There's Something About You

by Yashodhara Lal

  Trish no longer asked Akanksha where she was off to because she never got a straight answer anyway. She just said dryly, ‘You sure you’ll be done in two hours?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Just a parlour visit, you know.’

  ‘Right.’ Trish muttered. ‘See you later.’

  She hung up and finally began to try and answer those damned letters piling up in her inbox.

  This was all getting to be too much. Trish’s eyes glazed over as she scanned through the word document to see how many letters she still had left to answer. Oh, lord. But then she had done this to herself. She had signed up for the online portion of the work and, as per the addendum to their agreement, at least a dozen additional questions had to be answered for the blog alone every day.

  It was increasingly obvious from the tone of the letters that people really seemed to think she was a qualified professional of some sort. The respect that came through was unmistakable, as was their desperation. This thing, a stupid little column, which no one used to take seriously, had suddenly become people’s saviour, despite its nasty tone. Or because of it? No matter how hard she tried to shake it off, Trish felt a nagging sense of being a big fraud. People were pouring their heart out to her, and it made her feel a sense of responsibility that was burdensome. After all, there was no real substance in anything that she was able to offer. Most of her advice was just pure common sense. Why the hell did people seem to be taking her words so seriously?

  Nowhere had this become clearer than in the online section, which was naturally far more interactive and responsive than the paper. Just an hour after she had sent her first set of answers for the blog, Nivedita had published them. Trish watched as the comments flew in fast and furious, as if people had been waiting for this all day.

  Some comments were so pseudo-intellectual that she couldn’t help cringing:

  Love, love, love your style, Amy. My sympathies for your having to deal with these losers.

  This week’s answers were my favourite, Amy. You really know how to give it to them.

  Wow! It frightens me that these are my fellow Mumbaikars. Keep it up, guys. You provide a lot of amusement for the rest of us.

  Trish herself, on the other hand, had started to feel a genuine sense of sympathy for most of the people who wrote in. Some, she sensed were doing it just to be sensational and get attention, and she mostly ignored them. But many others were writing in with genuine hope about resolving something that was bothering them. It felt wrong to make fun of them while writing answers ‘in keeping with the tone’ of the column. And now it also felt very wrong that the exchanges were publicly available for other people to view and laugh at. She tried to shake herself out of it again. After all, this was no time to start having moral issues or to get emotional about the whole thing. This was just a job. Not even a job. A temporary assignment. Which just seemed to somehow be taking over more and more of her life.

  She had decided to take over the online portfolio because of the extra money, but she had to admit it was partly also an ego issue. She just didn’t want someone else to be handling answers under Amy’s name on another platform. She was Amy, even if nobody knew it. Besides, it was not like she had very much else to do. And given that she was trying hard not to let thoughts of a certain person come into her head, it made sense to try and bury herself under more work.

  The problem was that she was having trouble focusing; and she certainly no longer had the confidence that she was doing justice to each letter. Earlier, while doubts about her own limited life experience would occasionally gnaw at her, she had at least been able to spend time mulling over a difficult letter and edit her response appropriately before sending it out to Nivedita. But now, the load had become so much that she barely had time to read what she had written.

  The bell rang and she got up, glad for the distraction. Her back was hurting and she groaned a little as she headed for the door. Maybe she’d have to give up the Zumba after all. But it was the one thing that brought her some sort of joy. Besides, the backache was probably more from just sitting stiffly and staring hard at the screen for hours. Or maybe from hunching over the chessboard on Ba’s bed. That was it. Chess. Stress. Whatever.

  She opened the door and saw Lisa standing there. Over her thin shoulders were the straps of what looked like a large guitar case, and this made her look even smaller than usual. She also carried a couple of books under her arm. Trish smiled at her warmly. ‘Hey, Leez, come in.’ Lisa gave her a shy smile and went into the house.

  Akanksha’s voice rang from the stairway: ‘Dad will come and pick her up for her class at five, sweetie. Thanks so much!’

