Been A Long Time

You see her at a party. You walk towards her. You have a minute or less for the flashback. Did you not play doctor-nurse with her? Was she the doctor? Your mother ticks you off for kicking her butt, ‘She’s not a little girl anymore.’ She will always be your little girl. She shared secrets with you. You talked about sex. With hindsight, that talk was as good as it gets. Remember the day you first saw her as a lady. You were as tongue-tied then. You feel anger and compassion. She smiles at you.

‘Hi,’ you manage to say.

She looks at you, the smile is still the same, not broadening, not thinning out.

‘Oh hi,’ she says.

‘It’s been a long time,’ you say.

‘Uh…huh,’ she admits.

You try to recall the best anecdote.

‘Excuse me,’ she says.

‘Hi,’ she says.

‘Oh hi,’ he says.

You have more than a minute to decide if you should feel bitter, cynical, depressed, lonely, or whether you should turn philosophical.

You notice her. She smiles at you. You smile back. You have less than a minute to search your files. Do you know her? She looks familiar. Her dress is atrocious, her makeup hideous, she looks young, her butt reminds you of Scarlett Johansson. Will she call you uncle? You tuck in your double chin above the tiny third. You present your best profile.

‘Hi,’ she says.

‘Oh hi,’ you say.

‘It’s been a long time,’ she says.

‘Uh…huh,’ you say.

She talks about a shared past. Is she that old? You notice another smiling face.

‘Excuse me,’ you say.

The Balcony

Maya and Sen had adjacent hostel rooms on the second floor and shared a balcony. It was ‘their space’, they agreed on the first day, ‘no guests allowed, well, not for too long…’

Sen placed a rattan chair there, for himself, facing the setting sun and an empty plot. Maya had a mat in her half. She preferred to sit on the floor. She brought a potted plant too. Sen frowned but allowed it, ‘on one condition, it should not block my view’. They agreed on another condition, ‘no lights’. They could keep the light on in their room and let that filter into their space.

On their first Friday night, Maya stepped out onto the balcony after dinner. She was not surprised to find him there, sitting in the dark. He nodded at her. She got a strong whiff of liquor and tobacco. She did not expect him to drink liquor there. Without a word, she turned to move inside.

‘Isn’t this allowed?’ he asked.

She shrugged.

‘If you don’t like it, I won’t. I can do it in my room,’ he said.

She remained silent.

‘Which one bothers you – the liquor or the cigarette?’ he asked. When she did not reply, he continued, ‘Don’t sulk. Or blacklist me.’

‘I am not sulking,’ she said.

‘Ah, so you did blacklist me.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Why not…?’

‘Why should I like it?’

They glared at each other. He took a sip, placed the glass on the floor, turned his chair to face her.

‘Do you know why you don’t like it?’ he asked.

She did not respond.

‘You have never tasted it, have you?’

She shrugged.

‘Classic example of negative association…’

‘That’s your liquor speaking.’

He smiled, ‘Could be. Now, don’t get stuffy for being a classic example.’

She smiled back. She did not want him to have the pleasure of seeing her riled with such a feeble attempt.

He continued, ‘All your life, you must have seen only negative images with liquor. Your first image must have been some B-grade movie in which a villain takes a swig of liquor before trying to rape the heroine. And now, despite good education and years of fine thinking, you can’t let go of that image when you see or smell liquor.’

‘What crap…’ she exclaimed.

‘But true…’ he sounded pleased. ‘Let’s call truce. Don’t go in, yet. Let me prove to you that I am not a rapist.’ He laughed.

She was amused. She sat on the mat, leaned against the railing, her legs tucked to the side and beneath her skirt. She was wearing a sleeveless Chinese top that buttoned to the top.

‘Why can’t you get a chair?’ he said.

‘Are you uncomfortable with me sitting on the floor?’ she asked, smiling.

He turned away his face to stare at the empty expanse, lips pursed.

‘Some mental clash with the image of an obedient traditional woman sitting at your feet?’ she teased.

He faced her, ‘No, I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with me staring down your cleavage.’

‘What cleavage can you see with this top?’ she continued to tease.

As if he was challenged, he stared at her torso. She leaned back, and pushed out her chest. He looked at her face.

‘Do I fit the image of a vamp or that of a seductress? Despite good education and years of fine thinking, of course…’ she taunted.

‘Touché…’ he admitted.

They laughed together.

Another night, a year later, she found him there, more morose than usual, drinking and smoking. She could not be sure but he seemed to have cried. Some boy band was crooning from the stereo in his room.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing her thumb within, referring to the music.

