EX

by Novoneel Chakraborty

  Neel feels bad. For a moment he wants to accept what the old man is saying. By then Nivrita arrives dangling a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Sorry, I always buy one from the shopkeeper there whenever I come here. Old ties never die.’

  Nivrita doesn’t seem to care about the old man. Neel doesn’t say anything to him either and follows Nivrita inside. For once he does turn around only to notice the old man still gaping at him. Forty years of work he had said, the man needs a break for sure. He deliberately doesn’t tell Nivrita about it, lest she thinks he has gone mad.

  Few metres from the school gate is a white bust of a man at the centre of a small but well-maintained garden. It is of the man who built the school some forty-five years ago. The information is written on the marble slab below the bust.

  On his left he can see a shade beyond which there is a basketball court. He follows Nivrita to that court. As he tries to keep up with her, he asks, ‘Pretty big school. It doesn’t look like it has such an expanse from the outside.’

  Nivrita turns for once and says, ‘The outside and the inside are two different things Neel. Don’t try to guess the latter by studying the former.’

  Neel wonders if she was being witty and there was more to what she had said. She doesn’t clarify though. Neel soon forgets about it.

  Midway through the basketball court, Nivrita turns right and enters a small gate and into the bigger building which is spread on either side of the bust from outside. Neel is right behind her looking around and taking mental notes of things.

  ‘This is where the secondary classes happen from standard 6 to 12. Most of the story happens in this building,’ she says.

  Though there’s a long corridor ahead but Nivrita takes the stairs to the immediate left of the small entrance. He follows. They climb up to the second floor. There is no sound which seems a bit weird since it’s supposedly school hours. Finally they are on the second floor’s corridor.

  ‘Where are the students?’ Neel inquires still looking around.

  ‘It’s a holiday today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They had their annual sports event the other day so today is a holiday.’

  ‘And they have allowed us inside?’

  ‘I have the principal’s permission with me.’

  Finally Nivrita enters one of the classrooms. Neel follows close behind.

  ‘This is exactly where the story begins.’

  Something about the way Nivrita says it makes Neel wonder if it’s her personal story. Then why didn’t she write it herself if she wants to share it with readers? Why does she need a writer for it? And that too someone who has not written a single book! Seconds later, he thanks God for making her choose him to write the story.

  ‘I would appreciate it if you write the story with a female protagonist in mind. It would be interesting: a male writer writing from the point of view of a female.’

  Neel is considering her suggestion: a male writing from the point of view of a female. It would be tough for him, he feels.

  ‘It may give us a marketing edge too,’ Nivrita says next.

  Hearing the words ‘marketing edge’ Neel says, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘If you don’t mind may I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Nivrita now goes and sits by a bench at the back.

  ‘Is this your story?’

  ‘I told you this is our story.’

  ‘No, what I mean is this your personal story?’

  ‘This is Neel and Titiksha’s story.’

  For a moment Neel stands frozen. Then he thinks, ‘Alright, she is joking,’ he laughs out.

  ‘It’s not a joke. You can stop laughing.’ There’s intent in her voice.

  Neel immediately closes his mouth tight.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks carrying a cocktail of incredulity and bewilderment on his face.

  ‘What I really mean is the present English popular fiction scenario in India is such that people like reading about the writer’s personal story more than enjoying a so called fictional story.’

  ‘So even if it is not my story you want me to write it in a way as if it is?’

  ‘Yes. You can say its reality fiction. There’s as much reality in fiction as there is in reality television. Always remember, only two things sell in India—sex and sympathy. It’s because there’s a large, very large, number of Indians who are gullible, ignorant, and unaware. Hence, I think you should lend your and your girlfriend’s name to the protagonists in the story. With that the chance of going closer to the readers will also increase. Secondly, if you write the story from the point of view of a female, it would tell readers how much you know women. Not every guy can write a touching story from a girl’s point of view.’

  Neel takes a few minutes to absorb what Nivrita has just said by pacing up and down the classroom. Only the ceiling fan’s creaking noise is audible. Nivrita keeps looking at him, confident of his answer.

  ‘Alright, the protagonists will have Titiksha and my names.’ He slowly ambles towards the corner most seats in the classroom. Just the debut book. Let me get published first then I’ll publish what I want to write, he tells himself and in the next instant he hears Nivrita speak.

  ‘Great. So should I start narrating you the story? It begins in 1995.’

  ‘1995? That’s like quite a long time back. Can’t we make it contemporary?’

  Nivrita is quiet.

  ‘It’s fiction after all, so how does it matter if we change the year from 1995 to let’s say 2013? The essence is important, don’t you think?’ Neel argues.

  ‘Right,’ says Nivrita. ‘Moreover there are certain realities which no degree of fictionalization can change.’

  Neel casually wipes a layer of dust with his fingertip from the last wooden seat and makes himself comfortable on it. There is quite a distance between the two since Nivrita is sitting at the left corner of the classroom by the wall while Neel is sitting at the right corner, where the windows are. He casually looks at the desk and at one corner he notices a word sculpted: Titiksha.

  Before he can react to this absurd coincidence he hears Nivrita say, ‘Let me start narrating.’