  Trish poked her head out and only caught a glimpse of the back of Akanksha’s red-and-purple peasant skirt as her friend disappeared down the stairs with her heels click-clacking and leaving behind the scent of a delicate and presumably expensive perfume. Trish shook her head disapprovingly once before slamming the door with all her might.

  Not that she had much hope, but maybe, just maybe, for once Akanksha would hear the door slam and understand something about how someone else felt.

  Dear Amy,

  I’ve just moved into Mumbai with my dad. My mom’s still in the US. They’ve been divorced two years now. I’ve been finding it tough to adjust to living in India again. I lived here only till I was five, I’ve been in New York since then. I finally made some new friends at school, but when they asked about my mom, I lied and said she’s just wrapping up her work back in the US and that she’s going to be joining us over here in a few months. I know I shouldn’t have lied about this. Now I feel stupid. But I think if I do tell my friends … well, they won’t be my friends any more. And things are hard enough for me here without having to deal with that. What do you think I should do?

  Feeling Fake

  Trish stared at this letter for a really long time. Now a school kid was writing to her? And this was yet another example of a perfectly genuine problem, painful and confusing for the person undergoing it. How on earth was she supposed to maintain the sarcasm when this kid sounded like he – or she – needed a big hug first?

  Trish turned and her eyes strayed to the kid in the room, sitting in her usual corner. Little Lisa was staring at her book, mouth slightly open, eyes unblinking as usual. Trish observed her for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Hey, Lisa.’

  Lisa looked up, her expression blank, her eyes so far away that she reminded Trish of Ba.

  ‘What’re you reading?’

  Lisa held up her Sweet Valley Twins book: Twin Against Twin.

  Trish nodded in mock earnestness and then asked, ‘So why aren’t you actually reading it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lisa said sullenly. ‘I am reading it.’

  ‘So why have you been on that same page for the last five minutes?’ Trish asked, not unkindly.

  Lisa slammed her book down and pursed her lips. ‘It’s boring.’ She looked at Trish squarely and said, ‘Why have you been on that same page for the last ten minutes?’

  She pointed to Trish’s laptop, and Trish had to laugh. Lisa was right. She had been staring at her laptop for long stretches of time without typing. The room, usually filled with the quick clattering from her keyboard, had been completely silent.

  Lisa gave her a wan smile. Trish said, ‘Hey. Why don’t you show me what you’re learning on the guitar?’

  ‘Guitar?’ Lisa looked over at her instrument in the corner, as if seeing it for the first time. She then looked back at Trish and shook her head. ‘Not learnt much.’

  ‘Okay, so whatever you’ve learnt?’

  ‘I don’t feel like playing,’ Lisa snapped. ‘I hate the guitar. I hate Mom for making me go.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Trish was really surprised by her vehemence. ‘Just the other day you were so excited about it. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Lisa was clearly getting angry. ‘I didn’t know before that I wouldn’t like it! It’s too difficult. I’ve told Mom so many times now th
at I don’t want to do it. Even Nanu told her. But she just doesn’t listen, she still makes me go. She just doesn’t want me around!’

  Her face was red now. She snatched up her book again and stared at it unseeingly.

  Trish, feeling upset, but trying not to show it, turned her attention back to her computer. Akanksha was so disconnected from her own kid. If Lisa hated guitar lessons, why was she forced to go? Why couldn’t Akanksha at least talk to Lisa and understand what her issue was and work things out with her? The kid was clearly feeling unwanted, for heaven’s sake. Trish would talk to her about it later. Or maybe not. Ignoring things as far as Akanksha was concerned was usually a more trouble-free policy.

  She scanned through the other letters, trying to find something that looked as if it would be easier for her to answer than one from an America-returned schoolkid with a broken home and heart.

  That was when she spotted the letter that would hold her attention for the rest of the day. At first, she couldn’t make head or tail of it. And then she read on with gradual understanding.

