One day Ritu pointed out a woman sitting in the corner of the café. She had short hair, cut in a style that was mannish, and she wore loose jeans and a plain kurta. Ritu whispered her assessment to Salma, “Oh, see her, over there, she wants to be a man. She was in my maths class years ago. I think she dropped out of college. I heard that she had a girlfriend in Pune who left her for another girl and then she became so upset and that’s when her studies suffered. Can you imagine that, Salma? That one for sure will never find a husband.”
“Good for her!” Salma snorted, warming up to return to their previous argument, “Maybe she doesn’t want to find a husband. And how do you know so much about her anyway?” Ritu sighed in exasperation and turned her attention to a tall man who had just entered Baldev’s. Salma did not doubt Ritu’s information. She always seemed to know so much about other people’s private business. She was her best source of gossip.
While Ritu whispered about the other patrons at Baldev’s, Salma surreptitiously watched the mannish woman drinking her chai in the corner. She studied her hairstyle and the way she sat, one leg crossed over the other knee like a man would. Her clothing was also different from Salma’s own feminine salwaar. Why would she dress that way? Did she really want to be a man? Had she really been with a woman? And what type of woman? Were they intimate? The questions circled Salma’s mind a few times, distracting her until Ritu’s voice finally brought her back. She joined her friend in watching a foreign couple standing at the counter, so tall and pale, conspicuously towering over everyone else. When Salma looked back toward the corner, the woman had left, her seat empty.
Later the same evening, while Salma sat marking her fifth standard students’ compositions, she found her mind drifting back to the woman in the café. What made a girl turn that way? Salma could understand having crushes on girls – hadn’t she experienced that from time to time? She especially admired some of her teachers in school. There was Miss Shah and Mrs. Gandhi. They were both pretty, young women who seemed so modern and smart to her. She would volunteer to help them after school so that she could spend more time with them. But these attractions were nothing like Ritu’s gossip about that woman in the café.
A week later, Salma arrived at Baldev’s and searched the busy café for a table, weaving through the narrow space between the crowded tables, looking for an empty place. A voice called out to her from behind, “I’m just about to go, you want this table?” She turned gratefully toward the helpful voice and found herself looking at the woman who had piqued her curiosity the week before.
“Yes, thanks. You sure you’re ready to go?” Salma looked down at the woman’s half-filled teacup. “Finish your tea. I’m still waiting for my friend to arrive. I can wait.”
“OK, then sit down and wait here. Join me for a minute before your friend arrives.” She extended a hand toward Salma, “I’m Raj Patel. I’ve seen you before.”
“Salma Pittawalla. Yes, I noticed you last week.” She felt herself warm under the cotton armpits of her blouse.
“Quite a melee here, no? Just two years ago this place was a good place to come to study, it was so quiet then.”
“Yes it was less fashionable back then. Don’t tell me you still try to study in this chaos?”
“No, I’m not in school,” she looked up at Salma self-consciously. “I was taking journalism at Xavier, but I still have another year to complete. Maybe I’ll go back. Right now I don’t have much use for what I learned working in my father’s shop.”
“Which shop is that?” Salma found herself wanting to gather as much as she could about this woman before Ritu arrived. For once she could impress her friend with some bit of gossip. “Is it near here?”
“Yes, we own a computer supplies shop – Patel’s Computers, just down the road.”
“Oh yes, I know it. I don’t think I’ve ever been in, though. I don’t even know how to use a computer. I suppose I should learn, it’s supposed to be India’s future, they say.”
“Well, for the sake of the business, I hope so. Do you work?” Salma nodded. “What type of work are you in?” she asked, her eyes curious, and friendly.
“I teach Standard Five. English mostly, but –” Salma looked up to see Ritu pushing her way though the café. “Oh, there’s my friend now.” Raj gathered her things and stood up. “Wait, why don’t you stay? I’m sure we can find an extra chair,” Salma said, craning her neck to look for what had turned into a precious commodity. “Ritu, this is Raj. She was just sharing her table with me. Can you see any more chairs to pull up?”
