by Bitsi Shar
Chapter Nine
My auto guy is sedate this time maybe because I am not in tearing hurry. The sun is cooling off just that little bit and the hot hundred degrees has dropped to a cooler ninety. This feels pleasant even though the sweat remains like a sticky film on the epidermis. The breezy whiplash creates an illusion of a cooling affect.
I glance at my watch. Another twenty minutes before we arrive at Berccos and that alone keeps my heart steady. I am not ready for the next level of blood pumping and emotional angst that follows in its wake. I close my eyes letting my heart dip into another nether gear, treating myself to another degree of lower calm. I open my eyes as we are rounding the corner to Berccos. The auto guy begins looking for a spot near the sidewalk where he could park to let me off. And as luck would have it, a scooter backs out of the space we were slowly approaching. We squeeze in and he stops. I pay him and hop off.
Now I need some orientation. Where exactly is Berccos? Should I go left of the Leather Emporium or right towards Palika Bazaar? I go left guided by some uncanny directional sense. In five minutes I am standing before the best Indian-Chinese restaurant in North Delhi.
I am good. I know.
My mother used to tell fables of my sense of direction, even as a child. My father would often test my directional astuteness by first promising to drive us to our grandmother’s place in Kamla Nagar but then taking a rather circuitous route that would lead us home instead. I knew what he was up to every single time. And every single time I protested telling him to follow the “right” path. I would then feed him every turn and U-turn to my grandmother’s house. And upon reaching, give him an emphatic nod as if to say “duh.”
I smiled at the memory as I push open Berccos’ gold and black heavy wood door, stepping into its air-conditioned interior. Even as my heated body welcomed the cool, my insides turn molten. My heart banged into my chest like I had just subjected it to a mile dash. He sat at the back of the restaurant where the lights were rather muted for intimate affect. He watched me as I walked the thirty steps from the front door to our booth. He smiles broadly as I slip into the opposite end of the table he is sitting at. He is looking good as always. God, this is getting boring. Why does he have to look good every time I see him? Why can’t he look sloppy, harassed, and just plain glum as if the onus of brokering a peace treaty between Palestine and Israel lies solely on his capable shoulders?
He is again wearing my favorite mauve shirt with grey slacks. His tie has been loosened a little at the neck to help him breathe a little at the end of a formal working day or is he just getting comfortable for a good evening with me? You know what they say—loose tie, loose thoughts.
“You look good,” we both say simultaneously.
We smile.
The space between us is rather cramped which means that as we sit our knees touch and unless we want to sit sideways to make our discomfort obvious, we have to learn to be happy with our knee kisses.
Like I said, “learn” to be happy with our knee kisses. I wasn’t happy that our knees were in a lip lock right now. I needed to break the knee-kiss like right now in order for me to have any hope of a clear thought, even less a clear conversation with him about the state of Indian politics. Safe topics make for safe conversations, I think. Be safe. I encourage myself.
I shift to break the knee-kiss, ever so subtly. He notices. He shifts to slide our knees again into a lip lock. Now we are in a virtual smooch. My kneecap fits well inside of his rather big kneecap and it actually feels alright. We are a good fit, if only in the knee department for now. I let it be and give him my full attention.
“Hi” he says again, “should we shake hands by way of greeting, Ms. Sharma?”
“Sure.” I extend my right palm and he takes it, shaking it briskly. But instead of letting it go, he holds up my palm as if to peruse through a labyrinth called my palm, as if it is something he has coveted for far too long but never beheld. Suddenly his head dips and he places a wet kiss in the center of my palm. There is no warning. As the cool air hits the wetness on my palm, I shiver, like a full-blown, visible-to-everyone-shiver.
He nods as if he knows and then says, “I am not apologizing for that. It was either that or your mouth and I know that right now your mouth, I cannot claim as mine. I know I will shock you and the fifty others in here. Not that I give a damn about the other fifty. Only you.” I squirm, shift, move, and break the love fest between our knees. I scoot back however little or best I can in my seat and cross my arms against my chest as if I am offended by his crazy gesture. I know I am far from being offended. I am just pretending to hide the simple fact that I enjoyed it a little too much.
“Do you want me to say sorry? I can but you know I won’t mean it.”
“No, don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“Do you want me to mean it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Meaning, if you really are offended by that kiss then I am genuinely sorry for offending you. I never want to offend you for anything that I do or say. I only want to do or say things that we both might like. So please tell me that you aren’t offended?”
“No, I am not offended. You just surprised me, again.” I say and then look away.
I am suddenly very shy of admitting that nothing this man does can be offensive because whatever he is working off of every time he is near me, I am doing the same every time I am near him. So why pretend to huff and puff when clearly there is something between us that needs to be fully understood. And now is as good a time as any. He doesn’t push instead ordering our dinner. He better be hungry from the order that I hear him place because I am not eating even a quarter of that size order.
