Whimsy

They say Time heals all; that Time spares no one and nothing. Time does something much worse – it dilutes and erases the fine ridges and smooth geography of his face; it leaves you confused about the exact shade of his eyes – were they hazel or a whisky brown? It no longer allows you to conjure up the sound of his voice.

After all this time, I cannot tell you the shape of his nose or the slant of his eyebrows, but I remember precisely the smell of his soap, the feel of his thick hair clenched tight in my fingers, and the sound of his voice comforting me, as he held me close and released me, and I clung to him as one would cling to a raft in a raging river. Without real hope, but with desperate relief.

I also remember the feel of his ring. It was sharp and it dug into my cheek as he held my face. Often he would hold me in so tight and for so long that my cheek would get a dent and my breath would stop. I think I was happy to have my breath stop as long as he did not stop holding me.

Now everything starts to resemble a scrabble board where the chips have been hastily scrambled after a long game.

On the badminton court

His eyes focused on the black mole on her right foot - vivid, familiar, and enticing as always. Despite himself, he looked for the blisters which he knew had long healed. He daren’t look up for fear the others would see his eyes. He sat with his head bent, looking intently at the white hospital tiles, seemingly mesmerized by the pattern of 4 regular white squares interspersed with a lone brown; couldn’t wait for the entire ordeal to be over, and had it not been for her aging parents, the years that stretched between the two families, he doubted he’d be present.

It was strange but not once did he feel like touching her, that familiar pull to thread his hand through her thick hair & pull her close; or run his thumb over her lower lip with a slowness that’d made her gasp and look at him pleadingly. That there would ever be a time when he could resist reaching out and pulling her close, was something he’d never imagined. The touch was all they’d ever had; when the words had betrayed them, it was their skins that spoke eloquently; in her small cluttered apartment, on his terrace, in busy airports, and cramped changing rooms – they’d allowed the madness to overpower them and left traces of a love that had stopped breathing a long time ago. 

Yet here he was once again after a gap of seven years. Seven long years of  a furtive peace and thankfulness that he’d finally found someone else who didn’t make him feel haunted all the time; someone who didn’t always expect the world of him. Now, those seven years had come to an end – in a dirty hospital room where four patients struggled for an elusive peace and privacy.

 Suddenly he arose and went over to stand beside her. As he looked down at her sunken cheeks, the sharp nose that he’d loved to tease her about, he wondered at the stillness that emanated from her. It was difficult to remember her without her nervous tic of pulling at the ends of the shaggy bangs that framed her face, to see her lying still instead of pacing restlessly, fuelled by nervous energy as she puffed on one cigarette after another. In all the years that he’d known her, he’d never seen her still. Now her chest was still; all was quiet within. The stormy turbulence of 33 years had finally ceased. 

He sat down and couldn’t help his eyes travelling over the familiar mole once again. Her toes were unpainted – a sight as alien as her lying on the bed without trying to cram all her thoughts into a babel of incoherence. She had abhorred make-up, but nail polish had been her single vanity.  Crimson, orange, pewter grey, and green – he’d reserved his usual scorn for them, but had secretly smiled at her exuberance.  

Almost immediately his mind jumped to a particular evening they’d spent in a small hotel in Rishikesh. They’d travelled all the way from Hardwar where she’d had much fun floating the diya and flower baskets in Hadki Paori in the Ganges. Her squeals, her radiant smile, her childish excitement, the glow from the hundreds of diyas floating in the water, it was one of those rare moments when everything came together and was perfect. Later at Rishikesh, she’d taught him how to paint her toes. Despite his complete disinterest in the beginning, he’d soon come to enjoy it. It was in keeping with so many other things he did because his initial reluctance would soon be overcome by her enthusiasm. None of the other women he’d known, and there had been quite a few, had come so unfettered, so free. He still remembered the evening they’d first had sex.
 

You’re losing weight! are you fine? 

Hey..hi…I am good. 

No, I am good is no good. It is I am fine or I am ok. 

Oh, I forget, you’re the English major. 

It’s not that, at all. I am good sounds pompous. Let others decide if you’re good or bad. Smile. 