‘Take That, I think,’ he replied.

‘Is that the name of the group? Phew, quite awful…’ she said.

‘It’s not as bad as your classical music, how they bray, definitely constipated,’ he retorted.

‘Constipated they might be but not retarded,’ she gave back.

‘Oye, can you give me some space?’ he said.

‘I too need this space,’ she said.

‘Fine, I will move inside.’

‘Don’t be a baby.’

He took a large sip and a long drag. She sat on the floor.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

He did not reply for a while. Then, he said, ‘Just the usual girly problem.’

She smiled.

‘What are you smiling for?’ he scowled at her.

‘Did you mean girly problem or girl trouble?’ she asked.

He smiled.

‘So, she left, huh?’ she asked.

‘Hmm…’

‘Just curious, did you expect her to stick around?’ she asked.

‘She seemed different.’

‘Ah…’

‘Why is it always like that for me?’ he said.

‘Ah…’

‘Stop ah-ing me,’ he said.

‘Ah…’

‘So, why did you need this space?’ he asked.

‘Oh, nothing… just wanted to enjoy your misery,’ she sounded distracted.

‘You ok?’ he asked.

‘Yeah…’

She leaned forward a little, hands on her thigh, face turned, looking away from him. She was wearing a loose salwar top and jeans. He looked at her face, neck, the rise and fall of her breasts. He looked up to see her staring at him, with a small smile, without reproach, a little sad. They remained silent, still facing each other. She turned her face away again.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Is he coming?’

She nodded.

‘Try not to be so tense,’ he said.

She chewed on her lips and nodded slightly.

‘He wants me to quit my research,’ she said.

‘Just a few months more, right?’

‘Hmm…’

‘It’s been a while,’ he said.

‘Have you been keeping track of these conjugal visits?’ she said hotly.

‘Hey, I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘Sorry… God, I am a bundle of nerves…’

‘Don’t be so tense. Take it easy,’ he said.

‘Sen, you are a lousy psychologist?’

‘Thank you, Maya.’

They were silent for a long while.

‘Why are you so tense?’ he asked.

‘Nothing…’ she paused, ‘just girly problems.’

‘Ah…’

‘He says that I make sure I have it whenever he turns up.’

‘Tension plays a role, I have heard,’ he said.

‘You and your bloody tension…’ she glared at him.

‘Well, girls I know usually have it when they meet me,’ he said.

She continued glaring at him. Then, burst out laughing.

‘Yeah, right, laugh,’ Sen said. He poured another peg for himself, lit another cigarette. ‘My life…’

‘Hmm… my life, indeed…’

‘Do you want me to get him drunk?’ he asked. ‘I have heard that hubbies behave well when they are sloshed… contrary to popular beliefs…’

‘Oh, he will love that. Don’t you dare, I have enough on my plate.’

‘Jolly good, I don’t have enough money to share my rum.’

‘I thought rum was for horses,’ she said.

‘Yeah, horses and poor folk...’

‘By the way, where do you disappear off to when he comes?’ she asked.

‘I don’t disappear.’

‘I never see you here then,’ she said.

‘Do you keep track of my moments here?’ he asked.

‘Just noticed, that’s all,’ she said.

‘I don’t like husbands,’ he said.

‘Me neither…’

‘Tut tut, that won’t do, from nice traditional girls sitting at a man’s feet…’

‘One of these days, you will have to share your rum with me,’ she said.

‘No way...’

‘Scared I will rape you?’

‘Oh yeah, just can’t forget a movie I saw as a kid…’

‘So, that’s what got you hooked to cleavage, huh? That’s better than mother fixation…’

‘Maya…’ he growled with mock threat. She laughed. He joined her.

History

Uncle Jose (Hosappan to us) was lying sprawled on his rattan armchair, near the window, his feet on the long armrests. The young researchers took the seats around the table in the middle. I was at my usual corner, Hosappan’s diaries on the floor within arm’s reach.

I helped out when I could. I placed the cups of black tea for all, and the two digestive biscuits on each saucer.

Hosappan looked at the boy and the girl.

They said, like chorus, ‘Post-Emergency.’

Hosappan took off his spectacles and stared outside. The deep-set eyes disappeared into the shadows beneath the shaggy eyebrows. His deep voice filled the room. The data was delivered in the precise ways of scholars, without flourish or speculation.  

