Tell her. Tell her. Now. Tell her now, you fool. You waited fifteen years. You stayed up all night yesterday wondering what you will say to her when you meet her at the platform. And now you are tongue-tied. Damn it. I don’t know what to say. We have been quiet for ten minutes. This is getting awkward. Go to hell. Why doesn’t she say something? Maybe there is no need. Maybe she can read me. Rubbish. She thinks I am an idiot. I am. Am I? So where do I begin. That’s a stupid line. Start with something trivial. What is trivia? Relax. Select. Take it easy. What take it easy. She is pretending to be calm. She is acting normal. She can read me. She came all the way to Mumbai just to read me. She is waiting for me to make a false move. How can she act so normal after what happened between us? It’s a set-up. Shut up, you idiot. She is Aparajita, your Api. If she can act, so can you. So act. Pretend. Save yourself. Say something.
‘Certainly crowded today,’ said Akhil, breaking their silent climb up the stairway.
‘It is,’ replied Aparajita.
What was that, asshole. It is a train station. Train stations are crowded. Shit, I can’t do this. Maybe when we reach the guest house I can talk to her. Impossible to make any sense here. The whole damn world is watching us. If you keep postponing, tomorrow never comes. Why? Why are you behaving like this with her? Start with something else. What? Tell her how you refused to take a PhD student last year because her name was Aparajita. I can’t tell her that, you jerk. Okay, then. Tell her you have thought of her every single minute of every single day of every single year for the past fifteen years. That sounds cheesy. Anyone can say that. Then go to hell. 37…38…53…I am counting the steps. She belongs to another man. I will keep counting the steps.
Tell him. Tell him. This silence is awful. I am walking with him. With him. Good lord, him. I am going to keep it simple. I can’t say it here, so be quiet. Why on earth does he not say something? Maybe he feels nothing. I know that is not true, but then what do I really know? Tell him the damn truth, the damn truth. That I came just to see him. That I wanted to see him. But why did I want to see him? Do you know that? No, I don’t. How can I? After all that happened between us. Tell him you stopped caring about your life, tell him you take each day as it comes, that you breathe a sigh of relief once it is behind you. Tell him you don’t care, that you are like the wind, you drift and you reach places you don’t want to or care about. Tell him you miss him but you fear telling him that. Tell him the truth. But I can’t, and besides not now. The whole damn world is watching us. And what will he think, what will he say…you are married and he will think you are nasty to still have such thoughts about him. But this is your chance to tell him, yes he will think…gosh, why is this so difficult? I thought I had smiled my way well through the nervousness. Yes, I thought I was brilliant, wasn’t I? I smiled when all I wanted was for the earth to open up and take me in. I laughed, I cracked jokes, when inside, I was hurting. But why was I hurting? Oh God, this is unbearable. Isn’t he the reason for your coming to Bombay? Go on, be honest. Well, let him say something first. He should start, yes he should. Let him say something first. Oh that’s so typical of you, you fool, you coward. Listen, you must say something now now. Now.
‘Arey here, give me that suitcase,’ said Api, clearing her throat.
‘…Kindly, Pay, Attention! The, Six, Zero, One, Zero, Mumbai, Mail, from…’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Akhil, relieved the tension was broken at last.
‘Listen Akhil, it’s no bother really. I’ll take a taxi to the guest house.’
‘…Chennai, to, Mumbai, Central, Via, Trivellore, Arakkonam, Tiruttani, Puttur, Renigunta, Koduru, Razampeta, Nandalur, Cuddapah…’
‘No, I told you na, it’s a day off for me.’
‘…Kamalapuram, Yerraguntla, Muddanuru, Kondapuram, Tadipatri…’
‘Alright. But aren’t we going in the other direction?’
‘Relax, Api. I have escorted many women from platforms to guest houses.’
‘…Rayalcheruvu, Gooty, Guntakal, Junction, Nagarur, Adoni, Kupgal, Kosgi, Manthralayam, Road, Matmari, Raichur, Krishna, Narayanpet, Road…’
Api stopped in her tracks. ‘I say, Akhil.’
‘…but none as beautiful as you.’
‘Watch it. You don’t want to be escorted from the platform to the police station.’
‘…Yadgir, Nalwar, Wadi, Shahabad, Gulbarga, Ganagapur, Road, Dudhani…’
‘Just what you would expect from a police memsaab for all your troubles.’
‘Achha Baba, enough, na. I know you can flirt.’