Now, don’t get me wrong as you would any other woman. I enjoy food a lot, especially good food. But he has already poached on and plundered this desire away and instead replaced it with a gnawing one, for him.
“So how was your day?” He is cutting into my head games.
“Good. I got a lot done. I needed to get a lot done in order to feel good about being here with you. I need to be productive in order to be frivolous later. I don’t do unbridled frivolous, only unbridled serious.” I am philosophically babbling now.
“Oh! So I am your unbridled frivolous today?” he asks cocking his head sideways as if to mock me. But then without warning he picks up my other hand that I have casually left on the table. He gives it the same attention as he gave my other hand, especially my palm. Except this one’s wetter.
I pull involuntarily. He refuses to let go instead leaning in to breathe onto my wet palm. The cold wet turns warm under his breath and all my nerve endings go into red alert. My vagina cannot stop contracting and I realize that I am in the throes of a mini-orgasm that actually doesn’t feel mini at all.
Shit!
I will not be the silent Indian Meg Ryan in an Indian restaurant.
I pull my hand away to wipe the wetness away on my salwar and then leave my hand where it is. It is dangerous to leave limbs lying around for him to poach on and play with. And then our food arrives. Thank, God Krishna!
Goodness! He has ordered the whole menu and the chef with it! The table is too small for this order. I shift the silverware around depositing the small candleholder to the far end of the table but away from the wall.
He waves at the food now littering the entire length and breadth of our table and says, “Ms. Sharma dig in.”
Okay, digging in. I am hungry so I help myself to some chicken Manchurian and egg fried rice. I debate about the green chilies in vinegar and the hot red sauce. I decide against either. I don’t think I can do any hotter right now. I need my food to be a little cold after what has transpired five minutes ago. I need some checks and balances here. I dig in. The food is a little cold like it has been sitting in the kitchen for more than five minutes. But seriously I don’t mind it right now. It is the right temperature for my palate. While stuffing my mouth with a good portion of the Manchurian, I take a peep at him.
I squirm and our kneecaps sift back into place, mine resting in his as if it has returned home.
He is saying and I am trying to listen, “Sorry about that, hon’. I can’t do cold food and if I am paying for an experience then it better be excellent not just good.”
“I didn’t mind. I kind of like cold food.” I pout I think (most inappropriate thing to do, I agree but what is a girl to do when she is likes the guy and her body agrees with her enough to react as it should without permission).
“Why, Ms. Sharma, I don’t take you for a cold person at all. I think you are a very passionate person. You seem to radiate some gorgeous heat every time I am near you. It is very intoxicating. You have no idea how many times I have had to stop myself from reaching out to touch your heat, absorbing it all into my palm, getting a taste of it in my mouth and attaining some kind of semi-nirvana. You really have no clue how you affect me, Ms. Sharma, do you?”
I am stunned is an understatement.
I shake my head without really wanting to shake my head (yes, my body is synchronized now to his voice, his breath, his words). Disgusting.
“Give me your hand,” he demands.
I think we are way past him asking anything politely or disinterestedly. I resist or maybe my hand is now stuck to my thigh for I am finding it difficult to raise it to the level of the table and towards him.
“Now, Ms. Sharma,” he says it slowly but firmly.
His eyes, I look up, remain warm. I slowly withdraw my hand from my sweaty thigh to slither is up to the edge of the table. He reaches over my glass of water, pulls at my index finger and my hand is in his. He places palm into his left palm and with his right index finger traces it. He gently lifts each finger as if testing its tensile strength before letting them sit back on his palm. Without any warning, he picks up my pinky finger and quickly bites it. I think I stop breathing for a good three seconds before snatching my hand back with some force. My face is a good hundred degrees and getting warmer. But I cannot stop looking at his now very wicked expression. The food re-arrives and now mine is way beyond cold. I have lost my appetite, for food anyway. Food is a poor substitute for what is growling in my belly now. However, even before the plates make it back to the table, I am piling my plate with everything I don’t even like. And then I am chomping, yes chomping. I need some noise in my head to replace all the sensations coursing through my body.
He is quiet, I kind of notice. And he hasn’t begun eating yet.
Oh! What is wrong now? He shouldn’t have started what he did with me in a public place. This is no place to start something like this lest you want to shock the clientele and get thrown in jail for public indecency. He is sitting back watching me chomp with an amused aroused expression on his face. I smile but go back to my chomping. Maybe my smile re-assures him that we are good, he pours himself some food but then eats with enough disinterest to give anyone watching constipation.
He eats in silence. I don’t. But there is silence between us as we eat and think, not necessarily in any degree of clarity about what is happening, has happened, or might happen between us. There is Kung Fu fighting playing in the background, quite appropriate for an Indo-Chinese food joint, I think to myself.
He has stopped eating again. I look up, irritated now. But he is looking over my head at something or someone else. Oh, really! But he is looking uncomfortable. His lips are moving to articulate that which has already formulated in the three nanoseconds between looking up and spotting the irritant.
