‘They’re both married,’ I heard a voice say, and turned. There she stood, still and solemn and unyielding, my unsmiling older sister.
I smiled, smiled broadly to see her in spite of her lack of emotion, and she nodded. ‘I thought you would be in bed by now.’
I had been on the point of stepping forward to hug her but held back. ‘I wanted to wait for you.’
‘Good,’ she answered, nodding briskly. ‘Good.’ She walked to me, putting a hand gingerly on my shoulder. She looked at me as if to gauge my response. ‘It’s good to see you, Siya.’
We stuck to neutral topics—the weather, the change in global politics, and it was clear Maya wasn’t comfortable in my presence. She had been skittish when she had first arrived, standing on tiptoe, keeping a tight hold on her bag, and I half-expected her to fly at any minute. Her hold on me had felt uncomfortable, and though she had led me in, towards the living room that led to each bedroom, she didn’t make an effort to converse.
The conversation trailed off, and I saw Maya look towards her room. ‘Maya,’ I said, and as she looked at me, I blurted out, ‘It’s so good to see you!’
She surprised me by smiling, and I thought how lovely she was. Her hair was still long and thick and left loose. When she was at college, she had grown it till it skimmed her waist. For a while, she had come back in the evenings—always at an acceptable time, always before dinner ended—with a flower in her hair. The flower changed with the day. Sometimes it was a yellow rose, and sometimes some pungent jasmine, and she took care to remove it before she entered the house, but I stationed myself by my bedroom window, and always caught sight of her looking furtively around before she dashed the flower from behind her ear. These adornments coincided with the time she was friends with a male law student, but the excitement ended almost as soon as it started; the evenings out, the flower in her hair, and the mention of a boy.
I thought of asking about him, but instead, she asked, ‘I hope it’s not too hot for you?’
‘It was snowing last week in London.’
‘I heard,’ she said, and then, ‘I sometimes check on the weather in London.’
‘Right,’ I said.
She was thrown by the admission, for she swiftly added, ‘I have so many friends in London, you see.’
‘Of course.’
She was patting her hair, looking around the room as if upset by her admission, and I knew our time together was coming to an end. Her hands rested next to mine, and I turned to her. There were bags underneath her eyes, and I saw lines beginning to appear on her face. Maya had turned forty last year. She smiled, patting my hand, and I thought for the first time of my sister as a middle-aged woman. She looked tired, and there appeared to be a downward bent to her mouth I had never previously noticed. Her jaw hung slacker than I remembered, and I noticed a few strands of white hair near her ear, just by where the evening flowers would have rested. I was so instantly reminded of her in her college days that I asked, ‘Are you still in touch with that lawyer friend of yours?’
‘Who?’ she asked. She had been on the point of sitting down, but now she straightened herself out. ‘Are you in any trouble?’
‘No!’
She was looking disbelievingly at me. ‘Is that why you had to come here in such a rush?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I would see you come in some evenings with flowers in your hair.’
There was no reply.
‘Please don’t be angry,’ I rushed to add. ‘I was too young to think about privacy, and I thought you looked so beautiful.’
She waved a hand in the air. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Didi,’ I said, using the word for older sister I had abandoned years ago. ‘What was his name?’
She knew immediately who I referred to. ‘Kunal,’ she said. ‘We were at college together.’
‘Was he your boyfriend?’
She paused. ‘No,’ she said. She played with her hands, lacing her fingers through one another, and I knew she was thinking of the past. Her emotions flitted across her face—there was a smile, followed by a frown, then a slow pat of her cheek—and I knew she was considering her response. How beautiful she still was, despite the slackness of her face, and despite the lines the years had etched on her features. These would ordinarily have been mitigated with creams, with advice from someone close going through the same changes, but there didn’t appear to have been anyone around for her to turn to. She was expressive, majestic and solitary, and she reminded me of a heroine of a Greek tragedy. I shook my head to free myself of my morose bent of mind.
Maya looked up at me. ‘No,’ she replied resolutely, ‘He was never my boyfriend.’
There was a host of possibilities in her response that gave me hope. ‘But,’ I said, armed with my memories of evenings out, of calls and visits, but she was rising. ‘You’ll be tired,’ she said to me.
‘But,’ I protested, unwilling for the evening to end. We hadn’t shared confidences for as long as I could remember, and I had felt then that I could unburden myself to her. I could lay out the whole sorry saga with Benjamin; I could tell her how I had struggled to find employment. The French doors to the veranda were open, and I inhaled the smell of Delhi’s summer evening. The bougainvillea, such a lurid pink in the day, wafted gently towards us. ‘Tell me how you’ve been,’ I said to my sister. ‘I want to catch up on all I’ve missed while I’ve been away.’
She laughed a little at that, her mouth parting to reveal her small, even teeth. ‘While you’ve been away,’ she echoed, and then, just like that, the wind shifted. Gone were the smiles, gone were the brittle peace and the stilted reminisces. ‘On that note,’ she said, ‘I meant to ask. When do you plan to go back to London?’