‘…Akalkot, Road, Hotgi, Solapur, Junction, Mohol, Madha, Kurduvadi…’
‘Thought you’d forgotten…Arey coolie. Is that St George Road gate still open?’
‘…Kem, Jeur, Bhigwan, Daund, Junction, Pune, Junction, Khadki, Lonavala…’
‘It is, saab. Closes only after five.’
‘Thanks. Come, Api, we’ll take a shortcut to the car park.’
‘…Karjat, Kalyan, Junction, Thane and Dadar, is, arriving, at, platform, number, Seven, thank, you…’
‘I am after you...’
‘Behind you, Api, behind you.’
Api smiled. ‘One and the same.’
‘So, back in college, were you behind me, or after me?’
‘Neither. You were after me.’
‘And then I looked back and you weren’t behind me.’
The witticism backfired. Akhil tried to smooth over the thing. ‘Joke. Arey joke, yaar.’
‘Really, that’s not funny, Akhil.’
‘Achha sorry, bas. Leave it na, boss, come on.’
The two squeezed through the side exit and were accosted right away by touts. But they were seasoned at this—the trick was to keep walking. For a moment, Akhil lost sight of Api, who, understandably, had attracted more of the swarm. He managed to catch her by her wrist and pull her to safety. Akhil located the attendant carrying a wire loop overflowing with key bunches, swapped a ten-rupee note for his car keys, and together with Aparajita, navigated his way through the impossible mess, made more impossible by cars in neutral parked bumper to bumper in multiple rows with just about enough space to get through.
‘You can let go of my wrist now,’ said Api, smiling.
‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t even notice,’ said Akhil, embarrassed, as he put down the suitcase and shoved a car away using his backside.
‘Hahh…so, here we are.’
Api couldn’t help the look of astonishment. ‘Hang on a minute. And what in heaven’s name do we have here?’
Wiping the sweat from his face and neck, Akhil looked at Api. ‘What?’
‘This. A Fiat. You must be joking.’
‘Why, what’s the problem? You allergic to Fiats?’
‘Listen sweetheart, tell me if they aren’t paying you well. I am sure you are well qualified for a constable’s naukri. I’ll talk to Ajay—constables earn a packet these days. I know of one who drives a Honda City…a Fiat.’
‘Listen, my apsara. I own this dream car by choice, for your kind information. I mean, what’s wrong with it?’
The flirting, the bonhomie. Sweetheart. Apsara. It was obvious to Api that both she and Akhil were trying desperately to overcome their unease. She plodded on. ‘Dream car? Ekdum mad.’
‘Leave it, yaar. Come, get in. Or would you like to sit in the back? Whatever suits you, memsaab.’
‘No no, I don’t want to be leered at through the rearview mirror. So, did you buy this or was it excavated?’
Akhil pulled the door open for Api, then made his way back to the boot. Placing the suitcases by the stepney, he flicked the supporting hook loose, and after a couple of mock drops, let go of the lid. ‘Forty thousand, I paid, for my wife.’
‘Your wife.’
‘Padmini.’
Akhil turned the ignition, and then again, this time narrowing his eyes as though saying a silent prayer. Padmini grunted to life with reluctance. In celebration, he revved the engine.
Api gave out a chuckle. ‘Namaste, Padminiji.’
Akhil noticed Api fanning herself with the end of her pallu and reached over to his left to twist the rhino horn of the vent window; it swung out half-heartedly.
‘Thanks,’ said Api. ‘Ab chaliye, Padminiji. Your hubby is all set to be led by you.’
‘I am her second husband. But the first one only had good things to say about her.’
‘Oh. Passed on, is she?’
‘Respect a man’s choice, will you? I mean, thankfully—I was about to land up with Premier Aparajita, or was Aparajita the first name? I can’t remember. Well anyway, some get Padminis, some have to make do with Aparajitas.’
Akhil was looking straight ahead but he knew already that the joke had misfired. This was to be expected. It was too much for the brain to manage—anxiety, nervousness, anger, irritation, happiness, joy, pretence. Some steam was inevitable.
‘Really, Akhil.’
‘What?’
‘No really yaar, this is not done.’
Akhil pulled over to the side. He looked at Api. ‘Arey, a joke yaar.’
Api, knowing Akhil’s condition, didn’t really mind the joke but pretended otherwise. ‘Not done means not done.’
‘Come on! What happened to your famous sense of humour? Oh, hang on, sorry, that was me.’