‘The religious riots of the early eighties took the city by surprise… it took the authorities nearly a week… I liaised between the religious groups, in the ghettos near Chalai and the beach… burnt and hacked bodies… in the early nineties, I was in Delhi, called to handle the protests that revolved around caste-based reservation… during the grotesque Mumbai riots, I was based in Fort, trying to reason with the conflicting parties…’

The two researchers recorded his narrative on a tiny recorder and also, noted every word in their fat notebooks. They seemed more than pleased with the eye-witness accounts, which they would embellish later with, ‘from the thick of action’, ‘straight from the horse’s mouth’.

Every such session was similar. After going through the events of a year, Hosappan would pause briefly. He would shift his gaze to me. The researchers too would turn to me. I would raise my head from the diary pertaining to the discussed year and give a nod, confirming that Hosappan’s memory was perfect and the details were as recorded in those diaries.

‘I was in Quilon… got home by the night shuttle train… the road was deserted… my friends and I walked to my house and drank till morning, bloody hangover… some problem in Chalai… Ah! Delhi, thy name is Aarti… I couldn’t meet her… there was no problem in Dhaula Kuan but I couldn’t get to Delhi Cantt… bloody Bombay, stuck at home, with gastroenteritis…’

The Big E

‘You are selfish, just bloody selfish,’ his wife mumbled, between wiping snot and tears.

‘That’s not true,’ he said softly.

Later, calmer, she would agree with him.

When they were newly-wed, she asked him, ‘What gives you the most pleasure?’ He replied, ‘Your orgasm.’ She had taken that as a well-rehearsed glib answer.  But then, the interest he displayed in bringing her to climax, however disconcerting it was at times, and the pleasure he derived from her big O became all too obvious.

On a hot summer afternoon, it happened for the first time. She was near climax and a brilliant idea struck him like the clichéd bolt of lightning. He had to interrupt the act and work on it. He read it to her once he was finished. ‘Brilliant,’ she muttered. Others agreed. He got recognition and lots of money. Next time, she was less cryptic and more acerbic, ‘Regular Archimedes you are, aren’t you? You and your bloody Eureka...’

He dedicated every work to her, ‘Without her, I am nothing.’ His rivals wondered if she played a bigger role than that of a faithful partner. She had her bad days when she felt like leaving him.

The Sad Case

The sad young man left Adarsh’s place. He was soft-spoken, polite, seemed decent and trustworthy.

Akash, Adarsh’s brother and a lawyer, remarked, ‘What a case.’

His mother Mrs Kumar brought tea. She said, ‘Poor chap. He’s had a rotten life.’

‘I wouldn’t mind his family wealth,’ Adarsh said.

‘I certainly do not want his family,’ Swathi, Akash’s wife said.

‘What a family!’ Mrs Kumar exclaimed. She added, ‘But, you should meet his mother. She is so nice. That is the weirdest part. If she’s wicked or mean, it would’ve made more sense.’

‘Maybe, that’s why it makes sense,’ Adarsh said, ‘if she isn’t nice, would she have two husbands?’

 ‘Which one is his father?’ Swathi asked.

‘No one knows,’ Akash said, ‘they are brothers, so does it really matter?’

‘What do you mean?’ Swathi responded, ‘Will it be ok for you if your son could be Adarsh’s?’

‘I mean, genetically,’ Akash said, defensively.

‘And now, his marriage is in trouble,’ Mrs Kumar interrupted, clearly wanting to change the course of the discussion.

‘If she was my wife, she would have really got it from me,’ Akash said.

‘Do you want me as a housewife?’ Swathi remained on the warpath.

‘Homemaker, not housewife,’ Adarsh pointed out.

‘Would I want you at home all hours?’ Akash said, with a smile, trying to defuse the situation.

‘Then, why can’t she want to work?’ Swathi asked.

‘It was his only pre-nuptial condition and she had agreed before marriage,’ Akash said, now sounding like a lawyer, solid and sure.

‘Which man expects a woman to stick to her words,’ Adarsh noted.

‘Why does he want a housewife?’ Mrs Kumar asked. ‘In the old days, we had lots to do. What will a lady do at home all day these days?’

‘His argument is that he has enough money, has a good job and wants to return home to a wife who has time for him and him alone.’ Akash said.

‘Sounds reasonable,’ Adarsh said.

‘What does he expect her to do for him – sing and dance?’ Swathi asked.

‘She could have chosen a man who is fine with a working wife,’ Mrs Kumar said. ‘Plenty of those,’ she pointed at her two sons.

‘But still…’ Swathi did not want to give up the fight but she did not want to take it to her mother-in-law.

‘She could argue that she was too young when she married,’ Adarsh said.

