Familiar Strangers

by Samah

  ‘We should have ordered two portions of the rice,’ Chirag said with his mouth full. He was eating quickly and a little noisily, evidently enjoying the food.

  ‘Mmmmm,’ Priya agreed, not looking away from the piece of chicken she was about to put into her mouth.

  ‘Papa, have my pizza also. It is much more better,’ Aryan gave his verdict. Chirag smiled and corrected his grammatical error. It felt great to be able to correct him, to contribute to his growth in some way. I need to spend more time with Aryan, he thought.

  Priya was the first to rise from the table, stacking the plates in the sink. Chirag exhaled loudly and leaned back in his chair, one hand still on the edge of the table. His yellow T-shirt had a small red-brown blob. Aryan’s ‘I’m-too-full-to-finish-this’ expression was now on his face. He sat sloppily, like a heap of clothes dumped on a chair. His pronounced slouch and upturned neck were customary dinner-table positions. Both his palms were placed on his stomach and elbows stuck out towards each other, like that of a model posing. He twitched his toes impatiently, waiting for Priya to say he could eat the rest of the pizza tomorrow.

  After winding up the kitchen for the night, Priya went to check if Aryan had gone to sleep. He had not. He had spent an extra, unauthorized five minutes on her phone for the sandwich triangle he had not eaten. She took the phone, tucked him in bed and switched off the light. Then she went to her room.

  Chirag lay in bed, flipping through a health magazine he had brought home from work. He noticed Priya walk in and sit down on the floor. With sudden interest, she started rummaging through her book cabinet which had remained locked for years. It had piles and piles of books—fiction, autobiographies, encyclopaedias, cookbooks, travel books . . . Chirag and Priya had dreamed of building a mini library in their house when they had first moved in, but they’d become too caught up in books on parenting and baby names to find the time and energy to do it.

  He watched her pick up a pile from the cabinet and place it on the floor. She opened the first book and sniffed it. For a moment he felt that she wasn’t herself. For a moment he felt that she was completely herself.

  ‘I’m thinking of playing table tennis in the office rec room at least once a week,’ he said as he stared at an obviously photoshopped image of an upcoming film star on the cover of the magazine. Finally, thought Priya. It was high time Chirag included something other than reading health magazines in his fitness regime.

  She turned to him and gave him an encouraging look. ‘That’s a really nice idea,’ she said even though it meant longer hours at work and consequently lesser time at home.

  Once Priya was done sifting through the books, she dusted them thoroughly, setting a few aside and stowing the rest back in the cabinet. Chirag was already lying on his side, eyes closed.

  It was a little past midnight when Priya washed up and crept into bed. With memories of Chirag’s squash-playing days fresh in her mind, she closed her eyes.

  She had shorter hair and thinner legs. On his way home after a game, he had dropped by her building to say hi. She had lied to her mother, saying it was Preeti, and hurried down to meet him in the empty garage at the back of the building. His sweaty hair was stuck to his forehead and he smelt of game and cologne.

  And then her hair was a little longer, her legs still that thin. She had gone to watch him play, and knew he was trying very hard to impress her and trying harder still to not show it. Even after all these years, the memory of it made her smile.

  Thirty minutes flew by but sleep eluded her. She turned towards Chirag and then away. She pulled her knees towards her and then away. She could not drift off to sleep. At around 1 a.m., she realized even Chirag was awake, but neither of them said a word.

  He was lying on his back now. The blue light of the air-conditioner lit up their bedroom enough to serve as a night lamp. Chirag stared at the digits on it: 21. There was so much he wanted to tell Priya but he didn’t know what to say. For the first time in years, he felt the need to explain himself but didn’t have the right words for it. Was the chance of making things better worth the risk of making things worse?

