4

Shivani’s walking in. I know it’s her because she had told me what she would be wearing — a sleeveless green top and dark blue jeans. I’m about to wave when I decide to wait just a bit. There are three men sitting by themselves at different tables; two of them look sort of the right age. I want to see if Shivani can guess who I am — now that would be a demonstration of her ‘powers’. Failing that, I guess I want to spring a surprise of my own.

We’re at the Barista on Park Street, where, on only two previous occasions, I have met correspondents in person. As you might have guessed, I live nowhere near here.

In both the earlier cases, after a period of being in touch, I had felt they were in danger of serious self-harm. It’s the reason I’m here today, two days after Shivani and I first exchanged emails, although not because I think she is profoundly depressed or suicidal. But when someone believes their powers include jumping off fifth-floor balconies and coming right back up (or making others do so), and they talk about testing out such powers, and of parents with whom nothing can be shared, it’s pretty clear what the only grown-up who seems to know about any of this urgently needs to do.

In case you’re wondering, Shivani has no chance of recognising me. You see, the photo that appears alongside my weekly column is that of a dear cousin who lives in far-away Evanston, Illinois, and has most kindly granted me ‘image rights’ for this one purpose. Which is why right now Shivani, having glanced at each of the men, looks confused. She heads upstairs to check out the mezzanine section; I’ll call her over when she comes back down.

My problem is that I’m a teacher at a very conservative school that would strongly disapprove of a member of staff doling out advice in an agony column on subjects such as masturbation, the ‘first time’ or coming out. It’s a column, by the way, aimed specifically at the young. Hence I have to use my cousin’s photograph and a false name for purposes of concealment from colleagues and students. I suppose you could say I am a little bit like a superhero.

As it happens, there is a family resemblance between my cousin and me (our mothers are sisters), but Shivani in my opinion still has very little chance of identifying me. Not because I’m sporting a beard or anything, but for the more basic reason that she’s expecting to meet a man!

What can I tell you? I love my job and I loved the idea of the column. This was the only way to do both. And if you’re going to disguise yourself, you might as well do it right.

Now if you’re thinking I’m the one who needs help, you’re just being rude.

But Shivani proves impossible to convince that I’m not some secretary who’s been sent along by her boss (‘What a sexist assumption, by the way,’ I make sure to tell her). At one point I have to use my teacher’s voice (in a lower tone, of course) to warn her that if she doesn’t calm down, her only chance of a hearing is about to walk out. People around us are staring.

‘Just start talking, Shivani, and you’ll soon see if I am the person you need or not.’

‘But why, Aunty? If you’re telling the truth, why can’t you write the column as yourself?’

‘I must have my reasons, na, just as you did for not wanting me to publish your letter, which I respected. Just as you did for insisting that we meet in person, which is the reason I’m here, thereby taking the risk of revealing my own biggest secret to you. I trusted you when you implored that you needed me; why don’t you try doing the same?’

By the way, I checked yesterday if there was anyone called Shivani Jalan in Classes VIII, IX or X at my school, just to be on the safe side. If there had been, I would have cancelled our meeting. I had discounted the chances of her using a false name because her email address contained S.Jalan as well. I chose to believe a kid wouldn’t go to that much trouble. Although now that I’m writing about it, how quickly I accepted, based on four emails, that I was indeed communicating with a fifteen-year-old girl. How easily we pull the wool over our own eyes and imagine ourselves to be the smarter one. I’m lucky that each of the correspondents I’ve met in person turned out to be genuine, and went on to respect my secret. Otherwise, what a straightforward sting operation it would be for a blackmailer or a journalist: just pretend to be suicidal and she’ll show up.

Thankfully, I’m not important enough for anyone to care.

So at least we know your ‘powers’ don’t include clairvoyance, is something I decide not to say.

After I have ordered us both iced coffees, I try to change the subject by asking Shivani the name of her school. It would be useful to know in case I’m sent there as an invigilator during next year’s board exams.

But Shivani remains suspicious. She seems deeply wary of the manipulation angle, that all sorts of people would be interested in someone who can imagine something and make it happen. Which I guess makes sense if I see it from her perspective, believing what she believes. Because, after all, she hasn’t come to me with a ‘problem’. She has come with a gift that people dream of having, that is the stuff of fairy tales. Who wouldn’t want to trick, dupe, use or abduct her? And look what a huge deception I had started with.