  Dear Amy,

  I have this major problem.

  There’s this woman I met recently with whom I feel a certain strange kind of connection. Unfortunately, she’s the skeptical type who doesn’t seem to feel the need for new relationships, and she certainly doesn’t believe in connections and fate and so on. In the short time that I’ve known her, I’ve ended up telling her more about myself than I have ever told anyone else. She knows my biggest secrets already, but the minute I discovered just one of hers, she panicked, even though there wasn’t any real reason to, and ran away from me. Literally. She ran, Amy! You should have seen her go. It was like Cinderella when the clock struck midnight, only in sneakers instead of glass slippers.

  For the last couple of weeks now, she hasn’t been taking my calls. So I’ve stopped calling and emailing her altogether. I just thought in case she gets to read this letter somehow through your column, she might realize that relationships aren’t things you have to run away from all the time. She seems to think getting close to someone will make her weaker instead of stronger and more fulfilled. Isn’t that wrong? I can’t quite figure her out, but it would be enough for me if she at least believed me when I tell her that I just really like her for who she is, damn it.

  Could you please let her know that she has has two choices? She can reach out to me and we can see where it take us. Or she can continue to ignore me, pretend I never existed and go back to her own life. Either way, I would like her to know I wish her well and I’m immensely grateful for all she’s done to help me. In some ways, I feel I owe her my life.

  Warm regards,

  Drowning in Sorrow

  p.s. My sincere apologies for treating your wonderful column as if it were Miss Lonely Hearts. I look forward to having my head bitten off. But I still carry the hope that she sees this.

  p.p.s. And if you ARE reading this, T, please know: there’s something about you that fascinates me, and I’d love the opportunity to figure out what it is.

  Trish’s cheeks were burning hot by the time she reached the end of the letter. She scrolled back up and read it again, and then a third time.

  Even though this particular letter would never make it to actual publication, she knew it would be running through her head for a long time. Oh, he was a big one for letters, that Sahil. A royal pain, that’s what he was.

  She had successfully managed to avoid him for so many days, until she was sure he had given up, and now he turned up here, of all places. Did Nivedita do any actual screening at all? No, Trish guessed that she didn’t, especially now that the online forum had opened up. She probably sent her the entire deluge of letters. Anyway, Sahil’s letter was oblique enough so only she could have figured it out. She would have to kick him for this when they met next, she decided as she tried to focus her attention again on trying to find another, answerable letter.

  Yes, they would have to meet again. He had unwittingly struck a real chord with her through his invitation for her to just ignore him and go back to her regular life.

  Because Trish had a strong feeling she’d had enough of that life.

  16

  The Meeting

  The lift door opened on the ground floor, revealing a crowd of about seven people inside. ‘Coming?’ the young man up front enquired politely of Trish.

  Trish was about to get in, but then the familiar sense of panic set in. She managed a smile. ‘Uh, no. Thanks. Carry on.’

  The man smiled genially and pressed a button. The doors closed. Trish bit her lip. Why not? For a change, she would try taking the stairs.

  Ten floors. Trish couldn’t remember the last time she had climbed more than four floors in a row. She was in no hurry. Meeting Zee was hardly a prospect that filled her with delight. But since the snotty chief editor wrote the cheques, Trish could only put off her requests for meetings so many times. Trish wondered what she had to say to her now. Judging from past experience, it couldn’t possibly be anything very good.

  She reached the stairwell and started to climb. The first couple of floors weren’t much of a problem, she managed to keep her breathing even. She knew her exercise regimen was helping, and she had made a genuine effort to keep her diet healthy over the last few weeks, reducing sugar and fat, and actually managing to resist Ma’s constant flow of sweets. Akanksha had been effusive in her remarks about her weight loss, although Trish didn’t take anything Akanksha said too seriously. Lisa’s quiet nods accompanying her mother’s statements meant more to her. She had a strong feeling that the kid wouldn’t lie.