‘Yes, that’s exactly what she’s saying,’ Akash said. ‘He beating her has not helped his case.’

‘Well, in the heat of the moment, you could say,’ Adarsh said.

‘Exactly,’ Akash agreed, ‘and, the judge might view it favourably, as normal wear and tear of matrimony, even in the current environment of zero-tolerance towards violence against women.’

‘He seems like a nice guy,’ Swathi said.

‘Do I look like a wife-beater?’ Akash asked.

‘You look like a wimp,’ Adarsh said.

‘No son of mine will hit a woman,’ Mrs Kumar said emphatically. She added, ‘Though your father could throw a fair punch… but then, men and women were different back then. What a sad case. Poor boy…’

This Time

I watched her while she did the customary round – enter; first, to the dead one; to the live relatives next; a minute or two of respectful gloom; exit. She retraced her path with oh-so-reluctant tiny steps. She kept her head down as she crossed the lawn. It is possible she would have changed her route if she had realized that she was heading towards me. She raised her head too late, five meters from the tree I was leaning against. She still looked appropriately sad.

I winked at her.

Blame that on the funeral. The occasion was begging for a display of joie de vivre.

She could have ignored me. Maybe, she came towards me to confirm that I had winked at her.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Archana, right…?’ I said.

‘Aswathy,’ she corrected.

‘Of course...’ I did get the A-part right. ‘I am…’

‘I know,’ she interrupted.

‘Ah…’ Such moments deserve a pregnant pause, full of inner meaning.

She shrugged.

It was a cul-de-sac and time to head back to square one.

‘Knew him well?’ I asked.

‘The dead one…? Not really. You…?’ she said.

I shrugged.

It was another cul-de-sac and this time, I charged at the wall.

‘Did you marry?’ I asked.

‘What…?’ Clearly, that surprised her more than the wink.

‘Are you married?’ I rephrased.

‘No.’

I smiled.

‘Will you marry me?’

That is how I charged head-first at the wall.

This is the ideal moment for a flashback. Or the title rolls in, ‘Return of the Weddings and the Funeral ’?

From the original movie, I gleaned that it takes many weddings and funerals to get married. How true.

The first time we tried, we were young and dreamy. It would have worked well if we had got past the first obstacle. But then, life stumbled. The arranged marriage fell apart even before we met. A post-mortem is pointless. Maybe, the stars did not align well. Or, the families did not gel. Maybe, I seemed a tad bit useless. My dreams, or hers, made her nervous. Or, her base seemed too broad, her lips too thin. As if I would complain.  

The second time, I tried to make it happen. I was not young or dreamy. I was battle-weary, in fact. I do not know if she was keen. I let the demons within trip me again. If I had met her then, I would have told her, ‘I can’t love you because I love you too much.’ If love is technically impossible between strangers, make it need. It might be wishful thinking but I really believed that I knew her well, and that I would do her more harm than good. Such were the times, full of destructive self-pity.

This time, the third time, it was the worst time. There was no doubt I would seem totally useless this time. I was sure that she would be better off without me.

It was our first meeting. I had to wink. I was involuntarily selfish. Or, blame it on death. It begs one to live, it does.

Trading Secrets

Our honeymoon was before the wedding. We secretly met at coffee-shops and movie-halls. He touched my breast during ‘Gone Girl’. He kissed me. We giggled like teenagers.

We went to Singapore after the wedding, a four-night package. His parents and younger brother came along, my younger sister too. Those two kids went missing for four hours on day two. I was told not to tell my parents. There really was not much to tell. The kids just got bored of the package tour. 

In those first few months, every week brought out a secret. He has a crazy gene, quite a few close ones gone cuckoo. I offered my murderous relatives in return. A month before our wedding, a cousin hacked his wife and three kids before hanging himself. We did not share that with our folks. Most probably, they know.

In Singapore, I asked him if he had a love. He nodded. I asked him if it was in the past. He hesitated before nodding. I believed him because of that hesitation. He did not ask me.

A few weeks later, I came across an old diary of his. He mentioned a Jasmine. I once knew a guy with that name. I could not ask him if his Jasmine is a guy. I thought of telling him about my old love, offering a fair exchange.

I met his Jasmine at a shop. He introduced me to a happy mother of three. I aborted my planned trade.

Schezwan Or Manchurian

‘What caste?’ the Chinese official asked.

I told him my parents’ caste.

They do not like confusing answers like, ‘No caste.’

