The leak in your bathroom ceiling was an act of providence.
It was I who first detected it. I’d spent the day in your house and early evening I decided to take a shower. I entered your bedroom and as I took a few steps in, realised my feet were submerged in water. I called out to you and asked if you were somehow responsible for this. You seemed as surprised as me. I traced the source of the water to the wall adjoining the bathroom that faced the bed. Something had gone wrong because within seconds the wall was host to a waterfall. I rushed to the living room and grabbed a few sets of newspapers, which I then spread across the floor. I brought a dry cloth and a bucket and started to collect water so we could undo the mess. You rushed off to the neighbour’s flat upstairs and managed to have the water supply turned off; it took at least half an hour before the spill could subside.
In three days you’d have to leave on an assignment. We were justifiably unsure of what the next move should be. Things were slowly falling apart. Stretches of the ceiling were threatening to dislodge themselves. The walls of what used to be your darkroom had turned damp too and we had to move all the things you’d stored there so you wouldn’t lose them to the flood. It was a strenuous exercise for both of us.
One day before you were to leave, you told me casually that your downstairs neighbour was concerned about the situation. We got lucky this time because we were at home. Rather, I was at home with you. If you were alone, I’m certain you wouldn’t have noticed the deluge until midnight, when you would have finally left your study to head to bed. But if the leakage were to resume in your absence, nothing could be done. We’d have to break down the door to get in. You’d have lost everything.
‘Can I give you my keys while I’m gone?’ you asked.
‘Of course,’ I said, trying hard to disguise my utter happiness at finally having possession of those few milligrams of metal I’d been lusting after for so long.
‘Will you promise to call me should anything go wrong?’
‘Absolutely.’
So you submitted your house to my care. You didn’t exactly have a choice. You couldn’t cancel your trip. It was the perfect solution.
Those seven days you were away were gruelling, to say the least. Each day a new calamity unfolded. One day it was the ceiling in the storage room, the next it was the geyser in the front bathroom that randomly began to squirt water at an enormous pressure.
And then there was the errant balcony drain.
One evening during that tiresome week, I went to an art opening. There was an installation that called itself ‘The Panic Room’. It was meant to be interactive, so I stepped inside the square set of jute bags that lay on the floor and pressed the red button with my feet as instructed. The bags inflated around me and the square boundary transformed into a looming tower, entrapping me. All I could see beyond the four jute walls was a stretch of ceiling. I was unimpressed. I didn’t feel any panic, in fact, I felt cocooned and calm and isolated from the pretentious faces that had surrounded me all evening. I sat down with my glass of wine. I was told to press the green button when I needed to deflate the walls, when I began to feel claustrophobic, which I learned later was the point of the installation. But I didn’t feel ready yet to leave this jute shell. Suddenly, the jute bags began to deflate themselves, leaving me exposed. Apparently the panic room overheated itself because I didn’t panic soon enough.
I went back to my place that night because I had a ride. I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. It was your neighbour. She sounded distressed. She told me your balcony was leaking. I woke up instantly and told her I’d be over as soon as I could.
My breath started to collapse. My heart announced its fear and beat ferociously. The muscles around my chest started to quiver as I envisioned disaster. I retraced my steps. Yes, I’d definitely closed all the taps. I’d shut off the washing machine too, so this couldn’t possibly be my fault. Why did this have to happen on my watch? It took you three years to trust me with your keys! I could sense impending doom. I should have slept in your bed last night. I shouldn’t have abandoned your house for mine.
I ate my breakfast mechanically. I wouldn’t have bothered but my flatmate had taken the trouble to whip eggs into an omelette and lace it with slices of Gouda. She’d even toasted bagels and had buttered them so they were ready to eat. I held the bread in my mouth and searched for the bits of Gouda but all I could taste was disaster. I tried to make conversation but every sentence was a dead-end that took me back to the subject of probable collapse.
Images flashed in my head at the speed of half-thoughts. As long as you were around we were partners in disaster. Still, I’d rather you let me house-sit than leave your home unsupervised.
I rushed over to your house and scanned the balcony from downstairs. Then I sprinted towards your door, negotiated the three locks that kept me from the scene of disaster. I headed to the balcony and felt confused. I couldn’t find any water there except for the memory of it that was contained in the large stain in the corner beside the clogged drain. You returned my panic call and instructed me to simply unclog the drain. I did. I explained the situation. I told you it must have rained last night and since there was nowhere for the water to go, it seeped through the layers in the ground until it found four or five little outlets and then it began the process of catharsis.
I wished I was as calm and relaxed as I had been when the jute bags inflated around me in that artificially controlled panic room. I should have had more respect for the time zone you were in. I shouldn’t have called you at that unearthly hour of morning and invaded your sleep. But nothing could have salved me. Your voice was the tonic I needed. ‘Thank you,’ you said over the phone and I knew you meant it. By then I had begun to leak salt water, little pearls had started to drip across my cheeks. I tried to say something in between my long, deep breaths but my malformed thoughts couldn’t translate into sound. All I managed was a monosyllabic goodbye, after which you disconnected.