Thank God I’m not a man who pretends in his column to be a woman, I reflect, because right now, fairly or not, that would probably add an extra aura of sleaze. While I understand that in theory one shouldn’t lie in anything that involves kids, especially vulnerable ones, this is precisely why I’m so reluctant to meet those who write to me. I want to be more useful than just being a history teacher, which is the reason I do the column. But I can’t do it without the lie.

Yet, today, it proves to be an impossible barrier. Nothing else I say calms Shivani down. She has hardly touched her iced coffee, as if she is suspicious even of that.

‘How do you and Ravi know each other?’ she asks at one point.

‘Who?’

‘He sent you, didn’t he? Can I check your phone to see if you have his number?’

I refuse that request, but try to lighten the mood by reminding her she owes me a miracle. She looks shocked by the very idea.

‘I promised Chandra Sir a miracle. I have no idea who you are. How old are you anyway?’

Suddenly my patience snaps, and I get up and say, ‘You’re right. You didn’t promise me anything, so I’ll be off now. All the best with your gifts. On your precious Sir’s behalf, let me say one thing — please don’t put yourself or anyone else at risk again.’

Shivani frustrates me further by saying, ‘I knew you were lying. They would never let you write his column.’ But I also see her disappointment and desperation.

‘Shivani, please continue to email your Sir. He wants to stay in touch with you. He believes in you. That’s why he sent me, even though he couldn’t make it himself.’

I leave the café and turn right towards my car which is parked on Russell Street. I have just gone past the Oxford Book Store when someone pulls me forcefully from behind. I’m about to angrily turn around when I realise that in fact the force holding me in place is coming from up ahead. It feels as though I’m walking into an exceptional headwind, against which, at least for the moment, I can make no progress. I turn around to confirm this sensation, and sure enough, although I still cannot move, there isn’t anyone holding on to me.

Yet all around me others are coming and going, seemingly unaffected by this apparent gale. Why is no one else struggling to walk? Why aren’t people being blown off their feet in the opposite direction? Most of all, why are there no other traces of this phantom gust? Even the chocolate wrapping over there on the ground isn’t moving. The leaves on that rubber plant are absolutely still.

I’ve just glanced at the roof of the arcade to check whether I’m being pinned in place by a very strong fan or an air-conditioner discharge when I take my first steps backwards. Back past the bookstore entrance, down across the unpaved driveway that leads into the Masonic compound, and back again on to the footpath past the book and magazine stalls. There is no chance to turn around, let alone resist or push back. I become aware not just of curious faces watching this woman walking backwards but that all of me is being pushed, more than a force centred on my forehead, for example, or my chest.

I nearly fall over outside the Moulin Rouge entrance. The push has suddenly stopped. Two kindly-looking young men who from the lanyards around their necks appear to be mobile-phone salesmen ask if I’m feeling dizzy. I reply that I think I will be all right from here.

Moments before I was ‘allowed’ to stop, I’d understood what was happening to me. It had taken me more than a minute in the grip of this irresistible force to figure it out, which I suppose is a fair measure of my scepticism.

On a crowded Park Street pavement at 6.30 in the evening I had experienced horizontally what a fifteen-year-old girl had known in an infinitely more terrifying manner three days before. Shivani just gave me the demo ‘miracle’ I’d demanded. She even respected my request for something non-risky.

She is still waiting at the café a few metres away. She lets me walk this distance normally.

‘Perhaps now your boss will consider it worth his while to meet me,’ she says as I approach the table. Then she gets up and leaves.

I stand there, as stymied and frustrated as I am in awe. A large white BMW appears outside the café, and Shivani goes away. I wonder what miracle I could have performed to prove my unbelievable contention. Look at my phone — every email that is sent to ‘my boss’ comes to me!

Well, that’s because you are a competent and trusted secretary, she would have instantly replied.

Nevertheless I message her: ‘Use your power for good. The world needs superheroes. Whenever in doubt, PLEASE write to Chandra Sir, or at least try one of your parents.’

And back in my car, before I drive off, I make a note to self: ‘I have met today a teenage prodigy hypnotist. She pinned me in place, then made me walk backwards for over 100 metres! I wasn’t even in her presence at the time! MUST stay in touch every couple of days, even if it means keeping up the ridiculous pretence of being Chandra. She is only beginning to realise the full extent of her power by trying out different stunts on people. It’s the most dangerous of times. PS: Gauge when it’s safe to let parents know.’

Minutes later, the phone pings, and I read the message while waiting at the lights at the Lower Circular Road crossing.

Thank you for mocking me, again! Please pass on to your boss that lives are at stake unless he deigns to meet me. NOT JOKING!

And parents are NOT an option!! Insisting on telling my parents only makes me believe in you less.