“No, no, I’ve got to get back to the shop anyway. Ritu, I think we’ve met before. Did you go to Xavier?”
“Yes, I think you’re correct,” Ritu said stiffly.
“Well, nice chatting, Salma. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”
“Yes, I’m sure. See you. And thanks for the table.”
As Salma watched Raj leave the café, Ritu whispered, “What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?
“You’d better be careful. Sitting with her, you never know what people will think. Do you want people to say you are her newest girlfriend?”
“Don’t be silly. We were just talking. She offered a seat to me. Look around. You can’t find a free table anywhere. She was being nice.”
“Still, people will talk. It’s alright when you are younger, but not now. I know you don’t care about marriage options, but you might one day. You need to be careful.”
“You sound like my mother. I don’t care what people talk about. And, you’re quite correct, I don’t much care about getting married either.” “Well, that’s your business. But you should make sure your options remain open.” Ritu signaled for the waiter and ordered a kulfi, then changing her mind, she ordered tea and said, “I don’t want to be too fat in my wedding photos. Did I tell you that we managed to get one of the best photographers in this city?” Salma nodded, pretending to listen, her eyes following Raj move down the sidewalk, disappearing into the crowd.
Now, over a decade later, Salma is married, a mother, and barely a teacher. She watches the sky brighten slightly from her place on the couch. A twinge of guilt creeps through her and she allows herself to wonder where Raj might be now. She uncurls her legs from under her and stands up on the couch, facing the raani.
A few minutes later, Shaffiq comes home and finds his wife in this strange position, her face so close to the painting that she is fogging up the glass with her breath. He shakes his head. What is she doing? She looks like a crazed apostle listening for advice. What has come over his Salma? Eventually, she turns to him, her eyes glassy and tired.
“Salma, why are you up? What’s happening?”
“I just woke up a little while ago,” she says placidly, “I was just admiring our painting in the morning light. It’s nice, no?” She doesn’t care that she looks crazy. She feels tired but unburdened, as though she has been in the company of good girlfriends. Better than she’s felt for some time.
She asks him to join her for a cup of tea. Together they sit down at the kitchen table for a few minutes. He tells her about his shift, she talks about what the children did the night before. They share their plans for the day. Shaffiq stands and stretches and tells Salma that he is heading to bed. “You know, I had my Gujarati students again last night.”
Shaffiq sees averted eyes, a look of shyness uncharacteristic for Salma.
“Oh, yes. How was that? Are they progressing?” Shaffiq sits down again.
“Yes, more or less. It’s better now that I decided to send Shireen and Saleema next door to play. I can concentrate much better.”
“It’s a pity that they are not interested in learning.”
“They’re too young to pay attention. They just seem to want to stand around and gawk at Asha and Nas. I guess they must seem a little glamorous.”
“Tell m
e about them. What are your students like? Are they glamorous?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she pauses, “Maybe a little. They are both very modern types, you know, trendy. Asha, the student who came first, is kind of mischievous. A Master’s student in Political Science, I think. And Nas –” Salma pauses a moment, looking up to into space. Shaffiq follows her wandering eyes to a place on the kitchen wall, trying to discern what she is looking at.
“Nas is a psychologist. She’s planning a trip to India with her father soon, so she wants to learn Gujarati. And she is from our community too, which is a big coincidence.”
“That is a coincidence,” Shaffiq says, his blood rushing to his head, a flurry of questions at his lips. “Are you sure? Where does she work?” He is almost afraid to ask.
“I don’t know. I think she said some type of hospital. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious. It’s nothing really. I should get some sleep. Are you coming back to bed?” he asks, rising and placing his teacup in the sink.
“No, I’m up now. Sleep well.”
Salma sits alone at the kitchen table and in the half-light of morning the memories come unbidden.