  Not every Titiksha is the Titiksha he knows, Neel thinks quickly, and says, ‘Wait! Let me bring out my laptop,’ bringing out his Macbook Pro from his bag.

  ‘One last request, Neel.’ Nivrita puts her legs on one of the benches to attain a more comfortable position.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Write the story in past tense.’

  ‘Past tense?’

  ‘I feel there’s this pain associated with past tense. It gives me a feeling that what had to happen has happened. Nothing can change it. The story I am about to tell you has already happened. Neither the lives the story has touched while it was happening can be changed nor the damage it has caused to its characters can now be undone. That’s the power of the past. It can’t be undone—come what may!’

  Neel takes a moment to relax his mind. He has a feeling that it would be an interesting story.

  ‘Or you can intersperse the past tense with abrupt conversations where the author seems to be talking to the readers. I won’t mind that.’

  Neel’s Macbook Pro is ready now. So is he.

  ‘Okay, I’m ready. By the way can you please tell me a name for the story; a working title of sorts,’ Neel says waiting to type whatever Nivrita shall suggest.

  Nivrita smiles at him as if she has been expecting this question.

  ‘For the time being,’ she says, ‘Let’s name it: Ex.’

  WORKING TITLE: ‘EX’

  From Neel’s Manuscript

  l

  Being Titiksha was never easy. But when I think back now, being easy was never being Titiksha either.

  Where do I start? Introductions have always made me feel awkward for they lead to impressions. I was never fond of impressions. If I tell you that my age when this story began was sixteen, that I had a kil
ler figure, cute smile, sexy eyes, sweet voice, and a frank nature enough to floor any guy, then you would immediately guess that I was a high school bombshell. Some of you will create an image of me and fantasize about me, wishing for my look-alike to be your next girlfriend. My thoughts would not let you sleep or allow you any inner peace. In short, my image will torment your mind, heart, and life—all in an enticing manner.

  Hold your breath now. I was nothing of the above. Did your flight of fantasy just crash land? I was indeed sixteen but fat (never cared to weigh myself), regularly had pimples (one went the other appeared but thankfully they didn’t leave much of marks), wore old fashioned thick specs, always kept my hair in a pony (I was never a shampoo model), reserved (I never mixed with people but observed everything from a distance), and no boy ever looked at me twice. And one more important and very real thing about me: I didn’t give a shit about what people thought of me if they at all did.

  Whatever I’ll tell you is my life but not entirely my story. One’s life cannot be one’s story only. And if your life is only your story, it means it has surely been a waste. Even my life was a waste till I was sixteen. From then on, my story ceased being my story alone. What I’m trying to tell you is that post sixteen, I was royally and deliciously screwed by life.

  Three important things happened the year I crossed sixteen.

  The first important thing: My parents divorced.

  For me it was an eventuality. I knew about this. I prayed for this. Why would a child pray for her parents’ divorce? Oh, you wouldn’t have asked this if you were in my place. I have grown up hearing what a mistake I was for my parents. They never told me this directly but whenever they fought, which was all the time, either mom said it to dad or dad told mom that they didn’t plan and conceived me. I was an accident. Titiksha was an accident for them. I guess that explains why they never really cared for my needs and wants. I grew up the way I did because I had to. I soon understood everyone had issues, everyone had problems, and everyone came across a day when one’s life’s story ceases to be one’s only. Life’s best/worst trick, however, was that even after knowing well that everybody goes through similar shit, I felt my classmates, friends, or acquaintances were a tad bit better placed than me in life. It kind of made me feel better to be not better than people around me. An emotional paradox; finding happiness in the fact that I was facing bigger problems than others. In a strange way, it made me feel something worthwhile was happening in my life. More the shit, more the worth was what I concluded.

  At nights before sleep took over, I always wondered if I would have been the same person if my parents had conceived me after proper planning. Probably then they would have felt responsible enough to care for me. And love me. Love! Till then I’d never known what love was. I only guessed it as some kind of a magic in a person which called for another person’s emotional attention. I have craved to feel that magic in me, but have never come across anyone who made me feel that magic in me. If you plant a tree in the presence of high power lights from day to night, how does it matter? It will need sunlight to grow. I was not healthy. I felt like a weed which had grown because somewhere, someone forgot to clean up. I existed, I occupied space. That was about it. I didn’t feel inferior, but I did feel unwanted. The saddest thing was I allowed life to convince me that I didn’t deserve anything good. Till of course I crossed sixteen.

  One of the reasons why I was shifted to my grandmother’s place was to safeguard me from people who loved to poke into my life. Or so mom told me. I knew she was lying. That probably was another side effect of being an adult: nobody said anything straight. The truth was both mom and dad wanted to lead an independent life. When I complained to mom about how shifting school wouldn’t help me since I was used to the school I was studying in from kindergarten, she only asked me to learn to live with things which I didn’t appreciate. A happy life isn’t the one where you got everything you wanted. A happy life is how well you accept the things given to you; she’d told me. I never complained to her again. I knew she was going through a lot of stress. I had seen her doing things which only dad used to do before—smoke and drink. She would also be in a ready-to-fight mood most of the times. Those were the days when whatever connections I felt towards her slowly diminished. I never understood dad so I never cared about what happened to him.