We know now that your upstairs neighbour was the one at fault. He had been renovating his house and quite obviously, your house had to bear the brunt of it. As a reward, though, you began to leave your house in my care more often than before. And even when you returned from your voyaging, you would let me keep one set of keys so I could ‘be more independent’.
I relish staying in your house while you’re away. I find the intensity of my yearning for you is less stifling when I sleep in the comfort of your bed. Although it takes me a while to fall asleep, I wake up rested, sunlight gleaming upon my face. I enjoy being able to maintain the same routine I’d have if you were here; making myself a pot of tea, opening the windows in the living room to let in the air and the sun, and spending the day working, the evening with a glass of single malt and writing my way into the night. The only glitch is my inability to eat alone. I hate having to cook for one, and while I don’t mind eating alone elsewhere, I find it particularly difficult in your house. I’ve grown too accustomed to having you sit across from me, indulging me in conversation over dinner, drinks and cigarettes.
But everything was threatened a few weeks ago. You were out of town, I stayed back in your house. It was afternoon when you called to say you had reached Bombay. I told you it was unbearably hot. You told me to turn on the AC and park myself either in the bedroom or the office. I did as you said. Switched the relevant regulator on, turned on the AC and left the room to cool while I made myself some lunch, did a round of washing, put the clothes out to dry, and engaged in other household chores. When I was done I decided to take an air-conditioned nap. I woke up when I noticed the light flickering. I turned off the AC and went to the living room to work. An hour later I got a call from you. Your neighbours had called you to say they saw sparks in your front balcony. You asked me to take a look. I did. The wires between the two fans connected to the split ACs were on fire. It was a proper electrical fire.
The next half hour you recited a string of instructions, got me to turn off all the fuses so I could pour water to stop the fire, got me to check on random things to ensure there were no more sparks, and finally told me not to even think of turning on the ACs again. You said you’d arranged for someone to come home the next morning to inspect what had happened.
I agonised over it for hours. I knew I was not at fault. I’d done nothing wrong. But I was sure this meant the end of my relationship with your keys. This would be your excuse to take them back. And I was right. When you returned and witnessed the aftermath of the electrical fire, you knew we had got lucky. It could have been an outright disaster. The building could have burnt down. After you had the electrician fix it, you told me this was why you preferred to have the house locked. You could have lost everything, you said. I wanted to remind you of the times when my being in your house had saved you from ruin, but I thought it best to be quiet.
When you had to leave again, I kept all my things together so I could leave with you, like we used to do before. We woke up at six in the morning so you could pack. I made tea and then took care to ensure there was nothing edible in the fridge that would rot. I disposed of the leftover milk and curd, toasted the remaining bread, and packed the few tomatoes that were in the fridge so I could take them with me. I covered all the kitchen surfaces with cloth so they wouldn’t gather dust, closed all the windows so the pigeons wouldn’t colonise the house in your absence, and ensured everything was tidy and in place. You were still packing, so I lay down on the divan to catch a few minutes of sleep. When I woke up you were bathed and ready to go. I got up and rushed to get my clothes together so I could take a shower. But you stopped me mid-way, as you were wearing your socks.
‘You don’t look like you’re ready to leave,’ you said.
‘No, just give me five minutes. I’ll be ready. I’m sorry. I was just really tired and needed to sleep.’
‘Listen, why don’t you just relax. I’m ready to go, but you can stay and leave whenever you like. Keep the keys with you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Keep the keys but don’t stay here at night because I’d rather you didn’t turn on the AC. I don’t want you to have to deal with fires and other calamities.’
‘Okay.’
I helped you carry your luggage downstairs. The taxi was waiting. The same Sardar who normally drops you to the airport was ready to leave. I wondered if he wondered who I am, though by now he must have grown accustomed to seeing me with you. I kissed you goodbye.
‘See you on the other side,’ you said.
‘I hope so,’ I said.
You meant Paris. You were scheduled to be there in the second week of July. I was supposed to meet you there. It was the first time I’d come this close to actually making it abroad. There were just a few weeks left until my twenty-seventh birthday. I wanted to spend it with you. There was also the matter of my yet unfulfilled birthday wish made last year—to go travelling with you. The fate of my trip rested in the hands of anonymous visa officials. You did your best to ensure I could get this far. You badgered me into getting letters from relevant authorities and making all the necessary phone calls. I submitted my papers a few days ago. I was yet to hear back.
As clichéd as it sounds, all I wanted was to be able to look back at our romance years later, when we were probably no longer together, and remember with a tinge of nostalgia and delight that despite everything, we’d always have Paris.