  The next few floors were tougher, but Trish kept climbing valiantly even though it was getting harder to breathe. To her surprise, she made it to the seventh floor without a break. Not bad. She was doing it! Raj had, just the previous week, declared her his best student, claiming she kept up with his moves better than anyone else. In fact, he had exclaimed while slapping her on the back, a habit of his that she had just got used to, that sometimes when he forgot the steps, he only had to look at Trish in the mirror and follow her. She had turned pink with embarrassment as the rest of the class laughed and clapped. It was true, though. She had a sharp memory and a good sense of rhythm, and she’d figured out the general pattern of the moves, so much so that she could sometimes actually predict the next steps, even for a new song that Raj had just choreographed.

  Smiling at the memory of his compliment, she walked up the remaining three floors with a jaunty bounce in her step that she was glad no one could see. The bounce faded as she reached the top floor and turned in towards the familiar landing where her erstwhile office was situated. She didn’t feel the need as much as before to sneak in and try to be completely invisible, but still, this would always be the office from where she had been fired, of which she had no

  good memories.

  ‘Trish?’ A voice rang out in surprise from just behind her near the reception. She froze and then turned reluctantly to face him.

  Just great. Akshay. Her ex-boss had to be taking some sort of a loo break or something at the exact moment that she reached the reception. What luck. She adjusted her bag over her shoulder and said casually, ‘Hello, Akshay. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Trish.’ She noted that he was gazing at her in what appeared to be an appreciative manner. ‘How are you?’ Without waiting for an answer, he looked her up and down and said, ‘You look like you’re doing well. You’re so … different. I almost didn’t recognize you.’

  Trish shuffled her feet a little. She was fitting into her older clothes now and had picked out a flowing black skirt with a practically unworn blue blouse that she had bought on a whim years ago. The blouse fit her curves well, but suddenly it felt too tight and low under Akshay’s ogling. Irritated by his eyes lingering on her cleavage, she practically snapped at him, ‘Got to go. I have a meeting.’

  ‘With Zee,’ he said knowingly, and she couldn’t hide her surprise. He went on, ‘She mentioned that you w
ere applying for a position in editorial and asked me for a reference.’ He gave her a smile that, with shock, she recognized as the flirtatious one she had seen him use on the young, attractive new girls in the office while she had worked with him. ‘I told her you were a solid, reliable worker.’ Trish felt a spark of anger as she recalled the way he had spoken to her while asking her to leave, and instantly knew that he was lying.

  ‘Oh, you did?’ She batted her eyelids at him with a smile.

  She was being totally sarcastic, but like most thick, self-involved people, he couldn’t pick up on it, and his smile widened as he leaned in and said, ‘Tell you what. Come and see me after your meeting with Zee. We’re expanding. There are some exciting new positions we’re putting in place now. You’ve been part of this system, so we know your calibre.’ Another downward glance. ‘We may just be able to work out something even more interesting than what Zee’s got for you. You know, start afresh?’

  He had the audacity to wink at her. Trish held her ground. She said carefully, ‘Okay. Sounds interesting. I’ll see you in your office then.’

  ‘Great,’ he said breezily. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ And then, with a smarmy little wave, he turned and walked into the office. She made a face at his back and spun around to walk towards the opposite wing. Only then did she note the amused expression on the face of the old security guard at the reception who had apparently been watching the entire exchange. He gave her that happy toothless grin of his that had always cheered her up in the old days, and she couldn’t help laughing. Throwing him a broad conspiratorial wink, she headed to her meeting with Queen Zee.

  She looked more like a queen bee than ever, sitting on her high-backed chair, nose tipped in the air, her army of editorial assistants, designers and other sundry yes-men swarming over her as they all examined something on her large flat-screen desktop computer. Trish cleared her throat once and then again, louder, as she stood with her head poking through the half open door. It was now fifteen minutes past the scheduled time of their meeting, and she had decided to ignore Nivedita’s simpering plea that no one interrupted Zee in the middle of a meeting.