  He snuck a peek at his wife from the corner of his eye. She lay on her side facing the other way. This allowed him to observe her openly. He turned to her and propped his head on his left palm, his gaze tracing her silhouette in the darkness. This woman next to him, his wife of twelve years, the mother of their son, was the same girl he had fallen madly in love with fifteen years ago. They had been together for so many years, sharing a bed, a marriage, a child, a life. A strange, overwhelming feeling gripped him. Was it guilt? Was he guilty? He could tell she wasn’t asleep yet.

  Hesitantly, Chirag slid his hand towards her. As soon as he made contact with Priya’s waist, her eyes snapped open and she mumbled, ‘You’re awake?’ even though she very well knew he was. The tension between them was palpable.

  Chirag didn’t answer. His hand made its way further up her stomach. She wanted to both stop him and let him continue. Before she could make up her mind she blurted, ‘I’ve accepted Sakshi’s invitation for the party. We are going to Karjat.’

  For a moment it seemed as if everything stilled. The wheezing of the aged ceiling fan. The drone of the air conditioner. The breath of a hopeful husband and the thoughts of an insecure wife. Everything paused for just a moment. Then Chirag slowly retracted his hand. Priya shut her eyes at his withdrawal.

  The moment evaporated. And just like that the familiar sense of strangeness settled between them again. Chirag was suddenly too aware of his surroundings. He didn’t want to discuss this topic; he wasn’t ready yet. And while it was not easy to talk about this for Priya either, she wanted answers. He turned to the other side, ignoring the statement made by Priya, who remained in the same stance. Damn this stupid anniversary party, Chirag cursed inwardly and decided to call it a night. Sometime in the next hour, the two managed to fall asleep.

  8

  On Sunday even the alarm was given a holiday. Aryan had classes but because they didn’t start until 2 p.m., Priya could sleep in. Chirag usually woke up late too, but still before Priya.

  At 10 a.m., Aryan came yawning into his parents’ room. With his eyes half shut and hair dishevelled, he climbed into Priya’s blanket and fell asleep again, his body sticking to hers. Chirag was already in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. When he came out, the sight of them snuggled up held him for a moment. In a different time, he would have joined them on the bed—when Aryan had not yet learnt to speak, when he and Priya had not yet learnt to ‘not speak’.

  When Priya finally decided to acknowledge it was morning, Chirag was making tea. More often than not, on Sundays, he made tea for them. Earlier he would whip up an elaborate breakfast too. Priya stepped into the kitchen, rolling up her hair. On seeing Chirag straining the tea, she said, ‘Sit, I’ll give it to you.’

  ‘No, no, it’s done,’ he said, setting his cup on their four-seater dining table. Priya brought in the newspaper and placed it in front of Chirag. Then she strained the remaining tea into a cup and sat opposite him. Thus, began their Sunday.

  At lunch they were as silent as they had been at breakfast, but the tension between them had given way to peace. It took a special kind of skill—one practised over years of marriage—to be able to slip out of awkwardness as easily as they slipped into it.

  Deepali hated Sundays more than she hated the other days, not because she had to work on a day nobody seemed to work on, but because she had to work diligently under the watchful eyes of both her employers. It was such an inconvenience. She couldn’t watch TV while chopping vegetables or turn on the air conditioner while ironing clothes. Trying on her madam’s lipsticks and perfumes was obviously out of the question. She liked Priya but because she was her ‘madam’ it was too easy to hate her.

  Next Sunday Deepali would take her monthly off which meant this week she had to clean the rooms really well and make the dishes shine. At 2:30 p.m., she went to the bedroom and asked Priya what veg
etables had to be cut for dinner. Part of her job was to help Priya in meal preparation, taking care of the peeling, chopping and boiling. Priya put the meal together herself after getting home from work. Lunch was not made in the house on weekdays.

  Priya told Deepali that she needn’t prepare anything for dinner as she would be cooking it from scratch. This meant that Deepali was done with the day’s work.

