where we’re going, or why I’m in this group, but I’m glad that I don’t have to leave you just yet, not without us getting at least one step closer in our degree of acquaintance. I need you, by the end of this evening, to take down my number and to give me yours, so that before long I become invaluable to your life and not a day goes by without you waking up in the morning to a text message from me.
‘Everyone okay with white wine?’ asks the Old Man. The plan is, apparently, that we’re going to his ‘lovely, seafacing’ flat at Bandstand to have some more drinks. No one seems to think it’s strange that I’m joining you. In fact, in the car, Vidur waits for me to crawl in before he gets in after me. This means I’m sitting next to you, and our knees touch, carelessly, and just like that, the evening is wonderful and glowing again. You have slumped back and your head rests against the window. I sneak a peek at you, and notice your eyes are open, watching the road outside.
‘You okay, Shay?’ asks Vidur and you break away to look at him irritably. This, I realize, is your practised look of Meaning and Ponder, you affect a dreamy expression and look away to the horizon, hoping people will wonder what mysterious thoughts skitter around behind your half-closed eyes. You are so young and so full of artifice that you wring my heart and I squeeze your knee with great daring, just to show my sympathy. You don’t seem to notice but it feels like the air between us is somewhat kinder.
I’ll give this to the Old Man, his flat really is quite nice. It’s quite large, two bedrooms, one turned into a study/guest room, and bookshelves everywhere. A dog of indeterminate origin gets up to greet us, giving us all a sniff in a friendly fashion before flopping down on a rug. You and Vidur are drawn to the focus window in the middle of the living room, which looks out to the sea. No way can Aunty B’s flat compare to this, so okay, Old Man, you win this round. He makes his way to an old-fashioned bar cabinet in the corner and pulls out wine glasses for all of us, and then opens a wine cooler and chooses something which definitely isn’t Indian or cheap. I’m beginning to loathe him while, at the same time, as one does in Bombay, I want to keep him in my life forever so I too can have access to all these nice things.
Vidur is bounding about like an excited puppy, peppering the Old Man with questions: ‘How much rent do you pay?’ ‘Do you live alone?’ ‘What’s your dog’s name?’ ‘Will you—ha ha ha—adopt me and let me live he
re forever?’ Yusuf answers all the questions in a kind and indulgent manner and you look on with the same kind and indulgent face and I know you’re thinking, ‘Look how much Vidur likes him’ and loving him for being nice to your friend. I could be nice to your friend. In fact, I begin to shower Vidur with compliments about his outfit and I giggle a lot and flip my hair, and Vidur and you exchange glances and he goes to examine the bookshelves and you lean forward and say, ‘By the way, he’s gay.’ I don’t know what the appropriate facial expression for this is, I mean, I’m not interested in Vidur, but you obviously think I am, and maybe I could turn this to my advantage.
‘Oh,’ I say, and make a rueful face. ‘The good ones always are.’ By which, see how clever I’m being? I’m gay! And I’m a good one!
You laugh and tilt back your head to show your gorgeous throat, and then look at me with more interest than you have all evening. ‘Tell me about it,’ you say.
The Old Man has an old-fashioned record player, of course he does, probably from his own youth and he puts on some bossa nova stuff and extends a hand to you. ‘Dance with me,’ he says. Your face has lit up with the romance of it all, and that’s another point for the Old Man, he can dance as well. I grumpily scratch a mosquito bite on my ankle and watch the two of you. I must admit you make a glorious couple, him spinning you around with authority, you with your eyes shining, legs flying, face turned up towards him. There’s only one light on and the two of you are under it and you look like the picture of a couple who are deeply connected. Vidur and I sit at the dining table and watch you, and when the last samba rhythm plays, you both stop out of breath and Vidur breaks into applause. I follow, a couple of beats later. You are flushed and pretty and sure of yourself, and I feel a stab of love twisting through my being.
‘I didn’t know you could dance!’ says Vidur, half-accusatorily, and you shrug and flop down on the sofa. ‘I took lessons once, ages ago.’ All of us, in this room, are a little bit in love with you at the moment, and I think you feel it, because you smile a secret cat smile and drink your drink without further comment.
By this time, it’s early dawn and the crows have begun their morning song, while a lick of light appears across the grubby sky. Regretfully, I get up, and make my farewells. Vidur gets up also and we both turn to you. You’re looking at the Old Man with a question in your eyes and he must have answered it, because you say, ‘I’m not really tired’ and Vidur shrugs and says, ‘Suit yourself, I’m heading’ and you walk us both to the door, and already you’ve left us, even before you shut it definitively in our faces and I am forlorn because I’ve lost you forever. I don’t say much on our rickshaw ride home, but Vidur asks for my number, saying we should hang out again soon, and even though I’ve given up on you ever loving me as I love you, I still want to be around you forever, and so we do it, exchange numbers, as was my goal this evening, and the degrees between us have already lessened by one.
Here’s what Aditi used to do when she was first in love with me:
Leave me little notes scattered around the house. Before we lived together, I’d find them pressed into my textbooks, into intricate origami shapes—a crane, a rose, a little frog. When we started living together, they’d be taped to the bread box, under my shampoo, amongst my underwear. They’d say things like, ‘Hello Gorgeous!’ and ‘Guess who loves you?’ and ‘I hope you have a special day, because you’re so special.’ Corny stuff, but it made me happy.
