by Samah
SAMAH
FAMILIAR STRANGERS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
FAMILIAR STRANGERS
A marketing professional by qualification, Samah is working towards a career in storytelling. A keen enthusiast for films, fashion, food and fitness, her ultimate goal is to travel the world. Currently pursuing an MA in creative writing at the University of Kent, she lives in Mumbai.
For a friend I call Mumma
1
‘Fine! Suit yourself,’ Priya said, exasperated. ‘But I’m not an idiot, Chirag. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on.’
She got out of bed, put one foot in a slipper, then the other and walked out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, before their argument could escalate into a full-fledged fight. She had a hunch about what was going on but she wanted to hear it from Chirag. He pretended as if he couldn’t understand what his wife meant, even though he knew exactly what she was hinting at. He had reassured her half-heartedly that there was nothing more to the story than what he’d told her, but when she insisted on an explanation, he didn’t bother to elaborate. Once Priya left the room, he turned on his side and switched off the bedside lamp. Then letting out a long sigh, he shut his eyes. After thirty minutes of pretending to watch TV in the living room, Priya tiptoed back into the bedroom and soon dozed off on the furthest corner of the bed; the distance between them an uninvited guest that had arrived many years ago and forgotten to leave.
* * *
The following morning, Priya woke up groggy from a disturbed sleep. The curtain had undone itself slightly, allowing the sun to fall directly on her face. As usual, Chirag was in the bathroom when she got up. She began her day on autopilot—boiling water for tea, taking out containers from the refrigerator, washing up, and then getting her son, Aryan, ready for school. Finally, after the sock-pulling, tie-making and hair-combing, she was free to take a shower. By now her husband was almost ready to leave for work. Wordlessly, they went through the choreography of everyday routine. Twelve years of marriage had taught them better than to rehash the previous night’s argument. It was more convenient to ignore the matter till it was forgotten than to talk about it.
‘I’m leaving. See you in the evening,’ Chirag said, strapping on his wristwatch. He still hadn’t thought of an answer to what his wife had asked him the previous night. It will come up again, he thought.
Priya knew what Chirag meant by ‘evening’ when there was tension between them. He wouldn’t be home before 9 p.m. She gave him a wordless reply—the slightest nod. She didn’t tell him she had made parathas for breakfast—his favourite. Given the mood she was in, he’d be lucky to get even upma—his least favourite. But she had already made preparations for breakfast the night before. Chirag collected his things and left, and Priya rushed to the bathroom.
After six hurried minutes in the shower, she slipped into her powder-blue nightgown again, finished a few more chores, and then sent Aryan to school. Now it was time for her to get ready for work. She grabbed a cream shirt and brown trousers from the top of the pile that had just been ironed. This was a habit. Everyone in her office knew what Priya wore to work on Monday would be worn again the following Thursday.
The house help, Deepali, hadn’t arrived yet. She should have been here twenty minutes ago. The possibility that she might not show up at all irritated Priya more.
There was a spare key under the potted plant outside the main door. Priya changed the hiding place every few months as a precautionary measure. Deepali would have to let herself in. Without a care, Priya put on her slightly creased shirt and slightly faded trousers and left.
* * *
After battling the hostile Mumbai traffic—forty-five minutes of unnecessary honking and black clouds of smoke—Chirag was welcomed by his cool, centrally air-conditioned office. It got so cold inside the building that employees carried sweaters to work even in the peak of the city’s merciless summer. He sat on the edge of his chair and took off his black faux-leather shoes, a habit he had acquired when he got his own cabin three years ago. While waiting for his computer to start, his gaze fell on one of the framed photographs on his desk, sitting between a heap of things. It had been recently shined by the new peon, eager to please the general manager. He pushed the pen stand and stack of files aside and picked up the frame. Priya was smiling in the photograph, a kind of smile that precedes laughter, her eyes almost closed. She looked so thin, too thin. He almost didn’t remember her being so thin, not since Aryan was born. He was standing right behind her, saying something in her ear, his head tilted, his arms engulfing her in a hug. It was taken a few nights before their wedding. The white of her T-shirt stood out against the grey of his. The memory made him smile.
The computer sounded its awakening. Chirag replaced the frame on the desk.
* * *
It wasn’t that Chirag didn’t find his wife attractive because of the width marriage and childbirth had given her; the few extra kilos added youth and cheeriness to her face he thought.
Aryan had happened suddenly, unexpectedly. They were still getting used to being husband and wife—Priya becoming immune to all-night air-conditioning and Chirag accepting the permanent smell of moisturizer in his room—when they became parents.
As soon as she became a mother, Priya took to the art of worrying. Chirag always found her worrying about their son, about the house, about work, about bills and fees, about pills and keys . . . Sometimes she heard Aryan cry even when he was fast asleep. Stress permanently settled on her face. Her laughter became restricted, her enthusiasm in bed diminished. She stopped reading. She gave up painting. She forgot about her lipsticks. She forgot about her friends. Way before Chirag lost interest in Priya, she lost interest in herself.