  Once she left, Priya was alone at home. Chirag was out for his monthly haircut at the small salon, called Shakeel’z, below their building. Aryan had gone to his friend’s house in the neighbouring building, where his fat, moustachioed mathematics tutor came on Sundays. Priya got some small tools from the bathroom and began shaping her neglected fingernails. White nail dust fell on her green nightgown like snow on a patch of grass. Aryan would have run out of the room at the first sound of nail filing had he been around. Next, she brought out a stash of nail polish, most of it now coagulated. But two bottles looked new. The distinct smell of the liquid filled the entire room as Priya applied thick coats of light-pink polish on her freshly cut nails. How Chirag loved this smell!

  She then thought of cracking down the recipe of chicken cheese enchiladas that she planned to cook for dinner—the chicken had already been ordered—but she didn’t dare touch a thing till her nails were dry.

  As she sat idly on the bed eyeing the four cookbooks she had set aside the previous night, Chirag’s laptop placed next to them caught her attention. An idea that had been at the back of her head came into focus. Her own laptop was in her office, she never brought it home unless she had work to finish. Yes, she concluded. She was going to do this. She blew forcefully at her fingernails to dry them out faster. This stuff needs too much patience. But she couldn’t resist any longer. She got off the bed and got down to business.

  She first went and double-locked the main door, so Chirag wouldn’t be able to enter without a warning. Back in the room, she carefully took out the laptop from its black bag and set it atop her lap. While doing so, the colour on her right thumb smudged. The blotchy nail irritated her but she ignored it and hastily fired up the machine. Chirag always kept their son’s name as his password, and if it was numerical, his date of birth. Even before the laptop fully came alive, Priya, in her eagerness, gave it a number of commands, causing it to hang.

  It would not take Chirag more than twenty minutes to be back. Priya thought of doing away with the laptop and using her phone instead to conduct her spy operation, but then decided to continue with the bigger device. Ignoring all of Chirag’s work documents, she went on to the web browser. When she typed ‘Facebook’, Chirag’s account sprang up in front of her. He hadn’t signed out. Priya felt hot all of a sudden, pins of anxiety pricking her back as she considered checking his messages. After about half a minute of intense internal debate, she signed him out. She was not yet prepared to discover what she suspected.

  She then signed into her own account and typed a woman’s first name in the search box. The profile of several women with the name ‘Kanika’ popped up on her screen, none of whom seemed to be the one Priya was looking for. She would need a last name in order to track her down. She delved deep into her memory box, tracking long-forgotten files from the past, and finally recalled a last name. The name had held no precise meaning or memory for her for the last many years and yet she had been subconsciously aware of it. With more force than was necessary, she typed out ‘Parekh’ next to ‘Kanika’ and hit ‘enter’. Several Kanika Parekhs showed up, none still the one she sought. She realized Kanika may not be going by the name ‘Parekh’ any more. Priya had a vague idea of what she looked like thanks to some old photographs, but after so many years there might be little resemblance between the Kanika of now and the Kanika of fifteen years ago, who had been the love of Chirag’s life for six long years before Priya.

  A key turned in a keyhole. A door did not open. A doorbell sounded. A heart skipped a beat.

  Priya quickly abandoned her search. She signed herself out, and signed Chirag in. She turned the laptop off and zipped up the laptop bag. She opened the door. She went to the kitchen.

  9

  Chirag, nineteen, was standing outside an apartment building, a pretentious cigarette in his hand, when he first saw her. As she paid the cab driver and walked towards the gate, a gift-wrapped box in hand, he stubbed the cigarette under his foot.

  She walked past him, into the building. He waited for a moment, then went inside. They waited for the elevator together. She stepped in first. He followed.

  ‘Which floor?’ she asked.

  ‘Third. Thanks,’ he said, politely.

  ‘Are you going for Karan’s party?’ she asked, looking at him now. The elevator had enough room for them to be at a comfortable distance.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘Are we too early?’

  ‘It’s a surprise party, we’re supposed to be early,’ she replied.

  ‘Right,’ he said and chuckled.

  They lost each other amongst a dozen people for the next hour.

  Karan was suspicious when he walked into his dark house, shocked when he switched on the living-room light and everyone screamed ‘SURPRISE!’, and mortified when his mother planted kisses on his cheek in front of his college friends.