‘Now, can we please make a move? Or should I do an aarti of your dear wife first?’
Akhil smiled and turned away, relieved. He honked to scare away a few stray dogs that had come sniffing, and continued onwards on their journey.
Api was relieved, too. This jumpiness from both of them was palpable. Perhaps, she thought, it was to be expected—seeing each other as they were after fifteen long years. She tried to lighten up. ‘You are mad. And judging by the present condition of dear Padmini, probably a wife beater, too.’
‘That’s slanderous—I could never. It’s just that every now and then my Padmini thinks she has had enough of me, drifts and veers towards other men...’
‘By other men you mean Qualises, Santros, Ambassadors…’
Akhil nodded his head. ‘Precisely.’
‘She’s a swinger then, is dear Padmini.’
‘Well, at least one of us is.’
‘I don’t blame her.’
‘Well anyway, so that’s the explanation for her nicks, chips, dents…’
‘Broken backside—sorry, bumper.’
‘Dark spots.’
‘Twisted axle.’
‘Busted taillights.’
‘Ruptured exhaust.’
‘Cracked windshield.’
‘Smelly glove box.’
‘Defective tachometer…smelly glove box? Oh come on, that’s too harsh. She doesn’t smell.’
‘This foul smell must be your doing, then. Sorry, Padmini, sorry. I thought the wife was to blame.’
Akhil laughed. ‘So often the misunderstanding.’
‘So, met anyone from Padmini’s family?’
‘That’s the great thing about her—no obnoxious in-laws.’
He had done it again. ‘Shit, sorry, listen, I didn’t mean…sorry yaar, really, Api. Got carried away with all this stupid nonsense, you know. Really, I am sorry, okay?’
Api looked out the window. She knew she had to be ready to drink all the poison. She closed her eyes and then opened them again, ready to take it all.
‘I said sorry na. Please, Api, now forget it. You want a Gold Flake?’
Akhil plopped the packet and the lighter in Api’s lap and snatched open the ashtray from the dashboard. Api lit two cigarettes and jammed one in Akhil’s mouth. Only a second later did it dawn on her that she had acted absentmindedly, a reflex coerced by memories, of years long past. Akhil realised it, too, but pretended to overlook it. He nursed a hearty drag, then let the smoke seep out slowly from the nose. ‘Thanks…’
No one spoke for the next few minutes. The silence was unbearable. It got to Akhil first.
‘Hey, Api yaar, I said sorry na.’
‘Haan? No no, nothing…’
‘Come on yaar, we are meeting after fifteen years. Put it down to the, down to the…insufferable excitement of seeing you again.’
Api smiled. ‘Achha yaar, forget it. Forgiven.’
‘That’s like a good friend. We are friends now, no Api?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Why not.’
‘So…’
‘Listening…’
‘Does your Padmini...’
Akhil smacked the steering. ‘Not again yaar, Aps, please—enough of Padmini for a day I think.’
‘I was about to say, does your Padmini sing, too.’
‘Like a koyal.’
‘What’s stopping her, then?’
Akhil stole his eyes away from the road for a moment and rummaged through the glove box. ‘Why not. What would you—is there a song you have in mind you want my Padmini to sing?’
‘No, we’ll go by her husband’s choice.’
‘As you please…’
Akhil got hold of a cassette and used his teeth to flick open the cover. He pushed the cassette into the music system.
‘...Aa jaao tadapte hain armaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’
‘Good God. I didn’t even know this was available on tape.’
‘...main row-oon yahaan, tum chup ho wahaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’
Akhil adjusted the volume. ‘Course it is.’
‘...chaand kee rangat udane lagee…wo taaron ke dil ab doob gaye...doob gaye...’
‘What has become of you? The world has moved on you know, Mr Devdas.’
Akhil contorted his face to bring out the Devdas look, and broke into the translation, placing a hand on his heart for added effect. ‘Yes, but I still ache for my beloved…when the night is passing by…’
Lata, unconcerned, continued with her mesmerising. ‘...hain dard bharaa bechain samaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’
‘…and I still cry here…while you are silent there…’
Api raised her eyebrows together with a reproachful smile. ‘Who, me? I think your love for Padmini has affected you irreparably. Sorry Pads, but I think it is time to look for a two-legged wife for my Akhil—not a four-wheeled one.’
‘…is chaand ke dolay mein aaee nazar...ye raat kee dulhan chal dee kidhar…chal dee kidhar...’
‘You think so?’