2
Priya turned down the volume of the radio. She needed some quiet. She was at a red light. Although she was close to her office, she thought of taking a U-turn and taking the day off. She had spent most of her journey trying to decide whom she was more irritated with—Chirag, for their quarrel the previous night, or Deepali for not turning up in the morning. It was debatable. The signal turned green. She went straight. Her mind drifted to Deepali . . . surely her newly married house help also felt like this sometimes—wanting the day off, not for any urgent reason, just for the sake of it. Priya inwardly sympathized with her and concluded that she was more infuriated with her husband.
Outside her office building, she parked in her usual spot. She was ten minutes early like on most days and decided to treat herself to breakfast at the adjoining coffee shop. The casserole on her dining table was still full with parathas and yet Priya, like Chirag, had skipped breakfast. She suddenly craved a meal she hadn’t prepared herself. Although she was a terrific cook, she was bored of the predictable taste of her own food, the dal-chawal-sabji-paratha routine.
The coffee shop was much more cr
owded than she had expected. Priya was greeted by the instant smell of coffee and bread. She had been here before, the day the place was inaugurated a year ago, for a quick muffin with Anu. They thought it would be their new haunt, but they hadn’t managed to come again.
Standing in the queue of the buzzing eatery, Priya realized that none of the items on display seemed inviting enough. The puffs didn’t look fresh, and she wasn’t in the mood for muffins. She knew she wanted to eat something very specific and yet she couldn’t put a finger on what it was. There was a slim, college-going girl in front of her, and a balding man behind. As the girl ordered a large hot chocolate, Priya realized she was craving an omelette. She never made omelettes. It was her husband’s signature dish. It’s been such a long time since Chirag cooked. She almost considered telling him about her craving, but it was such an embarrassing idea that it was immediately dismissed. A few years ago, she would have already been on the phone with him, and Chirag would have come home in the evening and cooked for her. But standing in the coffee shop that morning, Priya felt like she didn’t have the right to message her husband with this silly little request. It felt awkward, like asking a stranger for a favour. But why? The question struck her like a dart. She had never stopped to ask that before. For the first time Priya realized that her happy marriage had crumbled to one that was just surviving. She walked ahead but her attention had left the queue. She frantically racked her brain to remember the last time Chirag had made breakfast for her, something he used to do at least once in two weeks. She couldn’t recall a specific memory in the past months, maybe even years.
‘Good morning, Ma’am. Your order please?’ a young, chirpy hotel management trainee said. His name tag read ‘Arjun’.
‘Uh . . .’ Priya fumbled. ‘Do you guys serve omelettes by any chance?’
It was Arjun’s turn to look confused. ‘No, Ma’am, I’m sorry. All the items we serve are on display. We do have a boiled egg sandwich on today’s menu. Would you like to try that?’
Priya leaned back slightly and took a proper look at the sandwich. ‘No, actually. I don’t want to order. I’ll come back if I change my mind. Thanks,’ she said and stepped aside. The balding man tut-tutted at her. Priya offered a polite shrug of her shoulders as an apology.
She made her way out of the shop and went to her car instead of the office. She started the engine and rolled down her window. Her parking spot was at the back of the building, and she sat facing a white wall. Turning up the volume of the radio, she wiped the quiet tears that rolled down her face. Everything had been the same, then how had so much changed?
* * *
It wasn’t as if after the first few years, Priya had suddenly decided to become a boring wife who did not want to think beyond work and family responsibilities. But someone had to be the grown-up, right? Someone had to say no to a movie plan a week before Aryan’s exams. So what if she had said no the week before that too? Someone had to buy those antacids that had come to Chirag’s rescue on countless nights. Someone had to hire good maids and fire bad ones. Work didn’t happen, it had to be done.
Chirag had a knack for initiating sex on the days Priya worked overtime and making dinner reservations for the busiest weeks of her calendar.
Initially, when Chirag stopped making plans, she would sometimes suggest they go out for a meal or catch a late-night movie. When he would say he was tired, although a part of her would be secretly relieved, she would wonder if he had grown bored of her. His alleged boredom made him boring himself. All he ever did was work. And eat. And sleep. And fart. And work some more. Gone was the Chirag who surprised his wife with impromptu head massages and foot rubs every other evening. Now he spent his evenings glued to the TV, scratching his back and rummaging for the AC remote.
* * *
A few minutes later, when the strange, overwhelming feeling had passed, Priya decided to go to work. She needed to keep herself busy and away from her silly thoughts. Her marriage was absolutely fine.
Priya was distracted throughout the day. She ate two helpings of biryani for lunch from the canteen but didn’t participate in the conversation with Anu and Jaya. The monthly meeting of the human resources team was scheduled for 4 p.m. The team leader was not in office so it would be a relaxed twenty-minute chit-chat over tea.
