Trouble At The Wedding

At the end of our wedding day, my wife and I decided on our path for a viable matrimony - a life together without love and/or lust. But, let me not start at the wrong end. (Didn’t Byron run into big trouble for some such reason?)

The following paragraph is for the uninitiated lucky few or for those unfamiliar with the ceremonies in my part of the wood.

First, there was the reception outside the marriage hall where the two groups took measure of each other, formed an imposing phalanx on either side, ready to party or brawl. In the middle, I brokered peace by accepting a cheap bouquet and an itchy garland. The rivals then greeted each other with plastic smiles, practiced guile and empty words. There was then a one-hour wait for the muhurtham or auspicious moment. My entourage of long lost relatives and newly found friends of the family charged to the dining-hall for that first and cleanest round of meals. I thought of racing with them but I was supposed to act coy and have the feast along with my bride, after the oaths and promises, of course. I was guarded by my friend Jose. The bridegroom’s escort or best man is supposed to make sure that the groom sticks around in the right place at the right time. I will come back to this friend shortly. At the auspicious moment of the muhurtham, the main and fringe actors on both sides got into a state of frenzy. The priest and the cameramen fought for place on the dais; distant relatives tried to fit into a photogenic position on stage; hyperactive kids with conveniently absent parents treated that area as a playground; some old relatives were carried to the main podium for parting with their blessings before their last breath; some sulking relatives who actually preferred to be ignored and then hold a grudge were dragged to the scene. The lucky pair (the bride and the groom, supposedly) then made a grand entry with the respective parents. The video of the event showed that the audience saw on the large screen TV the posterior of a well-proportioned unidentified relative and the armpit of a lighting assistant. (Where was the cameraman positioned?) The only good part regarding this hullaballoo was that it took hardly five minutes. As soon as I tied the knot (thaali or mangalsutra), and an out of phase duo playing the drums and the horns announced that I had done the deed, the crowd lost interest in the ceremony. The ones who had managed to eat in the first round rushed for the exit and the rest raced to the dining hall to grab seats for the next round of meals.

This is the part where I should end with ‘…and the couple lived happily ever after.’ But, the actual drama of the day did not happen then or there.

Rewind to the part ‘I was guarded by my friend Jose…’

Jose and I have been mates for a long time. A lean wiry character with uncombed hair, deep-set dark eyes that could sparkle with humour or threaten with violent emotion and a penchant for taking the road less traveled as a gamble or a high-risk taunt at the higher powers above. Was he always that volatile? With him, memory usually starts with the moment he got branded as a rapist.

We were in Plus-2 then, eighteen and raring to conquer the world. It must have been after the monsoon since the Sports festival was underway and everyone was hanging around near the school-ground. Around noon, there was a commotion in the main building where our classroom was located on the first floor. I raced to the spot. I saw an agitated voluble lady-teacher walking away with Sheila. Jose was in the empty classroom, with his head down. He did not look at me then.

Sheila was our class-topper and a soft-spoken, friendly girl. She was not beautiful but her conservative looks did add up well. She was the head-girl and a pet of the teachers but still quite unassuming. I used to joke with her that she could become a very successful politician. She got along well with everyone…except Jose. Or rather, Jose could not stand her while she did not seem to have anything for or against him. For her, he was like any of us, it seemed. I asked him once about his hatred towards her but he remained unresponsive on that issue.

    Jose was dismissed from school for misbehaving with Sheila. Though the details were suppressed, it took little time for that charge to metamorphose into a vicious rape. He shifted to his native place but we kept in touch.

My parents were not sure if they should allow me to keep such a friendship. But given the fact I had only two friends at that time, they did not impose any restrictions on me. Further, the other friend was a classmate named Benoy. When we were in the ninth grade, Benoy and his father had killed a neighbour in a domestic dispute. Benoy’s father took all the blame and was convicted of manslaughter. My friend escaped without any charge. We were good friends till he migrated to Australia. My parents never objected to that friendship. Maybe, it was because they knew Benoy as a mild-mannered splendid character which he actually was. Given that precedent, they must have been left without a case against Jose even though they were clearly uncomfortable with his wild appearance and nature and, of course, his new depraved status.