‘In the little time I have spent with you today, I know so.’
‘…aawaaz toh do, khoye ho kahaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’
‘Then can I please have one with a spacious boot?’
‘Akhil!’
‘…With those large, wondrous, calf-like eyes that my Padmini has.’
‘Padmini has calf-like eyes? Oh, stop it now.’
‘…ghabaraake nazar bhee haar gayee, takadeer ko bhee neend aane lagee…neend aane lagee...’
Akhil threw his head back and laughed. ‘Just one last thing while we are on the topic. So, you are going to be on the lookout for me, I take it?’
‘You leave me with no choice. It’s either this or watching my Akhil descend into complete and utter madness.’
‘...tum aate nahee, main jaaoon kahaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’
‘My Akhil?’
‘…’
Just a minor misfire this time, thought Akhil cheerfully. ‘Good. So I can stop my own search then.’
‘You mean you had put in your application at Rishtey hi Rishtey, twenty-eight Raugarhpura? I knew it!’
‘Not yet. But I’ll take a pass now.’
‘…Aa jaao tadapte hain aramaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’
‘So. What kind of woman would you want as your wife? Turn that prehistoric gramophone off, will you?’
‘...ab raat guza...’
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘I asked, what kind of wife...’
‘One not like you; sorry, like you; sorry, not like you.’
‘Decide, man.’
‘Seriously? You want to know? Or rather, you don’t know?’
‘How would I, Akhil?’
‘Indeed, how would you.’
‘…’
Akhil tried to think of something witty, but in the end, could only muster a meek ‘So…’
Api replied in equal measure. ‘So…’
‘Shit, listen yaar Api, this is getting a bit sil...’
Api saved the day. ‘Arey Akhil, are you in touch with any of the buggers from college?’
‘Off and on. Most of them married now, with kids. Some divorced…’
‘Ya? Like who?’
‘Remember Gaurav Batra? Drinks man at Stephen’s–Hindu basketball matches? Presently teaches at American University.’
‘Which one?’
‘No, American University, as in Delhi University.’
‘Oh…and Anupam?’
‘Was trying to communicate with some Nicobar tribes last I heard.’
‘Fat Bugga?’
‘Runs a start-up in San Fran; calls it 3.1417—for pi. Typical.’
‘Any sweetie pie for him yet?’
‘No, but apple pies, lots, judging by his love handles.’
‘And what of the ladies?’
‘What of them?’
‘Anyone you are in touch with?’
‘Rupali joined the UN as a translator, and Piya pitched her tent on the banks of Narmada along with Medha. And of course, there was this one woman who sought secure pastures and married an IPS officer. Now who was that, I wonder.’
‘Shut up.’
Careful now, Akhil warned himself. ‘…Busy travelling with her entourage of maalis and dhobis and aayaahs to all sorts of hill stations.’
‘What absolute rot.’
‘Hob-nobbing at IHC, IIC, Gymkhana, even shady circuit houses.’
‘Nonsense. We got admitted to Gymkhana only last year.’
‘Admitted. Sounds like a hospital. Hope your vaccinations are up to date.’
‘Ha-ha-ha, very funny.’
‘But tell me, seriously. How do you guys spend your time?’
‘Well, my dear husband keeps himself busy in matters of the state.’
‘Nabbing pocket-maars, twiddling the ears of roadside bhelpoori-waalaas, that sort of thing.’
‘Stop it. And yours truly...’
‘You were once.’
Can’t help it, can you, you smart little twat, moaned Akhil, and hung around, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, for the outcome of this current stupidity.
Thankfully for him, Api carried on. ‘…and yours truly supervises PhD students on a foreign language—and writes some treatise occasionally.’
‘Ya? What was the last one?’
‘An exploration of the possibility of the presence of elements of stream of consciousness in the poetry of T.S. Eliot.’
‘What in God’s name?’
Api rushed her hand to steady the steering wheel. ‘Watch it—with that scooter.’
‘Sorry. What was it—stream, something, something…’
‘Consciousness.’
‘And people think we scientists are the crazy ones.’
‘Count them—you’d find twice as many psychotic writers as scientists.’
‘So you keep away from IPS-memsaab kitty parties then, I take it.’
‘If you are interested, there are some very pretty IPS-memsaabs floating around—recently single.’
‘I am alright with my Padmini, thank you.’
‘No, really. Nice bumpers, too.’
‘Leave it na. So…given any demonstration of your anarchist tendencies lately?’