Silence. 

You’ve known me since you were a kid. Am I good or bad? 

I think you’re very good. You’re the best. Shy smile. 

Slow, lazy smile. Silence. Pinches her cheek.

Do you want me to pick you after college tomorrow? We could go pick up those goldfish for your bowl. I spoke to a guy at Manish market and we could check him out. 

Flushed. You did? !! Of course I’d like to go tomorrow. Does he have the Indian variety or the Turkish? I have read that the Turkish ones learn to emote with you orer a period of time while the Indians are just dumb. I want the Turkish ones. Buuuutt, wont it be rather far for you to come all the way to college? I could meet you at the park? 

Look, I just said we will check out what he has. I have no idea if they come from Turkey or Syria! And, if I said I can come, it means it’s no problem. Unless you have a problem with me picking you up? 

I was only thinking about you. Why do you get so easily irritated with whatever I say? 

I don’t. You imagine it. 

Silence. 

Why are you so silent? You want me to leave? 

No baby. Stay. Just some things on my mind. Thinking. 

Tentative. Have you been thinking about me? 

Yeah. 

Silence. 

Do you want me? 

More than you know. 

Silence. 

If I were to take you home now, you know it’d lead to hanky panky? 

Laughing aloud. Yeah? And then what? You know I can’t give you anything. That works for you? 

It does. 

I don’t understand you….really I don’t at all. How can it work for you? How can you be so flippant? Voice rising now. 

I am neither deaf nor flippant. You don't  understand me, how can you even begin to understand my love? It doesn't matter.

 And that’d been it. Not a word was exchanged & after a while, she’d beckoned to the waiter, paid the bill, gently taken his hand and brought him to her tiny apartment. He was in a daze, it was as if he was looking at her from amid dense fog.  She’d caught him completely by surprise and the pleasure of her hands as they worked their way across his body, was a feeling he had never forgotten. 

Yet, that was not when he felt protective about her. That had come much before. 

She’d been three when their family moved to the quarters below in the steel township managed by the company their fathers worked in. Their fathers were colleagues and she’d soon become his sister’s best friend. The 12 years that separated them ensured she was never anything more than a pesky nuisance, a precocious girl with stubborn ways who always borrowed his cassettes without seeking his permission. He’d hated that about her. Later when they were married briefly, she’d raid his clothes.  He pretended to be angry and smiled at her mockingly, but deep down he was always oddly touched. In the end, she’d been the one who protected him, not the other way around. Though, all he’d ever wanted was to shield her. 

Ever since the incident on the badminton court. 

During the summer holidays, the badminton court became a beehive of activity. Boys and girls of different age groups congregated there since 7 in the morning to make the most of the outdoors before the heat became unbearable after midday. While the older children played their game, their younger sibling sat on the clubhouse steps under the shade, enthusiastically cheering and clapping for their older siblings. She’d always be there with his sister. 

He must’ve been around 16 then when the incident took place. He’ was engrossed in the game and was startled to hear a loud wailing. He looked around to find her rooted to the middle of the sun-baked cement court on her bare feet, wailing loudly as the heat scalded the tender insides of her bare soles. She’d sauntered over to him to tell him she wanted to go home and had forgotten to wear her sandals. Instinctively, several of them had rushed to pick her up, but by then blisters had covered her tiny pink feet. As he carried her inside, he’d been aware for the first time in his life, of a feeling of absolute terror, terror that he was solely responsible for something infinitely precious to him. Mingled with this terror was the awareness that he would do anything to protect the little girl in his arms. Never again had he experienced that same tenderness, that same terror for anybody else again in his life. 

It had always seemed odd to him that she had no memory of an incident that was so deeply etched in his consciousness. Often when he worked late, he’d stand quietly for a few seconds in front of the bedroom door, at daybreak, or after a night when he’d promised to be at home with her; he’d stand there with a sore conscience knowing she had finally fallen asleep with disappointment in her heart. He couldn’t even begin to count the times. At last his tired feet would remind him that he had to go inside and he’d press the door handle which he knew would creak halfway down. And she would wake up, look at him with sleepy eyes, more angry than hurt, until he slipped under the duvet, snuggled up to her body and felt its stiff resistance melt. But she wouldn’t give in. She’d quietly turn he back to him. And then he would stroke her more, kiss and nibble at her, be her servant until she was sitting on him, no longer the queen in her slumbers, but purring and moaning, wanton and offended at the same time. 