Jose did well in his studies and went to premier institutions here and abroad but his reputation preceded him wherever he went. In some places, that gained him a cult status amongst the guys. But everywhere, he was shunned by the girls. I think he contributed a lot to stoke such fears. He continued to look wild, with his unkempt hair, blazing intelligent eyes peering over thin rectangular spectacles with copper wire as handles. He could talk about physics and porn with equal ease. Juniors talked about his adventures in red-light zones as if it was folklore. I suspected that it was only as true though I was never too sure of his actions. We did talk about sex and such stuff like most guys but we never talked about Sheila. I did try once but his angry expression was enough to banish any further attempts. For me, he was dependable and that has been my only (albeit stringent) criterion for friendship. He was the first person I invited for my wedding despite being warned against it by my fiancée.

She had heard of him and his past. To make matters worse, she was Sheila’s family friend. And, she wanted Sheila at our wedding, of course. We had our first big fight because of them. We stuck to our positions and decided to invite trouble, that is, we decided to invite our friends. Jose did not know of this situation. I had not allowed a meeting between my fiancée and him. And, I had not told him about my fiancée’s close association with Sheila. I hoped that Sheila would skip the wedding knowing that Jose would be there.  

It is actually strangely ironical that my fiancée does not know that it was Jose who ‘made’ me kiss her for the first time. During the period of engagement, we were meeting each other at least once every weekend. After the second or third meeting, I had confessed to Jose that I wanted to kiss my fiancée. And he had said, ‘Just do it…’ And I had replied half-heartedly, ‘Oh yeah…’ as if I expected no other advice from a rapist. But the next time we met, I did kiss her, just lightly, with a bit of tongue, that’s all. She had looked startled and I thought she would scream and that it would be the end of my life. She gave me her impish grin, as if expecting more of the same. I did kiss her then and on other occasions before the wedding but I never told her about Jose.

So, that’s what happened before ‘‘I was guarded by my friend Jose…’

What happened then was simple. We entered the hall and Lady Luck decided to be really nasty with me. The first person Jose and I saw within the hall was Sheila. She was with a group of friends watching us enter. She had not changed much. She was looking at Jose. I looked at Jose. If Rage could take a human form, that was it. I said, ‘Oh shit…’ He said, ‘I will kill that bitch…’

What happened after was also simple. I do not know what happened. One minute he was there with me, the next he had disappeared. I looked around for him – quite distractedly, I admit, given my situation and worries regarding the looming marital obligation. It took a while before I regained my senses and tried to find Sheila. But, she had disappeared, too.

Thus, during the five minute hullaballoo on stage, I faced a barrage of emotional artillery and I desperately tried to hide behind barricades that crumbled. I maintained my cool till the auspicious moment when I tied the knot. As I leaned forward to do so, I quickly whispered to my bride the gist of our friends’ disappearance and Jose’s open threat. She nearly gave a startled cry and if she had not been seated, she would have jumped away from me. From the priest’s face, I could make out that he had witnessed our turmoil. His grim visage expressed displeasure and seemed to suggest that we should seek the guidance of judicial, rather than spiritual, powers as soon as possible. Like Pontius of old, he washed his hands off our case. My newly-wed wife was not only grim but quite determined that we, and the police, should search for our friends right then. I barely managed to pacify her with sweet promises to do all that was necessary.

The promises had to wait. Photo-sessions, feast, change of dress, change of scene, the bride’s entry into her new abode, evening party and such social engagements kept us busy. We did try to call our friends on their mobile but the calls went unanswered. Now, when I look at the photos taken during that day, I can clearly see that my wife kept a frosty cool towards me, with frequent stares that seemed as sharp as icy daggers. I must have been oblivious of that then. But I do remember that she made her point crystal clear to me on our first night.