‘Protested over stuff, you mean? Nothing much. But did lead a morcha to the Crime Against Women Cell recently—was tear-gassed.’
‘Nasty.’
‘All this while, haven’t really asked you about your life.’
‘So ask.’
‘Well, how’s life?’
‘Good.’
Api gave a pleading look. ‘Akhil. Tell na.’
‘What’s there to tell yaar? Research and teaching keeps me busy…’
‘Just busy? Or very busy?’
‘There are days…but you know, being in this profession—if you can call it that—it gives you room to think about a lot of things…what people in other jobs don’t bother straining their brains on; a different perspective on things, the way the world works…science is a bit of a back-room thing, it slips in quietly.’
‘Tell me—is it frustrating?’
‘Sure it is. But then again, it’s a little different from you guys—the arts, I mean.’
‘Like how?’
‘Okay. For example, you read a great book or admire a great painting—what do you feel immediately afterwards? You say to yourself: Wow. Fantastic. How could this person write so well, paint so well?’
‘Yes…’
‘But you know, when I see a great work of science, when it comes out in the open, you know what I think? I think: Shit. Bastard. Why the hell didn’t I think of it.’
Api asked in all seriousness. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, and there’s the difference. A part of me feels gutted. I go into self-ridicule. I start analysing my frailties. I am sad for days. I shouldn’t be but somehow I manage to…I am telling you the reality. Of course, in public...’
‘So you get envious, resentful, jealous, self-obsessed…’
‘No, it’s not that, it’s not in a bad sense at all. I feel…I lost out—but in a good clean sense. When Mullis came up with PCR—you know, the guy who got the Nobel. Polymerase chain reaction.’
‘Used in DNA fingerprinting, right?’
‘Yes…well, when I first heard of it I felt gutted. All the reagents, the DNA, the polymerase, the primers, they were at hand. And such a simple idea. Why couldn’t I think of it, too? And guess where the bugger was when he got the idea? Stuck in a traffic jam in California, with his girlfriend.’
‘Ah.’
‘So that’s the beauty of it. Science is a wholly individual exercise. And it works in small steps. I mean, you never see a writer with a brilliant idea writing a book that’s one page, do you. But here, it is that one page, one line idea—that spark—is what matters. And when you see someone get that brilliant idea, you feel good for the dog but bad for yourself.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘With you guys, it never happens that a writer curses himself for not writing the exact masterpiece he just read, cursing that the whole English language was at his disposal, too.’
‘True.’
‘You guys admire it—the masterpiece, but you don’t feel bad about yourself.’
Api couldn’t agree more. ‘Yes…’
‘And this can be disconcerting. You see, at the core is the...’
Api looked out the window, at the millions of small shops claiming to sell everything from a screwdriver down to a screw. Everyone left to fend for themselves, everyone fending for themselves.
‘I am boring you.’
‘No no. So you must feel lonely…’
‘It can get mundane at times. I would have preferred being a theoretical scientist. All you need is a little paper and pencil—no equipment, no reagents, you know, not dependent on grant agencies, the bureaucracy. But what’s the point of doing science here anyway, haan? Look at the state of our country. I mean, how can I hide myself in my lab and forget all this…damn thing gets to me at times. Anyway, I am quite philosophical about it.’
‘Are you now. Akhil the philosopher. So, philosopher saab, tell me about your social life.’
‘First you. What’s your story?’
Api stayed silent for a long time. Then, slowly, measuring her words, she said, ‘Do naphthalene balls have a story?’
Instinctively, Akhil wanted to ask what she meant, but held back. They drove in slience for the next ten minutes.
Akhil said, ‘That made me think, Api.’
‘Sometimes a single sentence is enough.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Imprisoned in a cupboard, slowly, without telling anyone, without showing it, the naphthalene ball gets smaller and smaller. And then it disappears, even the odour, the scent, all traces.’
Akhil stole a glance at Api.
‘That’s my story.’
‘Not very different from mine, then.’
Api tried to cheer up. ‘Don’t be silly. Your turn. And please, for my sake, something more than just one sentence.’
‘There’s nothing really to tell.’
‘Come on, that can’t be.’
‘It is either the lab or the flat.’
Api poked one more time. ‘No friends, et cetera?’
‘I keep myself busy, though. I do my little bits here and there, you know.’
‘So…all in all, after hearing the defence of Muzrim Akhil Sukumar, I have come to the conclusion the muzrim must urgently be fixed up with a beautiful, understanding...’