Later, lying beside each other in the darkened bedroom, he’d often recount the day on the badminton court. The script never changed and she’d fall asleep in his arms almost immediately afterwards. Now, he wasn’t so sure how much of what he remembered of that incident and used to tell her was actually true, and how much he’d made up to please her. Like she always assured him, it didn’t matter. 

On the canyon

Los Angeles is much like Mumbai, a city of contrasts, where showbiz and glamour exist alongside illegal mexican  workers, where the seediness of the city's underbelly is only matched by that found inside the homes of big stars and studio executives. To find a house in this urban jungle that one could look forward to returning to at the end of a long day, was a prize fit for the kings.

The house was a simple split structure, with creme exteriors and dark pinewood. The living room, kitchen and study covered the bottom floor, while the top floor housed the 2 bedrooms and a hanging patio. It's beauty was its location. To come to it, you'd have to take the  long, winding road that hugged Mullholland drive, its  narrow streets curving along a world of corvettes and mustangs and people who sunbathed in the Bahamas. The road eventually gave way to a deep gorge that stood like a huge bowl amid the gorgeous mountains of LA.

It was a small house that stood on the lip of the canyon which he shared with the red-tailed eagles, coyotes, deer, skunks, possums and rattlesnakes. Frankly, he minded the skunk far more than the rattlesnake. More rural than possible in LA, coming home always felt like healing, a place of refuge where he could forget for a few hours the unnaturalness, the sickness that marked his daily life.

His favourite place in the house was the deck - he had invested nearly as much in it as people did in the best master bedrooms. It had a Braun barbecue grill, the floor a deep reddish wood which was 100% stain free, the best Yamo sound-deck was fitted over the small bamboo cane chair that hung on the western side of the deck. To stand at the deck and watch the sun going down behind the mountains, was a sight to die for; to stand by it at night and hear the animals in the canyon below perk up for their nocturnal activities, was to understand habit and ritual; to practice his yoga on its polished wooden surface as the sun broke out at 7 am in the summers, made it easier to bear the loneliness that was now his life.

Today was not an easy day. To even imagine that he'd made such a big error which had led to the tragedy, was a nightmare that he wouldn't wish on anyone. He took a bottle of Budweiser out of the fridge and stood sipping it at the deck. A coyote cried out into the distance and something rustled in the shrubs below. Must be dinner time. His stomach rumbled and he remembered he'd not eaten anything since breakfast. He was still standing at the deck listening to the winds rustling the tree tops when the phone rang, and her quiet voice came on the speaker phone from 2000 miles away.

He immediately felt better, felt at peace.

Is this my favourite policeman?

Hi, how're you doing?

I know you're not doing so fine. Talk to me. Sunny called.

Sunny called you?

He said you could use some kick-ass conversation.

Silence.

Now will you tell me about the victims or will you?

There wasn't much he could deny her anyway; he told her the whole sordid story.

Listen to me. Are you listening?

Yes.

Even if the worst is true, what happened is not your fault. You acted on the evidence, you were only doing your job. And no one does it better than you. ok? If this terrible thing is true, do you know what you will do?

He nodded but didn't answer.

You will man up and do what needs to be done now. You will get to the bottom of this. I will personally fly out and hold you? Dyu hear me?

You're holding me now, baby.

I'm not finished. Have you been drinking?

I miss you.

Shuttup and listen. I want you to listen to me.

I'm listening.
He was hanging on to her every word.

Now, gimme an Adam Sandler dialogue.

C'mon! Not now.

She raised her voice.
Say something funny!

Something funny.

Bad one. Try again.
She snorted.

I love you.

Only as a friend. ok?

Can't I see you?
He prayed silently.

We've been over this before. I will always be your best friend. I need to run now. Call me.

Call you what?