  Mom got custody of me and left me with Yo-didun (I called my grandmother by that nickname because the first day she surprised me by saying her favourite TV channel was MTV!). Yo-didun lived in her house in Salt Lake. Earlier I was in Ballygunge, South Kolkata, in a two bed-room flat with mom and dad. I was comfortable living in a house with less people and more empty spaces. But at Yo-didun’s place there were a lot of people; my maternal uncle, Ashok mama, his wife, Bijoya mami, his two sons—Sandip and Shib. I hated them all. They hated me even more. Mama hated me because I was better than his sons in studies. Sandip was of my age and Shib was two years younger. Both had the brains of a donkey. I didn’t exactly know why Bijoya mami hated me but she did. She always gave Sandip and Shib full glasses of milk during breakfast but not me. They had eggs regularly too. I got it only during weekends. She gave their clothes to laundry whereas I had to wash and iron my clothes myself. If I had periods, I was made to eat and stay separate from them. When Sandip and Shib studied, nobody was allowed to watch television at home. When I studied, the television’s volume kept ascending at will. Every Thursday mama, mami, and their sons dined out but not me. That day Yo-didun prepared dinner for both of us. I helped her as much as I could.

  ‘Shonamoni, you’ll have the happiest husband,’ Yo-didun always told me whenever I helped her with cooking. She thought my cooking was fabulous. Honestly she was the only person whose company I enjoyed. She never asked me much but answered a lot of my queries. I especially enjoyed the time when she oil-massaged my head at night. She knew I was being neglected at mama’s place but she told me to focus on studies so that I could stand on my feet, and have my own life. She said women should always be financially independent. That was precisely my goal too. I didn’t exactly know what I wanted to do in life but I knew I wanted to be financially independent, and not rely on anybody else for money. Another thing I was sure of was whenever I would conceive a child with a man, it would never be out of ignorance. My child would never be an accident.

  The second important thing: I changed my school. Actually, I was forced into doing it.

  My earlier school, Calcutta High, was in South Kolkata and since it was too far away from mama’s place, I was admitted to Salt Lake International. I complained to Yo-didun about it. All she said was, ‘Adults don’t know how to decide for themselves, but they reserve the divine right to decide for their kids.’ We shared a hi-five.

  I accepted the change of school too just like the other changes in my life. Of course I was not an adult so I was not free to make an issue out of everything. I was never attached to anyone in my old school so in the end, I was okay with the shift. Yo-didun advised me to stay away from attachment.

  ‘Attachment isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ she’d remarked.

  I was pretty sure that I would never be attached to anything. That’s just the way I was. I enjoyed things till they were around me. Then if I had to go away, I went away. No fuss. No tears. Yo-didun thought it was actually a blessing in disguise which would come in handy for me later on in life. She was right.

  Once, while I was oil-massaging her scalp, I asked her why she didn’t marry post Dadu’s demise. She was just thirty-one when my Dadu died. She said it was because she was attached to Dadu. And when one is attached to someone, there’s no room for anybody else. So for forty years following dadu’s death, Yo-didun lived alone because she was attached to dadu. Forty years!

  ‘A momentary presence of a person, at times, can comfortably numb his absence from your life,’ she said. Attachment, indeed, was a dangerous thing—I made a note of it in my mind.

  The third important thing: This is something confus
ing.

  On the face of it, it seemed like a simple thing. Too simple to be significant. I later realized that’s what most life-altering moments seemed like to begin with. As I dived deeper I knew it was anything but simple. Why or what made me dive deeper anyway? Why wasn’t I happy with only the face value of the incident considering the fact that I generally was happy with the face value of most things? Reading between the lines, digging deep, and finding profound meaning to something otherwise stupid, bored me. But by the time I realized what had happened, I was already deep enough in it to let go of the feelings that mobbed my heart. When I narrated the incident to Yo-didun, she said, ‘Did it feel like some electricity ran through you and lit a special bulb in your heart?’

  I found myself nodding positively.

  ‘How did you know this Yo-didun?’

  ‘It happens. Especially when one is sixteen, it happens exactly that way,’ she said beaming from ear to ear as if it was a joke.

  I relaxed knowing I wasn’t the only one to feel the electricity Yo-didun talked about, or the special bulb in my heart she mentioned, at sixteen.

  2

  The ‘special bulb’ incident happened on a Friday which was also my first day at Salt Lake International school. The weather was hot and humid. It wasn’t cloudy in the morning but it suddenly started raining the moment I stepped out of the house. When I requested Bijoya mami for an umbrella, because I wasn’t able to find mine, she said there were three umbrellas all of which had been taken by mama, Sandip, and Shib. I had a raincoat too but after searching for it for ten long minutes, Bijoya mami informed me that her dear younger sister, Piyali has worn it to the vegetable market. When mami went away to the kitchen, I showed her the middle finger. I wanted to show it to her on her face but curbed myself from doing so. Piyali used to appear regularly at Yo-didun’s place and at times even stayed over. She was a couple of years younger to Bijoya mami but was unmarried.