‘Leave it, Api. I am okay as I am. Why ruin someone else’s life?’
‘What makes you think you will ruin her life?’
‘What makes you think I won’t?’
‘I detect some bitterness...’
Akhil exploded. ‘Bitterness? Bitterness. Look at my best friend. The bugger hasn’t even bothered to see me for fifteen years. He’s been in some other Brahmaand all this while.’
‘Come on yaar, you know it’s not like that. We have been...’
Akhil knew he was losing it but he couldn’t stop. ‘And what does he have that I don’t? Oh yes, he has Aparajita. My Aparajita.’
‘Akh...’
‘The Aparajita who made ten promises and seven vows behind the college chapel. The Aparajita who herself was vanquished by the rules of this society.’
‘…’
‘It’s funny how Aparajita means the one who cannot be vanquished. It really should be the one who bloody choked.’
How far is too far. How much more can you stretch a man’s endurance before you break it into a million pieces, before the thrill of I-can’t-care-less grips you.
‘Look, I am sorry, Api. I don’t know what came over me. This is stupid...’
‘No, Akhil, it is my fault. I somehow imagined time would have covered up all those terrible...’
‘Guess I turned out to be a little more difficult to cover up than time had imagined.’
‘Coming to Mumbai was a mistake…’
‘No, don’t say that, Api, don’t. Don’t make that face, Api, don’t cry now. I had promised myself I would behave, that I would try and wipe off the past, but looks like I couldn’t do it. I tried—could you at least not grant me that? Fifteen years of loneliness, of silence...’
‘Akhil…’
‘Fifteen years of hate, anger, sadness, disgust, I kept it to myself.’
‘My Akhil…’
‘Could you not overlook my crime, just this once? I mean it when I say that I am very happy for you, and of course for your bastard husband. I really mean it.’
‘I know you do.’
‘So forgive me.’
‘Of course, sweetheart.’
‘And don’t call me that.’
‘Th-ha. Okay.’
‘Thank you.’
Api looked at him adoringly.
‘Do you realise, Api, that all this while my Padmini has been listening quietly to our conversation?’
‘No never, no Padmini, please! She is the root of all our troubles.’
‘Women usually are.’
‘That’s not how you thought when you wrote that poem in my honour, did you, Devdas ji?’
‘Which one?’
Api smiled. ‘You mean you wrote more than one?’
‘Well, how else can one do justice to your immense beauty?’
‘Shaawd-upp.’
‘Ya, I remember. Goddamn cheesy it was, too.’
Api protested. ‘Hey, I thought it was beautiful.’
‘You did? You should have said so at the time.’
‘Well, you know how girls were back in those days—stupid, timid, petite…’
‘Two outta three ain’t bad.’
‘Very funny. You remember that you wrote a poem, or you remember the poem itself?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Akhil shook his head mockingly and cleared his throat. ‘Aps, Aps, Aps. For my nights that gently sleep…’
‘No way. No bloody way.’
‘…Are awakened by the light of your morning
And my eyes that gently weep
Are opened by your whispers that say nothing
Is it your smile or your frown that kills me
That I cannot decide
Is it my pleasure or my pain when I see you
That I cannot hide
I can’t recall the time you were gone
Is it a week, a month, a year
I can’t forget your last words
To yearn, to ache, is to fear
There was that night, there was that rain
There were your arms, there was your grip
There were your locks, twisting in the wind
There was your smell, there was your lip.
And the night came again, so did the rain
But the arms were gone, so was the grip
And the locks, those locks, away they sailed
But your smell remains, as does your lip.’
Akhil looked triumphantly at Api. ‘What? What are you looking at? You thought I’d forgotten it, did you? I wrote it. What is astonishing is that you remember it. Or do you?’
‘Why would I forget it...how could I have forgotten it?’
‘I don’t know—too many reasons.’
‘Never enough.’
‘Gratified.’
‘…the horror—the horror.’
Akhil stole a glance at Api. ‘What? What horror?’
‘No, Professor saab, I meant the horror—the horror that you remembered it.’
‘What is so horrible about that?’
‘No, it is horror in a nice sort of way—like astonishing, oh-my-God oh-my-God. Understood, budhoo?’
Akhil looked a little lost.
Api smiled. ‘Heart of Darkness...Conrad...No?’
‘Don’t know what you are on about.’
‘No, the phrase “the horror, the horror”, taken from Conrad.’