We had retired to our bedroom. Like most romantic guys in such situations, I entered that room with butterflies in my stomach, a thumping ache in my chest and a restless tension in my groin. I had a desperate urge to urinate. But she had occupied the bathroom. And she remained there for a long time. I whispered sweet nothings to her but she did not respond. When the tension mounted and I was sweating profusely, I banged on the door, not too hard though, but there was no response to that either. I thought of emptying the water bottle and using that as an improvised chamber pot. I was about to step outside onto the terrace when she marched out of the bathroom. I raced within and relieved myself. I took a quick shower and powdered liberally, calming myself with deep breaths and then crept out ready for another attempt at a romantic conquest. She had cornered the best part of the bed and pretended to be sleeping with her back turned towards me. I moved towards her and touched her gently on the shoulder. She turned around and snarled, ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ I noticed that she had worn a sack-like nightdress made of coarse white cotton. I remembered her telling me that she used to wear such garments at night during her stay in the boarding of a convent school. An effective chastity belt, she had said. And I could agree with that on my first night with her.

I moved to my uneven side of the bed, resigned to conquer on another date. I fell asleep immediately. But that infuriated her even further. She shook me awake. She accused me of being a rapist’s accomplice and a murderer’s friend. I could not deny that. She heaped insult upon insult. I took each blow bravely knowing that I could do little else. I tried to convince her that I would contact the police the next morning. But she was determined to do unto me emotionally all that my friend must be doing unto her friend physically. Hell hath no fury like a woman with an upper hand, goes an old adage…

It was then that I heard my mobile ringing. It was Jose. He told me calmly, ‘I had some unfinished business to take care of.’

He continued, ‘Sheila wants to talk to your wife.’ Without a word, I gave it to my wife and lay down. I barely heard the women exchange notes, news and happenings in hushed tones. I was nearly asleep when my wife shook my shoulder, this time gently though insistently. I turned around and faced her, ready to let loose my own cannons this time. She gave me an impish grin and with a simple shrug of her shoulders, slipped out of that chastity belt.

A little later, a bit too soon I admit, we lay close holding each other. That was after the virginal fumbling and ensuing embarrassment was countered with convenient wisdom such as ‘it is the thought that matters’ and ‘there will always be another day’. I remember asking her,

‘Oye, Mrs.?’

‘hmM…’ she replied.

‘Love and lust seems like real trouble, right?’

‘hMm…’

‘It would be a good idea to have nothing to do with it, huh?’

‘Hmm…’

Thus, with her measured reticence, we agreed with each other for the first time. As I said earlier, it is the thought that matters…action that follows is rarely mutually agreeable in any human endeavour, especially matrimony.

Couple At The Garbage Dump

‘With the next boom, this will be a gold mine…’

She held his hand tightly while he voiced his hopes. She tried to share his enthusiasm, desperately wanting to believe that there is hope.

‘I remember my first trip to Mumbai in 2004. I saw that garbage dump at Malad bloom. I was there when the first guys entered Inorbit Mall, when the investment banks opened offices there, every day I breathed in the sulphurous air from that dump and the Malad Creek, I watched them landscape mounds of plastic and I kept track of real estate prices hitting new highs. It’s going to be like that here…’

They walked past the area for electrical stuff and then rushed past the plots for plastics. They kept their heads down. Those are prime areas and frequented by the middle-class call girls and their clients. The high-class ones use the deserted high-rise apartments all around town and treat that turf as their own. With most of the owners dead or broke, there was hardly any resistance to those trespassers.

 The first signs of trouble ironically started when the old garbage treatment plant was shut down by the panchayat of that locality. And that was just before Christmas in 2011. The people accused the government and the city corporation of stalling because they were controlled by different political parties. The government asked for a compromise but the people refused to yield. The corporation brought out plans for satellite treatment plants but the people in those areas objected. The city began to stink and it spread all across the state.