A guy who said ‘I have no religion’ was given 100 lashes of the cane, and assigned a religion and its associated ghetto. That idiot protested, ‘But, aren’t you atheists?’ The officer’s look of disdain said it all, ‘Yeah, as if our society is like yours.’

It was confusing and infuriating, at first. But, in their shoes, I would do the same. Suppose that I take over a place with weird sections and sub-sections. What would I do to minimize trouble and maximize returns? I would do the same. Why would I take a risk and let different people mix?

They have done some good. There was a snooty guy ahead of me. ‘What did you do?’ they asked. ‘I am a MBA,’ he replied. ‘Can you teach high school?’ they asked. ‘Of course not,’ he said. He was put in charge of the public toilets in my area.

I thought they would restrict our access to the world outside. Foreign media reported that our women have been enslaved as comfort women. That is not true. The old seedy red-light zone is now well-maintained, almost like a popular mall. The workers are healthy and very well paid. Lots of men and women have willingly joined that trade.

‘I love Chinese food,’ I told the official. Sure, I am buttering him up. I want a decent job, junior clerk would be lovely.

‘Schezwan or Manchurian…?’ he asked.

Which answer will get me the job, which 100 lashes?

Fading

My love was brain dead. I was in the ICU to say ‘Bye’. And ‘I love you’.

A lady stood at the next bed. She was not saying anything.

That was a sad case. He was paralyzed, near total, except for his eyes.

It was weird, those eyes alive in a face dead. They made love with their eyes. I should not have stared like a voyeur. They reached for each other. They kissed. They did not blink. They contracted, dilated. The light dimmed, lit up. They filled up. They did not blink when it overflowed. There was a sad smile at the end. She did not let the nurse close his eyes. I stared with envy.

It would have been nice if I believed in the afterlife. He would meet her there. He would tell her that I stared at them. He would tell her that I wanted to see her eyes open before she left.

She might tell him, ‘Maybe, I did. He was looking at you two then.’

It does not matter what they say there.

Chance Encounter

‘I can’t take it anymore,’ she cried.

‘What’s wrong? Tell me, maybe I can help,’ her friend said.

‘It’s my hubby.’

‘Ah!’

‘Maybe, you can help me.’

‘Huh?’

‘Your hubby is my hubby’s best friend, right? They went to the same school and college, right? Maybe, he knows...’ 

‘Knows what?’

‘Oh, it is so embarrassing.’

‘Come on, it’s me.’

‘You know that my hubby writes, or, tries to write, right?’

‘Ah!’

‘Well…’

‘Go on…’

‘He writes about the same thing over and over.’

‘Some artists paint the same picture over and over.’

‘It is always about a chance encounter.’

‘With a woman…?’

‘Of course…’

‘Why does that worry you?’

‘It’s always the same plot. He comes across a woman, by chance, nearly a one-night stand, and they fall in love.’

‘Tragic or happy ending…?’

‘Tragic.’

‘Oh boy…’

‘He must have experienced something like that. Oh, I feel like a second-hand wife.’

‘Come on, it is a common male fantasy.’

‘Really…?’

‘Sure, like watching lesbians make love.’

‘They like watching that?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But, there can’t be smoke without fire, right?’

‘Hmm…’

‘Do you know something that I don’t?’

‘About…?’

‘About our hubbies, of course…’

‘Ah!’

‘Come on, tell me…’

‘When they were in college, they came across a girl. She was smart and solid.’

‘Solid…?’

‘Very sure about everything, you know…’

‘Oh! How did their paths cross?’

‘They were in some right-wing group.’

‘Right-wing…?’

‘They wanted to be different. It wasn’t like now, you know. Right-wingers were a minority then.’

‘No wonder she was solid. Right-wingers are so sure about everything.’

‘Not our hubbies, though.’

‘Was she a lesbian too?’

‘Well, she was smart.’

‘So, he is still fixated on her, huh?’

‘Just accept it. No point fighting that.’

‘How can I win against a right-wing lesbian?’

‘Ah!’

Detached

They gave me ten minutes with my son.

Did I want ten minutes with this beast?

I should have flashbacks, giving my baby his feed, playing with him, fighting, losing, but there’s nothing.

Now, he is what he did, beheading (I recognized his voice in those videos), shooting school-kids, raping, bombing. I wanted to ask why, then. But, what he did means little to him, to his tribe, in the battlefields or the boardrooms, with no attachment.

I used to tell him science fiction stories, of robots taking over the human race. Did I tell him about humans becoming robots?

In his eyes, I see mine. If I can give up my son, why can’t he give up everything?