Akhil wore the expression of a Tamil boy lost in a Latin class. He ducked his head out and noticed they were on Pedder Road.
Api was laughing. ‘You mean…good lordy. You mean it has only ever been sulphuric acid and ammonia and benzene and salt and pepper?’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Come-awnn. You are talking to a lecturer in English, my test-tube loving primate—and you tell me you haven’t read a single word that wasn’t your silly chemistry?’
‘Well, you are talking to an assistant professor in chemistry, my vilaayti mem—ever heard of Grignard Reagent? No?’
‘Ulysses...No?’
‘Diels-Alder Reaction...No?’
‘Catch-22...No?’
‘Swern Oxidation...No?’
‘Slaughterhouse-Five...No?’
‘Wittig Reaction...No?’
‘The Great Gatsby...No?’
‘Schotten-Baumann Reaction...No?’
‘Animal Farm...No?’
‘Yamaguchi Esterification...No?’
‘Lolita...No?’
‘Wolff-Kishner Reduction...No?’
‘The Grapes of Wrath...No?’
‘Reformatsky Reaction...No?’
‘Under the Volcano...No?’
‘Ullmann Reaction...No?’
‘I, Claudius...No?’
‘Fukuyama Coupling...No?’
‘A Clockwork Orange...No?’
‘Rosenmund-von Braun Reaction...No?’
‘To the Lighthouse...No?’
‘Rosenmund Reduction...No?’
‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man...No?’
‘Baker-Venkataraman Rearrangement...No?’
‘Deliverance...No?’
‘Clemmensen Reduction...No?’
‘An American Tragedy...No?’
‘Cope Elimination...No?’
‘As I Lay Dying...No?’
‘Dess-Martin Oxidation...No?’
‘The Joke...No?’
‘Mitsunobu Reaction...No?’
‘Native Son...No?’
‘Arbuzov Reaction...No?’
‘The Good Soldier...No?’
‘Doebner Modification...No?’
‘Henderson the Rain King...No?’
‘Eschweiler-Clarke Reaction...No?’
‘On the Road...No?’
‘Heck Reaction...No?’
‘The Postman Always Rings Twice...No?’
‘Favorskii Reaction...No?’
‘Appointment In Samarra...No?’
‘Finnegans Wake...No?’
‘A Passage to India...No?’
‘Friedel-Crafts Acylation...No?’
‘The Alexandria Quartet...No?’
‘Grubbs Reaction...No?’
‘The Way of All Flesh...No?’
‘Hofmann Elimination...No?’
‘Light In August...No?’
‘Cannizzaro Oxidation Reduction...No?’
‘The Wings of the Dove...No?’
‘Horner-Wadsworth-Emmons Reaction...No?’
‘Tender Is the Night...No?’
‘Hunsdiecker Reaction...No?’
‘All the King’s Men...No?’
‘Meerwein-Ponndorf-Verley Reduction...No?’
‘The Bridge of San Luis Rey...No?’
‘Michael Addition...No?’
‘Go Tell It On the Mountain...No?’
‘Iwanow Reaction...No?’
‘Lord of the Flies...No?’
‘Kochi Reaction...No?’
‘A Dance to the Music of Time...No?’
‘Nozaki-Hiyama Coupling...No?’
‘A Bend In The River...No?’
‘Oppenauer Oxidation...No?’
‘Death Comes for the Archbishop...No?’
‘Overman Rearrangement...No?’
‘Ragtime...No?’
‘Mannich Reaction...No?’
‘Angle of Repose...No?’
‘Passerini Reaction...No?’
‘The Catcher In the Rye...No?’
‘Pechmann Condensation...No?’
‘Of Human Bondage...No?’
‘Wurtz Reaction...No?’
‘A Farewell to Arms...No?’
‘Sharpless Epoxidation...No?’
‘Lord Jim...No?’
‘Sandmeyer Reaction...No?’
‘The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie...No?’
‘Wenker Synthesis...No?’
‘Kim...No?’
‘Staudinger Cycloaddition...No?’
‘Winesberg, Ohio...No?’
‘Tamao-Kumada Oxidation...No?’
‘Sophie’s Choice...No?’
‘Woodward cis-Hydroxylation...No?’
Can’t trust her. Wears short skirts, smokes, drinks. Goes out with boys. Comes home at odd hours. No character. She was also seen buying tampons. Why would an unmarried girl buy tampons? Also beer. Pretends to listen to Indian classical music so she can fool us. Outside she does Bollywood dance. Don’t trust but verify. It is our aadhaar.