To make matters worse, the Iran crisis enveloped the Middle-east area and oil prices doubled fueled by speculators and other vested interests. At the new International airport, the Arrival lounge had only locals returning from abroad and the Departure area had businessmen and tourists racing to the exit. Then, the Eurozone collapsed. It started with one small country saying that they do not want to follow any Franco-German dictate, and then others followed. Even though this state hardly received anything from that zone, the chaos that followed was as terrifying as the earthquake-cum-tsunami disaster in Japan, actually more terrifying.

Then, as they say in the vernacular, ‘a coconut fell on the head of the man bitten by a rabid dog.’

IT/ITeS based ‘techno-cities’ became ghost towns. Labour arbitrage still ruled the game and the transfer of operations took little time. The tourism industry had already been smothered by the engulfing stink. Real estate firms and gold/home loan shops started lowering their shutters. Nuclear families merged to form joint families living in very close stifling quarters, pooling in their meager resources. Co-operative banks closed shop when the books revealed that the clever had removed all deposits (allegedly, there was more black money in these local banks than in Swiss banks) well in advance leaving behind only non-performing assets. Even money bought little. One politician had the energy to joke, ‘In the old days, one could go to the market with a handful of notes and come back with a sack of goods. Now, one can go with a sack of notes and come back with a handful of goods.’

People thought that they could at least get back the good old days. They waited for maids to reduce pay and to work harder to keep their jobs, the man on the street tried to pay the old rates to corrupt hands but the rates just got higher, crusaders tried to protest but with most networks dysfunctional they could not even garner virtual support, the government talked about austerity, the masses watched government officials whizzing past from one rest house to another with half a dozen cars before and after their luxury car. Ministers and bureaucrats sat around round tables staring blankly at each other. They invited the opposition to join a joint committee to share ideas. The opposition admitted that they had had a relook at old policies and suggested that it was time to invite foreign investment. That was also received with blank stares. The government and the opposition together decided to sell some assets to meet their needs.

And that is how the couple got their plot. She had lost her job abroad. He had lost his in one of the techno-cities. They still loved each other. They wanted to get married and they asked their loving parents for blessing and prayers. They also asked for a zero-interest loan to start a new business. The loving parents sold their ancestral property, his parents gave up an old house and hers sold a few acres of agricultural land that found no workers. With that money, the couple bought their own plot of land.

It is a dump now, with the worst rotting garbage, but they knew that they just had to wait. Every stink goes up.

[Ref:  http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-national/tp-kerala/article2797724.ece]

Family At The Crematorium

Truth that sounds bizarre is tough to tell – the inevitable disbelief quickly smothers the initial bells of alarm.

We were at the Government crematorium. He had left simple instructions: ‘My wealth will be distributed (as per the details given in my last will) to those members of my family who attend my cremation and the feast thereafter.’

He had decided the dishes for the multi-cuisine feast and kept aside a generous amount for that meal. He had also arranged and paid for everyone’s stay and travel. I had helped him with the reservations and communication. When he confided to me about his plans, I had felt quite bemused. It seemed to be so unlike him. Maybe, it is not. But, I never asked him. He would not have told the truth.

While his simple instructions might seem commonplace, the nub of the affair is in the seemingly innocuous detail ‘my family’. Let me introduce the lot (from right to left).

His wife stood alone at the right end. Her two married kids had declined the offer – spurious honour or misplaced pride, if you ask me. Fortunately, he had drawn the line clearly under ‘my family’. He had not extended the offer to the spouses of kids or their kids. His wife speaks only Malay and she is the oldest and most attractive one in the group. I had received her at the airport and en route to the hotel, we had conversed amicably. I learnt that he had been in his mid-twenties when they met. An older determined woman, another man’s abused wife, a beautiful woman, a lonely man in his twenties in a strange land – that is how she reasoned their match. After ten years as ‘her man’, he had left without even a forwarding address, she said bitterly.