Salma needed to see Raj again, she just had to. The next time she was to meet Ritu at the café, she purposely arrived early so that she might run into Raj, who must have had a similar idea. By their third “chance” meeting at Baldev’s, Raj suggested that they meet at Jogger’s Park, a local seaside oasis in the middle of Bandra where the trees and garden provide privacy to lovers. Salma understood that the invitation to meet at a more intimate venue would herald a shift in their casual relationship, and although she was nervous, she readily agreed. She’d been asked out on dates before, but she’d never wanted to go and so never had been on one. She knew, felt, that Raj’s invitation was, unmistakably, a date.
As they walked the pebbly paths together for the first time, they pointed out pretty plants and manicured shrubs to one another, revealing to one another their favourites. She remembers that she and Raj stood on a low arching bridge that crossed a small pond and looked up at a Gulmohar tree. Raj described to Salma how she would look forward to May, when the tree would bloom into red flowers. She called it the “flamboyant tree,” one that wasn’t afraid to show its full colours for all to see. As for Salma, her favourite thing about the park was how it managed to keep the clawing city at bay, the trees, joggers and lawns providing a quiet haven to be alone with Raj.
Soon, they were seeing one another nearly every day and when they could not arrange to meet, they spoke on the phone. They took chances and like teenagers too involved in their own heady feelings, often forgot to be discreet. In their haste to be close to one another, they sometimes chose a not very secluded bench in Jogger’s Park. Often, they were surprised by someone jogging or strolling leisurely around a corner, and they had to move apart quickly, releasing one another’s hands, putting some distance between their warm bodies. When Salma thinks back, she remembers how innocent, yet thrilling it felt at the time. They would hold hands and talk about their families, their jobs, their hopes. Raj said that she wanted to open her own shop, or take over her father’s one day. Salma shared her dream of one day being the principal of a school. Both talked about being pressured to marry and how they had managed so far to resist their families’ pressures. At the time she thought, so this is what courting feels like. This is what it is like to desire someone.
The sound of the bathroom door opening and a bedroom door closing, the noises of Shaffiq getting ready for bed, rudely returns Salma to her family’s Toronto kitchen. She gulps back the rest of her tea, and then stares into the bottom of her teacup looking for patterns in the dregs left behind.
All is quiet in the Paperwala apartment while Salma and Shaffiq sit awake, thinking about all the clues that tell them they need to mind their marriage.
Chapter 18
A FEW DAYS LATER, Nasreen is checking her messages. The automated voice tells her that there are nine messages. She patiently listens to the first eight, noting them, deleting them. None are important. The ninth is a message from Miranda, who explains in monotone that she no longer wants to return to therapy, is doing very well now, and thinks the sessions have been a success. She doesn’t want Nasreen to call back and she plans to make a large donation to the Institute in appreciation for all her help. Nasreen replays the message twice, makes a note about the phone call, and saves the message.
Nasreen then distractedly reviews a case file of a client booked for the next day. She is irritated by Miranda’s message and quells the urge to call and encourage her back into therapy. In the end, she decides to take a few days to consider what her professional response ought to be. Perhaps she will take it to her peer supervision group this week. She digs through her purse and finds a jumbo box of chocolate covered peanuts she bought the previous night, only half-finished.
She checks her watch and sees that it is already five p.m. Connie will be at her place in three hours. She finishes up, tucks her work into her desk and looks out the window, observing that the evening sky is already darkening, the effect of the season changing and the days shortening.
She exits out the back doors of the Institute and onto College Street, which is already crowded with other nine-to-fivers on their way home. She hurries toward the streetcar, which is overflowing with passengers. A few people, pressed against the doors, struggle for better footing. She thinks she will walk one stop, and then the next one, until she decides to power-walk all the way home, hoping that the exercise will burn up some of the restlessness coursing through her. Her mind races with what she will say to Connie and what to tell her supervision group about Miranda. Intermittently, she finds herself counting to forty in Gujarati, part of her homework practice for this week.