She looked at me with an unwelcome intensity, her eyes focused on mine. ‘Well?’ she was saying, nagging and insistent. I shrugged, and she asked again, ‘Well?’
I rose then and smiled at her. It was hot, despite the hour, and humid. It would rain in the morning, but for the moment, I was bathed in perspiration. ‘You were right,’ I told my sister who continued staring at me, ‘I think I am a little tired.’
I turned to my mobile phone the minute I went to my room. I typed out a message to Benjamin before deleting it. Contacting him was a bad idea. He had pestered me with calls after our break-up, showing more commitment in our separation than he ever had during our time together. He had carted bin bags full of old clothes to the charity shop, he had packed my clothes into my suitcases, and when I had run out of suitcase space, had offered to keep an eye on my things.
I could hear Maya readying the home for the night. I heard the water running in her bathroom; heard her switching off the lights in the living room. I had thought I had broken through her reserve, but as I closed my eyes I saw her hard stare. She hated me. I shook my head, telling myself her antagonism wasn’t my fault. I had tried my best; there was nothing more I could do. I thought of Tasha-di’s call and her worry. There was nothing more I could do.
I checked my messages. There were the usual group chats, but nothing from Benjamin. I typed out a quick message to him—Have landed—and sent it.
I told myself I didn’t expect a response, but a moment later my phone lit up with his words: ‘Fantastic. Have a great time!’
It was all very cordial, and all so pedestrian. And yet he had replied instantly. I turned my phone on its face and watched as the room of my childhood grew indelibly dark.
IV
Maya remained in my thoughts as the dark slowly took over. It was not the Maya I had last seen that I dreamt of, but the companion of my childhood. The sister, the best friend, the partner of all my infantile crimes. The pre-pubescent Maya with the smooth dark skin. The Maya with hair as dense as a winter’s night; the Maya with the irrepressible smile and the dimples that deepened for a frown as much as for a smile.
Early in my fourteenth year, I had believed myself in love. There had been a boy at school. He was of
average height and build, and there was nothing about him to attract attention, but he had always seemed to be around. I had noticed him smiling at me, and then one day, he had handed over a letter he told me was written in his blood. I had laughed when he had made the claim, partly out of nerves, but then he had turned his wrist over. I had seen the scar on his arm and had told myself I was in love. If I’m honest, I hadn’t believed myself capable of inspiring such devotion. I hadn’t been taught to think of myself as particularly lovely, and my greatest vanity was my pride in my even features. My nose was neither overly large nor small, nor were my lips or eyes. There was nothing exceptional about me, and still here he was, this boy, prepared to dip a pen in his own blood for me.
We had arranged to meet late one Tuesday evening. It had been his idea, and I had worried about how I’d get out of the house at that hour, but I’d been too flattered to refuse. In the end I had invented an excuse—a study evening at a friend’s house—but in my excitement, I had revealed my plans to Maya.
I had expected my older sister to encourage me, but Maya had been against the idea from the start. She had put her hands on her waist and had paced rapidly around the stone patio to the front of our house. It was a quiet October evening, the ground she stepped on was strewn with dark bougainvillea, but I still worried that her movements would attract notice. There were a dozen people coming and going from the house—guards, cleaners, drivers, suppliers. There was danger beyond our gates too. We were a tight-knit community in those days; everyone knew each other, and crucially, we knew each other’s patterns. The Kapoor girls next door had their harmonium lessons on Tuesday evenings. Their tutor was due to leave at any moment. We addressed all our elders as uncle or aunty, and in exchange for our unconditional respect, the uncles and aunties didn’t consider it intrusive to weigh in on personal issues. There was no keeping a secret. There was no privacy.
‘Ha!’ Maya had said, reading my thoughts. Her skin had been dewy with the warmth of Delhi’s evenings, dark and glowing, her teenage breakouts neatly masked—or so we thought—with Ma’s kohl. Her eyes had sparkled with conviction. ‘You worry that someone might spot me, and yet you’re happy to take such a great risk to meet this boy.’
I had stayed mute, but I could feel my jaw set.
‘All this for a boy you’ve just met. You didn’t even know his name last week.’
‘I did.’
‘And,’ Maya interrupted. ‘You won’t even remember his name in another twenty years. Is he worth risking so much trouble for?’
I had held firm. I had ranted, accusing Maya of being jealous. Maya had laughed at the accusations. ‘You’re an idiot,’ she had said. ‘But I’m not going to let you go alone.’
We set off on foot to the edge of the neighbourhood. On our way we passed by countless aunties on their evening walks. ‘Beta,’ we were asked repeatedly. ‘What are you doing out so late?’
‘We’ve been revising all this while,’ Maya said. ‘We wanted to take a walk before it was too late.’
‘Hurry,’ we were told. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’
We rushed gratefully on, both now uncomfortable to be out. It had begun to grow dark, and here, in the outer reaches of our neighbourhood, the streets were empty. Two of the lights weren’t working, and we raced through the pools of dark. We ran to the main road, coming to a stop by the taxi stand where I was to meet the bloodied author of my love letters. It was late in the evening now, and the hour Delhi’s workers returned home. Daily labourers, shop boys, guards, and gardeners, and drivers and cooks made their slow way back homewards. They exited overcrowded buses by the taxi stand, relaxing for the first time in hours. They milled around, taking in the air, talking amongst themselves and picking up last minute provisions. Some wandered near us. Curiosity about two unaccompanied girls drew some, while others were attracted by the smells of snacks cooking at a food stall just behind us.