He had gone to Germany and found a new partner. She and her three kids stood next to the wife. With the crisis brewing in the Eurozone, her kids had forced her to be present, she apologetically informed me. She had come in my car to the crematorium. A short stout woman who spoke German softly – she seemed like a truly nice person, though fidgety and perpetually nervous. From our brief conversation, I gathered that she had catered willingly to his ways (male chauvinism is an accepted tradition there, I gathered) and been ‘his woman’. He had lived with her for a dozen years before he returned suddenly to his country of birth.

The youngest in the group stood next in line. She and I are natives but we have not talked to each other so far. He was nearly fifty when he met her and decided to ‘fall in love at first sight’. He had once joked to me that every man should try out that ‘fictitious plot’ once in his lifetime. If the man lives to tell the tale, it would be an interesting story, he had said. All that I know of this affair is that he did get the tempestuous start with this girl nearly three decades his junior and that it ended with an anti-climax in the unlikely hands of spirituality. After three years of that emotional roller-coaster, she had one day declared to him that she had joined a Sisterhood and that from then on, she could consider him only as a brother. They had a swift platonic separation, without acrimony, quite unlike siblings.

The last is, of course, me. I had applied for the post advertised in the Classified section - ‘a companion with a flair for languages’.  I quickly picked up Malay with a private tutor and German at the Max Mueller Centre. I realized soon that he had forgotten those languages completely – as if he had discarded the language along with the life. Some of his peeved blood relatives (they were not included in ‘my family’ as defined by his will) joked that he found his right inclination at the end. It is none of their business. I guess he wanted me to be a facilitator when the time came, to provide the links between the disjointed parts of his life, a type of communication hub.

I am not too sure if he expected me to make the others come together. I prefer to think that his sense of humour rather than any vestigial death-bed sentimentality brought us together. The languages that I learnt might go waste but forgetting is an easier task than remembering.

I think we were all waiting for the feast and after that, pick up our dues. Then, leave – without a word, without a thought, without a wish to be part of his life ever again.

Lady At The Dining Table

She laid the table for dinner and sat at her place facing me, looking straight and smiling. I had to pause.

She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her left ear. Her head inclined slightly to the right. I was reminded of an injured baby sparrow that a friend and I rescued. We were kids and while we explored ourselves, we wanted it as our pet. It used to peck at bits of bread on our fingers and then look at us, with its head askew. When we moved on and let it go, it survived for a few hours in the open wild.

With women, the eyes capture my attention. Without being distracted by the brows and the lashes, I try to find the right set of emotions that go along with the pair. I have seen beautiful eyes that look out of place on a laughing face. There have been the most ordinary that turn into precious gems when surprised by shock or awe or sheer fright. There are a few rare ones that look best in a stony-eyed stare. Not hers, hers are best with a tinge of mischievous romantic smile like the one she has now.

I travelled lower to her lips and took in the conservative fullness without an excessive pout nor was it too thin or dry. I moved higher. Each face has its own problems, some blemish that serves to highlight the rest. In her case, it is her nose, just a tad too fleshy at the end. Her dimpled cheeks too are an oddity, like a child’s doll in a ladies’ vanity kit. But I knew that I would love holding her face, caressing and kissing it everywhere.

Her eyes and her smile remained steady. She stayed still like a mannequin as if she was waiting expectantly to be appreciated or chosen, for a hand to reach out and touch her.

My eyes went lower. The top buttons on her light white cotton blouse were open. The parting opened and closed with each breath, the curve of her unfettered breasts flitting on and off. I thought of opening the lower buttons or just slipping my hand in the opening while I kissed her lips, before I kissed her there. Maybe, I would even button up her blouse, covering her protectively. I did that on my first such chance. I was sixteen and that girl was thirteen. Then, it must have seemed sexy to close than to open. Of course, it was more appropriate at that age. I did not have time to decide what I would like to do with this lady.

I had to end the pause.

The man sitting opposite to the lady, with his back towards me, leaned forward and reached for her hand. I could take him out, too. I could explain it as collateral damage. But that would be a sentimental waste and certainly not professional. He could even be the man who gave me the contract to kill the lady. I smiled at the cold justice that I would dish out if it turned out to be so. That is, if I wanted to play God rather than do my job from my dark perch half a block away.