Priya handed her colleague a file and then made a quick visit to the bathroom. As she sat on the toilet seat, she noticed two tiny holes in her underwear. She was shocked. Why was she—a senior employee at a pharmaceutical company, earning 10 lakh rupees per annum—wearing undergarments with holes in them? How had they escaped her notice? She had half a mind to discard it right there and then.
After they had wrapped up for the day, Priya headed straight to the market near her house. One of the perks of her job and the main reason why she had continued working after Aryan was born was the flexible hours. When she entered her usual lingerie store, the salesman, who was fingering his ear, stood up from his red stool. Recognizing her, he immediately plucked out a pack of five wide-cut underwear. Priya inwardly appreciated his salesmanship to remember what she always bought. It was a wordless exchange. Within minutes she was out of the store with yet another collection of all-white granny underpants.
As Priya was leaving, a poster of a model caught her attention. Clad in tacky, bright red lingerie with faux fur placed questioningly on the skimpy outfit, she was shooting her viewers a suggestive look. Priya was torn between amusement and embarrassment. Without understanding why she felt the way she did, she walked towards her car. Two minutes later she found herself at the store again.
She stood right where she was standing moments ago and asked for newer stuff, fresh designs and cuts maybe. The salesman bit the one long nail he kept, surprised at her request. Even the otherwise disinterested shop owner managed to quirk his eyebrows. Efficiently the salesman laid out a few options in front of her.
‘Lay-tust,’ he said, gesturing proudly towards the collection.
From mini briefs, bikini bottoms to grandma cuts even wider than the ones she wore, everything was spread out in front of Priya. She picked out a two-bit red thong and eyed it speculatively. The salesman and the shop owner eyed her speculatively in return. Dismissively, she put the garment away, much to everybody’s relief, and asked the salesman to remove the lacy, skimpy and fancy items. None of them offered the coverage and comfort she needed. She then asked for bright colours in her regular cut but to her disappointment there was nothing. She settled for the black variants of the white ones she’d just bought and finally left the store.
* * *
Priya twisted her hair into a bun as she walked back to her bedroom after putting Aryan to sleep.
‘There is a PTA meeting in the school coming Wednesday. Can you go?’ she said, getting into bed. Chirag was watching a video on his phone, forwarded to him on WhatsApp.
‘Yes, okay,’ he said, looking at her, then back at his phone.
She lay down and drew her half of the blanket towards her. His was still tucked under his legs. One bedside light went off. Then the other.
Before going to sleep, Priya wrote a message to her friend, Sakshi, confirming Chirag and her presence at Sakshi and Karan’s tenth anniversary celebrations next weekend.
Count us in for the party, she typed out.
Something had made her change her mind.
3
Just minutes before her alarm was supposed to ring, Priya’s eyes automatically opened. Waking up on Fridays was less dreadful than on Thursdays. Sakshi’s message flashed on her screen: That’s greaaaaattttt! Thought u said that Chirag wasn’t too keen. So how come??
Priya read the message and wondered if Sakshi knew what was going on. Without replying, she got off the bed and started the day.
Aryan was less troublesome to wake up and deal with. Before he left, Deepali reported for work. Priya was more relieved than she let on. She asked Deepali casually about her absence the day before. Deepali explained that her mother-in-law ha
d made fish curry that gave her a bad stomach (a possible conspiracy), so she was too sick to report to work. Priya nodded sympathetically but was privately certain she was lying.
Aryan had to be bribed to finish his breakfast: five minutes on Priya’s phone at night for every triangle of the sandwich he ate. By the end of it, he had earned himself fifteen precious minutes on his new Snapchat account on his mother’s phone. Priya kissed his cheek before Deepali walked him to the bus stop.
When Chirag came to the dining table, dressed to go, Priya was almost done with breakfast. She reheated the tea and breakfast for him and with a cursory ‘have a good day’, went to get ready.
After a slightly longer bath than usual, she walked up to the pile of ironed clothes. She picked something out of the stack but after a few seconds, put it back. Then, walking up to her cupboard, she decided to make full use of ‘casual Fridays’ at work. Usually she ditched her trousers for a pair of jeans, as ill-fitted as they were, under the same drab shirts in an attempt to be ‘casual’, but she wanted to break that habit. She delved into a neglected section of her cupboard and pulled out outfit after outfit. Half the pile was immediately discarded for being either too black or too shiny. Half of what remained was discarded for some defect or the other. As Priya contemplated what to put on, she wondered where all these clothes of hers had been hiding all this while. She picked up a light-pink, floral, semi-formal shirt and tried it on, but didn’t like the fit. Next came her all-time favourite cobalt-blue cotton blouse that was comfortable and smart and, more importantly, loose enough for her to fit into. But it was too short to cover the slight bulge of her tummy. She tried on three more tops before going back to her regular attire. None of her older clothes fit her well—either her bust seemed too big or the top too small. One didn’t go with the cut of her jeans, the other seemed too dressy for work. She realized she had wasted too much time on this, and she didn’t want to be late for work for the second time in two days, so she quickly buttoned on the light-blue shirt she had worn three days ago.