‘Really?’ hissed Maya. ‘You two geniuses had to choose a spot near all these people?’
The air was close, and still hot. The fumes from the food seller grew strong, and each time a new bus passed, we inched closer together. Soon there was a huge crush around us; men closing in, leering and pushing.
‘God!’ I cried, as one jostled against me. Maya quickly pulled me towards her and put a protective hand in mine. I looked around for signs of the boy I was to meet, but we had set off early, and the traffic was chaotic. He wasn’t due for a while yet. It was growing hotter and closer, the noises and the shoving more oppressive with each passing moment. We were both thoroughly tired of our adventure, when we suddenly saw a familiar face. It was Malik, the neighbourhood watchman on his way home after finishing his shift.
‘You girls,’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing alone here at this time of the night?’
There was no time to answer. The crowd melted at the sound of his voice, and now he leaned forward, took us each by the arm and marched us through the neighbourhood. We had gone from being the objects of attention—too much attention—to parcels to be dumped unceremoniously at Papa’s door.
‘I’m telling you, Sir,’ Malik said to a surprised Papa. I looked at him, dark, sinewy, capable, and normally so deferential. The neighbourhood’s residents pooled together to give him his annual bonus. It habitually exceeded his monthly pay, and now that he was looking to save up for his daughter’s wedding, he was counting on the families’ generosity. It was the old-fashioned system of bakshish that kept us all—master and servant—dependent on each other. Supplicant and benefactor. We’d all noticed the change in Malik’s manner. A smarter salute when our car passed him by. A wider smile than usual for us children. A sweet—a chocolate éclair, or the tangy hajmola digestives we all hankered after—as we got off the school bus at the end of the day. ‘I’m telling you,’ he was repeating, his face foreboding, ‘There’s a boy involved in this.’
I muttered something about revising for an exam, but Papa raised his hand to silence me. ‘What revision were you doing by the taxi stand?’
Malik was in full flow. He lifted his arm, revealing the sweat patches under his shirt. ‘I’ve never seen the likes of it, Sir. The two of them, standing in full view of all those men, like two common dancing girls. No shame, Sir. I can’t say what would have happened if I hadn’t come.’
The noise was loud, the lights were on, and Ma, vigilant watchwoman of the family’s affairs, stepped out. ‘Hai Ram!’ she cried. Others were starting to pay attention to our woes; the guards at the gate, part-time staff in other houses heading home, and residents on their evening walks. She turned to the watchman, ‘If it hadn’t been for you, Malik.’
‘Bas, Ma’am,’ said Malik unctuously. If he had been ruffled by Pa’s unresponsiveness, he revived in the face of Ma’s ostentation. ‘I was only doing my duty. But,’ he said, returning to his dark theme, ‘if I hadn’t been there…’
‘What were they doing there?’
The adults turned their scrutiny on us.
‘It’s a boy, I tell you,’ repeated Malik.
‘Hai Ram,’ echoed Ma. She swooned. The night grew closer, I saw more lights go on down the street. The grown-ups stared at us suspiciously, and after long moments of uncomfortable silence, Maya stepped forward. ‘It was me,’ she said. ‘I was going to meet a boy.’
Ma was surprised. For Maya, too biddable for her own good, to be swayed by a boy was unexpected. The watchman was looking at her expectantly, as were the guards at the gate. Our neighbours lingered on their way home, and Ma swung into action.
‘Of all the idiotic things,’ she began. ‘Do you know what could have happened to you?’
Maya kept her head meekly cast down.
‘Do you?’
Maya refused to speak up for herself, and as Ma swiftly ran out of steam, she reverted to the outlet favoured by the subcontinent’s arbiters of justice, landing a stinging slap on Maya’s cheek.
Maya had never been in trouble before. She didn’t cry or complain, and appeared
suitably chastised at dinner. It was only later, when we were alone, that Maya said to me, ‘All this trouble, and for a boy whose name you will soon forget.’
‘No,’ I told her, trying to excuse his no-show. ‘He must have been held up,’ but the truth was Maya was right. I never tried to meet the boy again. He did approach me at school, but I ignored him. I struggled to place him now, all that remained was the memory of a broad nose in a wide face. Sweaty palms too, and that proudly scarred wrist, but that was all that remained of my maiden adventure.
In the months that followed, Maya grew more studious. She was in her last year of school, and was revising for her exams, so the schism was understandable, but we both sensed our night-time outing had been a step too far for her.
In a few months, she would start at college, and I would gravitate towards the nameless girls next door. It was with them that I would learn to practice applying make-up, and with them that I would time my evening walks for when other boys from the area were venturing outside. Maya didn’t recede, exactly, from my consciousness, but I began to associate her company with a more innocent time in my life.
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