I took another look through the telescopic view and then pressed the trigger. She fell back on her high-backed chair. A red bouquet spread out on her left upper chest. Her open shirt seems rather vulgar with her lifeless breasts open to view.

Her eyes had a stony-eyed stare. It did not look good like that. I would have liked to reach over and close those eyes.

Exposure

Note: Wish you all Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

‘What was your first exposure to sex?’

I mimicked the fat man’s whisper along with his gurgling near-orgasmic giggles.

‘And did he stop at that? Oh no, as an accompaniment to his act he kept on nudging me heartily in the ribs, laughing before each sentence while he told me all about his exposure…what the…’

I was narrating to my friends the harrowing experience on the plane. I continued with my lament,

‘My bleeding luck…I was literally between the devil and the deep sea! On one side, I had this hyperactive fat man; and on the other side, a nun with an enviable mustache. Excuse me for being politically incorrect…but there is a limit to one’s bad luck, right? I can’t even decide who was worse. This nun…I could feel her disapproval when my eyes tracked the derriere of the buxom airhostess. And, during lunch, she pointed at my tray and asked me, ‘Young man, aren’t you having the fruit?’ I had to finish off the fruit bowl…compared to that, the fat man’s sexual exposure was definitely an improvement.’

I looked around and the laughing faces of my friends hardly provided the balm for my traumatized mind and soul. Winston asked me,

‘So, what was his first exposure to sex?’

I mimicked the fat man once again and also gave Winston who was driving the car a few well-placed nudges in the ribs to recreate the scene,

‘Betty, man…of Archie comics…not Veronica, mind you…Betty boiled my young fifteen year old blood and kept it on simmer, man…what do you think of Betty, man?’

‘Betty…at fifteen…?’ Winston gave a hoot of laughter. From the back seat, Swapna and Josephine also joined in his mirth. It was Josephine who changed track and asked me,

‘And…what did you tell him about your first exposure to sex?’

xxx---xxx---xxx

Josephine, Swapna, Winston and I studied together in the same class from kindergarten till primary six – seems like eons back.

Josephine – she used to be a petite girl with an infectious smile – was Swapna’s main rival for the top rank. Though rivals in studies, they maintained a close friendship. Swapna then was an attractive dusky girl with lovely dark eyes and a powerful forehand for tennis and stinging slaps on our bottoms. Winston had the face of an angel and the heart of the devil. He was my chief comrade-in-arms. As far as studies were concerned, we rarely troubled the girls’ ambition to be on top (other than in math where we trounced the girls regularly). I guess they must have been on top in our extracurricular activities too and decided most of our joint actions. Girls feel terribly insecure in any other position, Winston used to say.    

In class, Josephine and Winston were paired together. That could have been based on race or religion or social class. Swapna and I were considered to be born for each other since we were the only Indians. Of course, there was Muthu but he was the son of a labourer and therefore, not even considered. A primary class is a good place to learn about social structure, practices and hierarchy. Our pairing was taken quite seriously by the rest of the class and to be a sport, we played along. In primary three, when I composed my first love poem, I strayed a little and gave the poem to Josephine rather than Swapna. I must have had this urge to share my love. Winston was ruled out, of course; and, Swapna seemed formidable with her forehand. Josephine did receive it well – she gave me a delightful smile, held my hand for a while and it remained our first dark secret. That was all I wanted from love at that point of time. I do not know if Winston and Swapna engaged in anything hanky-panky like this. Swapna would have been tight-lipped about any indiscretion and Winston would have followed suit, more out of fear of her rather than due to any sense of decorum.

In primary five, we started showing signs of dissatisfaction with each other and also began exploring beyond our own circle. It coincided with the entry in our lives of two staff members.