  ‘So how do you both know each other?’ Chirag asked when Karan introduced him to Kanika.

  Karan was about to launch into a detailed explanation but Kanika cut a long story short.

  ‘We’re cousins . . . sort of,’ she said simply, even though they were not. Their families knew each other. They had a common cousin but were not related to each other.

  The words jabbed Karan like thorns in a finger but to Chirag they came as a relief.

  ‘Sort of?’ he asked, amused though not complaining.

  ‘Well, it’s a long story, not worth the explanation,’ she said.

  Throughout the night Karan watched their every move—every laugh Kanika let out at something Chirag said, every cigarette the two shared after his mother had left, every time they leaned closer to hear each other over the noise. Intimacy blossomed at one end of the party, jealousy brewed in the other.

  Newly legal youngsters held their drinks with pride. The lights were dimmed, the music turned up.

  The first to leave was Param, a little after midnight. At 1 a.m., Kanika walked over to Karan to say goodbye. ‘I had a great time. Thank your mom for me. And let’s meet again soon.’

  ‘But you haven’t even eaten. Please stay a little longer,’ he said.

  Chirag came up from behind her. ‘I think I’m going to leave too,’ he said lifting his hand for a high five.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Karan said, now protesting in panic. He held his hands back, not high-fiving Chirag. He tried his hardest to make at least one of them stay, to stop them from leaving together, to delay the start of their story till he could. But they gave their reasons and managed to leave.

  He watched them walk out of his house together, side by side. It was a simple act of movement but there was a lot going on, invisible to the eyes, evident to the senses. Karan could sense the charged air between their not-yet-touching hands, the eagerness in their steps, the hope in the way they walked—the attraction between two people who had just discovered each other. He could see something happening between Chirag and Kanika that he had hoped, ever since he was nine or ten, would happen between Kanika and him.

  A door closed in front of him. A door closed in front of him.

  * * *

  Priya was in the kitchen when Chirag woke up from his afternoon nap. The inviting aroma emanating from the kitchen made him salivate. He could guess that dinner would not be something run-of-the-mill. The sooner his wife started preparing dinner, the fancier the dish would be.

  Is the matter closed? he wondered, idling around in bed. It would be ideal if Priya forgot about it. The prospect was relieving but also far-fetched. A wife could never forget. Not something like this. Certain matters, certain incidents brought with them
a haunting presence, an unmatched commitment to memory. The matter could not be closed till it was opened first.

  10

  Chirag was standing in front of the oven, waiting. Nothing seemed to be happening. The batter wasn’t rising; there was no smell of cake. He had scrupulously followed all the steps in the cookbook. Vanilla essence, baking powder, nothing had been missed out. But it had been only five minutes since he had put it in.

  His mother, thirsty and sleepy, came to the kitchen rubbing her right eye. ‘What’s happening here?’

  ‘Nothing, Mom. Go back to sleep,’ he said.

  She peeped into the oven.

  ‘Something special? For your special someone these days?’ she said, pulling out a steel glass from a cabinet and then fetching a bottle of water from the fridge.

  Chirag didn’t look at her. ‘Just cake,’ he said. ‘If I’m lucky.’ He threw the oven another worried glance.

  ‘In that case, it might help to turn the main switch on,’ she said, ruffling his hair and leaving the kitchen.

  The cake was for Kanika’s twentieth birthday, and it moved her to tears. They sat cross-legged on her terrace, their friends having left, sharing what remained of the cake between them.

  ‘This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,’ she said, licking the icing off her finger.

  Chirag smiled shyly. ‘I’ll bake one for you every year,’ he said.

  ‘Every year?’ she asked, quirking her eyebrows, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Every year. For your twenty-fifth birthday, and your fiftieth birthday, and your sixtieth birthday, and your seventieth birthday . . . Every year.’

  Kanika found the thought touching at first, but then she found it daunting. She smiled and got up.