He is a good man. Always obeys his parents. Only social drinker. No bad habits. Had some girlfriends. It’s normal. After all, what is there? He only exchanges books and music with them. At least it proves he is not a homosexual or a transgender. Thank God. At the right time we can find a nice girl for him. From a good family. Trust but verify.
Indians don’t have sex. Especially the men. Beef outside is okay, not in the house. Foreign cows are even better. Foreigners like the Kama Sutra because they begin from a very young age. In South India, we have Syama Sastri—music, music, divine music. Love? What has love got to do with anything? What has love got to do with marriage? What has marriage to do with sex? What has anything got to do with anything in a culture where every relationship has an accepted name? Wife, daughter, mother, sister, cousin sister, cleaning lady, pati, aunty. Woman? Okay, how about lady? No? Okay—cook and caretaker.
Beware of the single, unattached woman. Something must be wrong with her. How can she be good-looking, educated and single? Has the three-body problem ever been solved? One can understand if she was ugly or had buck teeth. Maybe she has a thyroid problem. Must recommend her to a good specialist—he will sort her out.
In a society where it is difficult to tell the difference between misogyny and patriarchy, the best trick in the book is to blame the woman. In a country where millions of women have spent entire lives protecting the reputation of the family, who gets to throw the first stone at Magdalene There is not a single woman in any part of the world who has not been a witness to or been a victim of violence and sexual harassment—from rape to thrashing, from starvation to ostracising. How long can we take this? How long can a woman remain unwoman so society can accept her? Intellect, in the absence of social choices, is falsely primed but when a personal decision has to be made—like picking a life partner—multitudinous variables kick in. Blackmail works.
When it suits us, women are worshipped and revered. When it suits us, women are indulged in, admired, and even treated as equals. When it suits us, we praise women who destroy their bodies and souls because suffering builds a woman’s character. When it suits us, she is playing victim. When it suits us, it doesn’t suit us. And when it doesn’t suit us, she must be a prostitute. Not a devadasi. Yallamma! A prostitute.
When it suits us, we’ll even borrow a pinch of clay from where whores live to shape a Goddess.
When it suits us.
How can you love when you have not been loved? How can you occupy your own space when you have been occupied by others? How can you even begin to feel like a child, a daughter, a young woman, a lover in a country where the first time most women encounter their sexuality is either through abuse or disease? How can you even begin to understand that every relationship has a place, a time and a border, when every space is violated and turned upside down?
Akhil and Aparajita fell in love. Serves them right. Only in English do people ‘fall’ in love. In Hindi, they don’t. In Hindi we say, ‘Mujhe tumse pyar ho gaya hai’ and not ‘Main pyar mein gir gaya’. See? And therein lies our culture. Equal-equal, same-same. Everything can be said behind the temple. The arangetram is on the stage, but the classes, the shrutibhedam is at home. In the afternoons. When you grow up, you will understand what women mean when they say, ‘In the end he will come back to his family’. You will understand after you get married why that cleaning lady was asked to leave. She jumped on the master of the house. And she was “pet sey”. So she was shipped off to some back-of-the-beyond hamlet with a little money never to be heard of again. That’s how we treat our women. That’s how Indian women treat other Indian women. Generally. That’s how women opposed to such practices also learn to keep silent. Not all, but most. Choice is a luxury.
You have to be cultured to understand that violence against women is part of human history. Historically, armies have killed the men and raped the women. That is why in some cultures you can have four wives. Because all the men are dead and who will keep the production neé progeny going?
That is the heart of the matter. That is how victors write history. That is how the strong in a family tell stories. There will always be a loose woman in every family. You see, India is a great civilisation. We live in many centuries. Our women understand this. That is why there is no place like India. For women. And that is why there is no place for women in India. Everything depends on what you are dealt.
Have you ever fallen in love? Did you tell him? Or did you just keep your feelings to yourself because you were confused and kept muttering: ‘Is rishte ko kya naam doon?’
Or you want to let him slip by only to see him after fifteen years? Yeah, we can arrange that, too. What’s the matter with you—you have no heart?
Darpok!
Kai rishton kay naam nahi hotey—the very universe that frightens you makes you think like this. It is okay to be different. It is okay to be of a different level of culture. It is okay to be childlike and philosophical at the same time. These are all but manifestations of the atman. Of that, there is only one. Atman wearing skirts is also acceptable as is the one wearing pink-striped shoes.