Mr. Omar was our Math teacher. Winston and I considered him to be very stiff and old. We could not understand why Swapna and Josephine decided that he must be Adonis. He wore black pants (the same one, we decided) and starched, crisply ironed, half-sleeved cotton shirts (he slips his hands in the sleeves without removing the shirt from the hanger, we declared to the girls). Thinking back, he must have been in his late twenties. But then, for Winston and me, he was a stereotype of a Math teacher. We made fun of his evenly-measured steps, careful slow speech and writing, perfectly symmetrical pencil mustache and, worst of all, a refusal to be perturbed by any disturbance from our side. We tried to convince the girls that he was either a weird mutant or a robot and that he even drew margins on his bed before sleeping on the proper side without deviating in any way.

Then, there was his antithesis – Miss Lim, our school dentist. When my perfect set of milk teeth gave way to a crooked crowded bunch, it was she who consoled me in those tough formative years. She was so young, so lovely, so delicate and so full of life. Winston tried to pull rank by saying that she belonged to his community. After a few days of hot battle, cold war and mature thought, we openly declared that we would share her. The girls kept their teeth to themselves while we exhibited ours to Miss Lim and tried to extract every bit of mileage from their rotten nature. Only a man would brave a painful, silly deed (like war or a duel or a visit to the dentist) for the sake of a woman, Winston and I proved that truism.

In primary five and six, our gang still held together even though our affections and infatuations without the group raged a continuing war on our unity. During one vacation, we raided the vacant school boarding house. We rummaged in cupboards and drawers for secrets (Swapna and Josephine were particularly interested in that) and loads of cash (Winston and I focused on that). All that we managed was a delightful time getting dirty with dust and cobwebs.

In school, we waited for the free periods when a teacher was absent. Most often, we were allowed to play outside on the school grounds. The four of us used these opportunities to explore the area beyond the school. To the north, there was a hilly climb and the scenic view from the top was worth the effort. Josephine did not like the hard climb but Swapna usually goaded her to follow. To the south, there was the road leading to town and our homes and we stayed away from that direction. To the east, there were paddy fields. It was muddy and filthy and the girls preferred to stay away from that direction too. Once, I slipped on the path through the paddy plots and fell in, and I was in deep shit or manure, literally. I tried to pull in the laughing fool but Winston stood at a safe distance, not even offering a helping hand. To the west of the school, there was our favourite spot in the middle of a rubber plantation – a clearing within a circle of granite boulders with velvet mossy ground under the canopy of huge trees.

In primary six, during a free period before lunch in the early part of March, we raced to that spot. We had an hour at our disposal and we planned to stake claim over our fiefdom and have a picnic lunch. As part of our usual game, we approached the area by stealth, ready to vanquish all our imaginary villains and demons. On that day, we saw that we were not the first to reach the clearing. From behind the rocks, we watched the scene within.

Mr. Omar was bare-chested and seated on the ground. Miss Lim sat next to him with her head against his shoulder. They whispered to each other, laughed and seemed happy. He kissed her lips, cheeks, neck and then unbuttoned her light summer blouse. It was not a Mr. Omar we knew. This man seemed like a boy unpacking a wonderful gift. He opened her blouse slowly, admiring her naked body. She laughed at his youthful amazement while he unclasped the front hooks of her bra, and kissed her breasts and nipples. Strangely, she seemed like the senior partner in the act. We watched them make love, hearing every cry of joy and whispered endearments.

We left that stage quietly at the end when the couple collapsed against each other, in a tight embrace and breathing hard. We hardly talked till we reached school. I cannot remember if we talked about the episode but some time that week, the four of us together reported that incident to the Headmaster of the school.

For some reason, we thought it was right to do so even though we received a severe reprimand for straying from the school campus. It is usually easy to find a reason to make any action seem so right. The one good thing about growing old is to be recognized as a sinner, to lose that garb of innocence, a mask for vicious and childish righteousness.