When I was sick, she’d get my mother’s special khichdi recipe, that always makes me feel about five years old and safe whenever I eat it, and then she’d make it for me and sit beside me in bed while I ate it. She’d check my forehead with one cool palm and I’d feel warm and loved and happy and I swear I got better that much faster.
Brush my hair. She loved brushing my hair. We’d be watching TV, and she’d make me sit at her feet leaning back against her knees and she’d brush out all the tangles with such a gentle touch that I couldn’t even tell she was doing it. Her own hair was short, but I left mine long just so that she’d brush it. Sometimes she’d hum under her breath while she was doing it, which meant she was happy too, and I’d reach out and grab her foot and sit there, feeling waves of happiness break all through me.
I’ve decided to stop thinking about you, this is the point in every one-sided relationship—whether it’s unrequited love or just quitting smoking—where you get really angry with yourself and say, ‘Well, I don’t need that.’ To make myself more self-sufficient and less obsessed, I start taking long walks, just up and down the streets of Bandra, carrying my camera along with me. It’s not a fancy camera, but it’s nice enough that I get most of the pictures that I want, which is mostly old houses. I love the old rambling Portuguese-style houses that still lurk in some corners of this suburb and I take many photos of each one. I’m replacing you with real estate, the shiny blue of the three-storeyed bungalow on Perry Road will be my substitute for the brown of your eyes. Sometimes, the owners of the houses come out and gaze at me suspiciously, which is when I shuffle guiltily to another angle, no doubt looking even shadier in the process, but so far, no one has asked me to move.
I stalk each house like I would a person, returning every week on my rounds to see if anything is different about it, and at night, I upload all my photos to my computer, separating them by folders named after the addresses. I notice that the green one with the worn-out trellis detail looks better in the late afternoon, while one that is nothing but an overgrown rambling garden, with a little bit of a house in a corner is definitely a night-time person, the way the streetlight catches on one window is particularly eerie and wonderful. I make friends with one bhelpuri guy who is at the junction of two houses, and every evening, a plate of bhelpuri is my reward for the walk and for keeping my mind occupied. Sometimes, I think about you, okay, I think about you a lot, how amazed you would be at my knowledge of these houses, how maybe you’d want to come with me and peer up at them and speculate about their history. And then I’d buy you a bhelpuri and kiss you afterwards, even if you had onion breath.
Aunty B might have noticed my sudden desire to be out of the house more; in the past all I did was come straight home from work and lie in bed gazing at the ceiling until I was called to dinner. Then, I’d eat and go back to lying in bed gazing at the ceiling. But she and Fazia say nothing about it, even though I notice they begin to treat me with great kindness. On my birthday, which is unremarkable in any way, I am summoned to the drawing room and there they are, the two old ladies, in front of a chocolate cake with two candles on it, shaped like a two and a nine. ‘Happy birthday!’ they chorus, and I want to cry a little bit. My parents have already called, but they are weird and distant ever since the Big L announcement, and they just wish me happy birthday, tell me they’ve put some money in my bank account as a present and hang up as fast as they can. My brother has, as usual, forgotten, but I’ll get a video call from him sometime this week, I suppose.
No one at work knows, so really, the only people in my life who have marked this as an occasion are these two, and I feel gratitude and shame for having bitched about them in my head. I cut the cake carefully, and Fazia hands out slices, and Aunty B asks what my plans are for the evening and I tell her I have no plans and she looks astonished. So we have our own impromptu party, Fazia makes the kebabs she had been planning for tomorrow’s menu, and Aunty B offers me a glass of Scotch which I decline and we all sit around and watch TV till about ten, when she yawns and says she’ll turn in. I decide not to go straight to bed but go for a walk instead, it’s still busy outside although my little household is fast asleep. I walk around my houses, one of them is having a party, there are fairy lights everywhere and I stand outside looking in. There’s an old lady playing the piano, sounds of loud laughter emerge and a little girl in a pink frock is being chased around the garden by two little boys. The music switches to chords I know and then the whole house reverberates with Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to youuuuuu, happy bi
rthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you. I pretend they’re singing for me, and for a very short moment, I feel a sliver of hope. I’m going to be okay. And I’m not giving up on you.
14
A Dialogue in One Tone
– I’m going on a date.
– You’re what?
– A date. I have a date.
– No, wait, say that again, louder.
– Aksh …
– I don’t believe I heard you correctly.
– Look, it’s nothing, it’s stupid, it’s this girl I met recently.
– Oh. You met a girl recently. I see.
– Don’t be like that.
– Like what?
– You know like what.
– Like I’m not one hundred per cent happy for you and your date?
– Look, forget it, okay? Forget I said anything.
– I’m meant to forget that you have a date?
– Just drop it!
– I can’t just drop this, Mo. You have a date. I can’t believe a) you have a date and b) you thought it was okay to tell me about it.
– What’s the big deal?
– What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal?
– Akshara. Now don’t get all emotional and hysterical.
– I love that. If I were a dude you wouldn’t be telling me I was emotional and hysterical, you’d think I was having a perfectly normal reaction to some pretty crazy news. You think I react entirely from my uterus?
– It’s not like you and I are …
– What? Fucking? Last time I checked which was, oh, last night, we certainly were.
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