A body slides into focus from my left and I look up into an unknown male face. Thank god! They shake hands while the new guy kind of stares at me, unashamed curiosity reflected in his eyes.
I feel uncomfortable so I look away and continue eating as before. I am not interested in knowing this some one I instantly do not like. They exchange inanities for what seems like eternity. Inanities shouldn’t take eternity. They should end like in the last minute that slipped by. I think the new man wants to extend these inanities so he can get to know at some point my identity and what I am doing here with his apparent friend/ colleague.
And I know he doesn’t want to introduce me. Too many willing ears everywhere; too many complications arising with it herewith. In short, I wasn’t worth an introduction to Mr. Nosey Parker. But Mr. Nosey Parker continues to stare and I can hear him exhale exasperatedly at this unexpected situation.
“Samir, this is Ms. Sharma, my third cousin. She is visiting from Hyderabad.”
What the fuck?!!
Cousin?!!
Did he really introduce me as his cousin?
And what of all that kissing, and fondling, and biting, and seducing—of a cousin???! Where does this guy get off? What is he playing at, seriously? I am mad.
Samir says “hi” and I “hi” him back and maybe my being mad is splayed across my skin like blood rising up the skin under the bite of a flogger.
I stare ahead at nothing, waiting for this Samir or whatever to leave. He does.
I need to get out of here. Fuck him . . . and him.
I refuse to look at him as I slide out of my booth seat to literally run away from him and everything this evening was about or not. He blocks my slide out by standing in between me and freedom. I still refuse to look at him. He bends towards my ear and whispers “Sorry.”
I will not cry right now. I will not. I keep repeating in my head. This is so stupid and so fucked up. I push him away almost sprinting for the door. Outside I breathe in a little forcefully as I hail an auto. I run to the first one that stops and get in. I give him my address before looking over my shoulder.
I see him exit Berccos, looking around for me. His hand is sifting through his incredible mop with considerable force. He doesn’t spot me and I turn around in my seat, looking straight ahead at nothing in particular.
I have an insane urge to howl like beating the moon kind of howling. But my anger is considerably bigger than my urge to howl. It trumps it. Fine! I’ll go home and cry there. The night has settled onto Delhi. The dust haze is making it look ghost-like. It cooler now and the breeze has picked up a little. The dusty breeze whiplash feels welcome. The dust grinds at my face and the wind attempts to clean it away unsuccessfully. By the time I reach home, I have dust grains settled into every pore of my being. I feel grimy.
Chapter Ten
Something wakes me up. Its morning. I know. There is light in my room. But its not the light but voices outside my door that claim my subconscious to jerk her awake.
I think I hear Dipta talking on the phone. I hear her pause, listen in, talk, and pause again—a standard phone conversation. I want to ignore it but I can’t since the phone sits on a console table right outside my door. And Dipta has a voice that on its lowest register cannot be absorbed even by a five-inch solid oak door.
So here I am in bed listening in to someone’s conversation and hoping the end is near for I need another shut-eye on this Saturday morning. I need a goodbye, a click, and a walk away.
And then I hear my name—What? Why is she saying my name and to whom in her conversation? Who is she talking to? Now I am all attention and immediately sit up to deliberately listen in.
“Yes, I’ll tell her. Y
es. You have a good day too. I look forward to meeting you sooner than later. Bye.”
And that is it. She is off the phone. I hear shuffling outside my door as shadows pass the door from left to right and then right to left. And then comes the predictable knock.
“Yes?” Even though I know who it is.
“Ms. Sharma, are you awake? We are going to be late for Jaya’s house. Remember the lunch today?”
“Oh, yes. Okay. Give me fifteen minutes to sort myself out.”
“And yes, lover-boy called.” And having delivered the piece-de-resistance I hear her shuffle away.
“Lover boy? Who? Him? HIM?”
I am up in less than a second and out the door in less than two. Damn, why is it so bright outside? I am blind now. And Dipta has disappeared into our small home. I finally find her in the kitchen.
“Lover boy?” I ask as I watch her pour our morning cups of tea.
“Yep. He called. He has a nice voice, by the way. And such good manners even on the phone. Why haven’t I met him yet? Forget that. Why don’t I know about him even?”
She has stopped pouring the tea and is standing facing me with a hand on her hip looking very much like my inquisitive third aunt.
“There is nothing to tell” so say I. I pick my mug of tea and cock an eyebrow at her inquisition of my love life, if you could call it that thus far.
“Who is he?” She is not giving up.
“Not telling you.” I say rather rudely. I take a sip of her strong ginger tea. I like it, though I am not liking her questions right now.
“So who, Ms. Sharma? Where did you find him?” As if he were a hundred rupee note that I found on the road and decided to keep for fun’s sake.
“I didn’t find him anywhere and there is nothing going on (yet, I add silently).