 Those two adults were discreetly removed from the staff and the matter never even reached our parents or the rest of the school. We heard that Mr. Omar had to leave town in search of another job. We lost track of Miss Lim.

xxx---xxx---xxx

I guess that was our collective answer to Josephine’s earlier question. There was not much talk in the car for a while after that.

Mid-way through primary six, my family relocated to India and I lost track of my friends and that life. I got back in touch with them much later when I met Winston by chance at a casino in Macau.

By then, he was already into his second divorce. He told me how he lost his virginity at fourteen, how the girl’s parents wanted to get him arrested and how he managed to escape only because the girl made the mistake of loving him. By twenty-four, he was a fixed-income trader in a bulge-bracket investment firm. By thirty two, he was a managing director. At thirty-four, he was chucked out of the firm when he misused his position and brought heavy unexpected losses. His private life was definitely more reckless. Maybe, he was always like that but I think his manic nature developed later. I never asked him if he had been affected by our childhood experience.

It was Winston who filled me in on the other two. Swapna had married beneath her station and after her wedding, she moved to her husband’s town. She had to cut off all connections to her family and friends, by force or by choice. She was a competent cardiologist, an abused wife, a mother of one stillborn kid and a recluse on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Fortunately, her husband met with an accident two years back and she has slowly started coming back to normal life. Josephine, that petite girl, became a barrister practicing in the capital and a fearless human rights activist. She married a colleague, has two kids and seemed to be the only one leading a proper life. It was Josephine who contacted us a month back with a near shriek on the phone.

‘Guess what I found on the Internet…I was checking hospitals in our old town…our Miss Lim is still there. I have even got her residential address.’

None of us asked Josephine why she had been searching for Miss Lim. We had all been searching, I guess. Anyway, that explains why we decided to get together, visit our old town and meet Miss Lim. In the car, racing to our destination, we shared our hopes.

I hoped that Mr. Omar and Miss Lim had got together later after facing stiff resistance over their interfaith marriage. I reasoned that, in those days, society was more tolerant and it must have been possible.

Swapna hoped that Mr. Omar had died but only after the two lovers were reunited. We asked her why she wanted him dead. Love stories have the best ending that way, was her morbid reply.

Josephine hoped that we would enter Miss Lim’s house and Miss Lim would call for her husband and then, Mr. Omar would enter the scene to greet us. She hoped to see the two holding each other’s hand and then, forgiving us.

Winston laughed and asked Josephine what she expected to get out of forgiveness. She did not reply for a while and then said,

‘I want them to forgive. I want to forget their love. Their love has haunted me every single day, to the extent of making me frigid. I feel as if I squeezed life out of something precious. I feel as if I have no right to life myself.’

Even her proper life was just an illusion, it seems. With the glint of near-madness in his eyes, no one asked Winston what he hoped for in Miss Lim’s place.

We got to our old town around four in the evening. The place had changed a lot. We asked our way to Miss Lim’s residence. We parked the car in the street and Josephine led the way to the door. A little girl of five or six opened the door, raced inside calling to her mother that there are four strangers at the door.

We watched the little girl return with her mother, Miss Lim. We introduced ourselves. She remembered us. She said with a laugh,

‘How can I forget?’

She served us tea and cakes. She invited us for dinner and told us that her husband would be back from his club around seven. I decided to broach the topic,

‘Miss Lim, we…’

‘It should be Mrs. Chung actually. I have not changed my maiden name – it is such a bother changing one’s name in every employment register.’

‘Mrs. Chung…?’ one of us echoed.

It turned out to be a simple tale at the end. Miss Lim had married Mr. Chung and they have three kids. She told us that Mr. Omar had migrated to Australia, married a colleague, have two kids and live happily there. Mr. Omar was her friend on Facebook, she said.

We left her place after tea. We thanked her for the dinner invitation but declined the offer. We did not say much to each other that night.

I remember feeling breathless then, as if I had been punched in my guts. It seemed like I had spent days and months and years perfecting a love letter and at the end, the woman I loved had laughed at my letter – like a cherished thought rendered meaningless and exiled without hope of return or hope of utterance.