Quickening her pace, her eyes dart at the store windows she passes: computer equipment at discount prices, greasy diners, a health food store. She strides by a sex shop, does a double take, startled to see a scantily dressed woman waving to her. The woman is window-dressing, a live mannequin wearing a red French maid’s outfit. Two prepubescent boys walk by, giggling and nudging one another with skinny elbows. Nasreen waves back at the woman who smiles and pouts out her lips at her, and the gesture leaves Nasreen unexpectedly flushed. She continues her brisk pace but glances over her shoulder again to catch another eyeful of cleavage and bare inner thigh.
She’s home by six o’clock, relieved that it is still early enough to prepare herself for Connie’s arrival. Although she agreed on principle with Asha’s recommendation to ask a friend over during Connie’s visit, she has chosen, more or less, to ignore the advice. Nasreen does not want an audience for whatever could happen between her and Connie, nor does she feel that she needs a witness. Not that she has anything specific planned. She’s been too confused to organize a plan of action in advance; instead, she is hoping for the best. She is aware that this is not the best of strategies, and that perhaps she should have called Mona and made sure she wasn’t alone with her ex-girlfriend.
First, Nasreen tidies up the living room. She unwedges the TV remote from between the couch cushions and places it on top of the television. She wants to erase any evidence of the nightly sitcoms, game shows, and talk TV programs that have been keeping her company since Connie left. Then, she opens her desk drawer and finds the passport. There is also a university transcript, old bank statements, and an envelope from a credit card company that arrived three weeks earlier. She puts all the papers, except for the transcript, into a large envelope. She wants something of Connie’s to keep, something that may require a future visit. Who knows, she thinks smugly, maybe Connie will want to do a Master’s degree someday. She places the neatly folded transcript back into the desk drawer, beneath some other papers, and sets the envelope on the coffee table.
She notices a thin layer of dust coating the wooden surface and gets a rag from the kitchen to wipe if off. She hates dusti
ng. That was Connie’s job when she lived here and Nasreen can’t remember the last time she dusted, or polished, or shined anything. She finds a second cloth and some furniture polish and gets to work dusting every surface in the living room: the bookcases, television stand, end tables, stereo, and even the picture frames on the wall. Id watches Nasreen intently for a few moments and then saunters away, no longer interested. When she is finished, Nasreen opens the window wide to clear the air so that Connie won’t detect the fresh furniture polish fumes. There should be no evidence of the visit’s preparation; Nasreen wants to appear as informal and unstirred about Connie’s arrival as she imagines Connie to be. Will my performance be at all convincing, she wonders. And then, how pathetic am I?
Next, Nasreen goes to the bedroom and switches on the light. She looks at the messy, unmade bed and the mound of clothes strewn all over it. There is a pile of clean, unfolded laundry in a chair and an unsteady stack of books beside the bed. Nasreen sorts the clothes, hanging the clean ones in the closet, filling her hamper with dirty laundry. She piles the books on the white IKEA bookshelf beside the window. She surveys the bed and tries to calculate how long ago she last changed the sheets. Two weeks? Three? She tears the sheets off and then makes the bed with a set of her favourite red percale. Finally, she moves the blue dolphin vibrator, left sitting on the side table from its last use a few days ago, back into the bedside table’s top drawer.
She empties the garbage in the bathroom, gives the vanity a quick swipe and puts out fresh towels. Nasreen looks at her watch. Seven-ten. She pulls the vinyl shower curtain across the tub to hide its brown ring of grime; there’s no time to clean up. She washes her face and brushes her hair, then reapplies her lipstick. She looks into the bathroom mirror, checking herself, looking for anything on her face that would reveal her emotional state. She surveys the small pimple just beginning to surface on her chin, the shadows under her eyes, the one or two grey hairs that have sprung up near her temples. Mona pointed them out the week before, telling Nasreen that they contrasted nicely against her black hair. Nasreen wonders if she should pull them out. In the end, she decides against it. Perhaps it is good that she has matured a little since the break-up, she thinks.
Stealing Nasreen Page 16