She smiled, he knew from 2000 miles away that she was smiling. Then her voice came on again - as soft and gentle as always.

You are the best. Dont you ever forget that. Dont you ever let me down. Bye.

****

Whimsy: Sally and Jack

Perhaps she should have known something like this would happen. Life has the strangest ways of closing circles. She understood this when he played ‘Sally and Jack’, that incredible melody which the other had sent her so long ago. For almost 2 years she’d listened to its plaintive melody as she read her books or fed the ducks in the pond nearby. Things had changed in the last 3-4 years and she’d gotten busier. ‘Sally and Jack’ had slumbered uninterrupted till he brought them back to life yesterday.

Ever since she came to know she’d finally see him face to face after almost a decade, she’d been wondering how it’d be like; what he’d have become – after all he was the one who’d been to the edge of the precipice and back. He was better now, she’d been told, but then better often turned out to be a poor substitute. 

Their first encounter was nothing like it was this time. How could it be? She’d been an undergraduate and he a lanky smart-alecky kid still in school!! She had been impressed by his vocabulary, his grasp of vernacular literature, but still he was just another smart kid. Over the years as the families grew more familiar, they both discovered a wealth of topics to talk about.  They talked and debated and discovered and laughed and grew.

Even the conversations would have been fine had it not been for amit dutta and the guitar classes that commenced. He’d call her up to find out which song she wanted him to learn during the week and go about resolutely mastering the most difficult melodies and beats. On her part, she was a tad miffed that nothing seemed too difficult for him. From nirvana, to billy joel, to eagles, to pink floyd, robindrosongeet, to Bangla rock, to grateful dead, and led zeppelin – he played them all for her. Perhaps that was the beginning. 


Later, sitting alone in Virginia when she heard that he’d gone missing somewhere in the bleak snow-clad Adirondacks, she often wondered if it’d been best if they’d never gone on the trip together. Nothing took place, nothing was argued about and yet it washed away everything that they shared. Space and time are great forces of division and she tried to make him comprehend that. But how could he? He was just a cocky 18 yr old who thought topping the JEE gave him immunity from rejections.

Much later came the stories of his disastrous marriage, the cancellation of admission at Virginia Tech, stories of his alcoholism, pneumonia, and his journey to the Adirondacks and finally threat of deportation from the US. She was in Virginia too, but she'd made no attempt to seek him out. But she'd thought of him often, wept and raged and prayed that he would pull through.

All this played on her mind as she rang the bell that evening. She wondered what he’d think of her. She had her children with her now, a few grey in her hair, and of course, a healthy dose of cynicism within her. Reality check - maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.

He’d put on a lot of weight, must be the steroids at the rehab, she mused silently. One minute she was ringing the bell and the next she found herself enveloped in the warmest embrace she’d experienced in a long long time. There must’ve been about a dozen people in the room and yet she was neither conscious of them nor mindful whether her 3-yr old son was putting his shoes outside the door as she’d taught him to.

Later it seemed incredible that they had spent that much time together that evening, next to each other, he playing one incredible song after the other. She cueing requests, he playing. In between, he’d request her for a drink or a soda or simply extend his hand for her to hold. He’d made her daughter sit on his other sit and taught her how to strum the cords on ‘ajeeb dastaan hai ye’ in a matter of a few minutes. They didn’t speak about what had transpired in Virginia, the hell he’d been unfortunate enough to glimpse at such a tender age, the lines it’d left under his eyes. He only asked her why she’d had tears when he started to play ‘sally and jack’. She told him.

She resolved that she’d spent the next day not doing any of the things she’d grown accustomed to. As she lazed in bed late the next morning, she recalled the moment when he’d suddenly strummed ‘keno megh ashey, hridoyo akashey, tomate dekhite chayena’ and almost on cue she’d picked up the tune and started singing. Everyone there had sat in stunned silence for they knew she didn’t sing anymore. Her sis-in-law, who’d  loved her robindrosongeet so much, had hugged her later. She smiled at its memory and opened her mail to send him an especially difficult tune after nearly a decade. Would he be able to do it again within a week, she wondered as she clicked on ‘Send’.