Black Suits You

by Novoneel Chakraborty

  There was a strong wind blowing on our faces. I was finding it difficult to keep my hair away from my face. I saw him look at me the way you do when you adore something. It made me nervous and at the same time feel desired too.

  ‘And that rare instance occurs due to peer pressure, you know.’ He was still talking about his smoking habit.

  ‘I believe you do what you want to do.’ I was always a cut-to-the-chase kind of girl. He kept looking at me as if he didn’t expect me to say it. To be honest, there was something genuine about this guy who had helped me in the ATM. But as the golden rule goes, you never know with a guy. I thought of testing Kiyan to see if he really was sincere or just another prudent Indian male who couldn’t see a girl doing the so-called manly thing.

  ‘Have you asked your friends who smoke not to do so as well?’

  Kiyan gaped at me for a moment before saying, ‘No.’

  Another chauvinist! I was almost about to conclude when Kiyan’s retort steered my mind to a complete different conclusion.

  ‘I read somewhere that when a girl smokes, especially young girls, it affects their system to an extent that it may affect the foetus whenever she conceives. I don’t know if it’s correct or not but then why take a risk. It’s a matter of two lives, yours and your baby’s.’

  ‘Thanks for the information. I was so planning to get pregnant this Diwali.’

  His jaw dropped open. And I couldn’t help my laughter.

  ‘It was a . . . joke,’ I clarified. Finally, he laughed with me.

  ‘Sorry if I sounded patronizing,’ he said.

  ‘No issues. By the way, you were right. The debit card had expired. I’ll get a replacement this time, and I’ll give you your money after the Diwali holidays.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Kiyan moistened his lips. The train seemed to have picked up speed in the last few minutes.

  ‘Are you going to Lucknow or getting down somewhere in between?’ I asked.

  ‘Lucknow. What about you?’

  ‘Lucknow,’ I said.

  The silence that followed told me we needed to continue asking each other questions lest one of us said ‘excuse me’ and went away. This urge to stretch a conversation with a guy was also a first for me.

  Thankfully for me, he asked, ‘Which school did you go to in Lucknow?’ I wasn’t yet ready for him to know I was interested. In the beginning, it is always better not to be too obvious about your intentions.

  ‘Cathedral School in Hazrat Ganj,’ I replied.

  ‘We were neighbours then. I was in St Francis,’ Kiyan said coyly.

  ‘Funny. We were so close but never met.’

  ‘Obviously. We didn’t know each other. There was no context.’

  Now we have a context, I wondered, and life never creates context in someone’s life out of context.

  ‘Where do you stay?’ he asked.

  ‘Jopling Road. And you?’

  ‘Aliganj.’

  Yet another silence fell. A bit more prolonged than the last. And it seemed to communicate something more than our words did.

  ‘I was thinking that there’s a way of giving me the money sooner too,’ he said.

  I kind of guessed what was coming. All boys are actually predictable. And probably that’s where their cuteness lies, unlike us girls whose charm is cocooned in our unpredictability. I kept quiet and allowed Kiyan to finish.

  ‘We can meet up in Lucknow during the Diwali holidays,’ he said, matching my expectations.

  I caught a glimpse of myself on the small mirror atop the wash basin on the side. The twinkle in my eyes and the tinge of his faint smile told me our story had finally begun.

  3

  Aundh, Pune

  20 February 2016

  Saturday 10.30 p.m.

  Kiyan’s was a little wary at the book event in Crossword. Two words were constantly ricocheting in his head, Chase me. He had torn the note into three pieces before throwing it into the garbage dump. What on earth did it mean anyway? Why would he chase her? This was someone who had attended one of his book events, no, two book events, and then disappeared throughout the week. He knew nothing about her except that she, in all probability, was a reader of his books. Like so many others. What was so special about her? A second later, he answered it himself. The special thing was that she actually made him think about her, unlike the rest.

  There was also slight anger burning in him. And its flame wasn’t directed towards the girl but towards himself. How could he be so dumb? He had taken Mitakshi out for dinner because he thought she was the one who had sent him the photographs even though he had neither asked Mitakshi about it nor had she claimed anything of the sort. How could he have been so presumptuous? For a twenty-seven-year-old, it was silly. Also, the actual person who was stalking him across book events would know how easy he was. He had violated the golden rule he had once learnt from one of his marketing team guys—easy is cheesy. And a celebrity can’t be easy. Not with his/her fans. There should be a mystery, a myth attached to the celebrity. The fans desire the celeb only because of that fantastic, unbridgeable distance. By distance, the marketing person didn’t mean physical distance, but rather the mystery behind the persona. With Kiyan goofing up with Mitakshi, he was sure the girl who had sent him the photos must have realized that Kiyan wasn’t all that smart. But all said and done, he had to answer only one question now—does it really matter? Who the fuck is this girl anyway? Let her assume whatever she wants to assume. He never claimed that he had mistaken Mitakshi for her. And he didn’t need to respond to her ‘chase-me’ game.

  Kiyan went to the book launch with the conviction that he didn’t give a damn about the girl. It was new-found fame for him, and he was sure these things would happen in the future too. He better get used to it without taking everything too seriously. However, he couldn’t stop his eyes scanning the room, trying to look for the mysterious someone during the book event. He had read about and begun to believe in the superstition that what happens twice happens for the third time as well. The fact that he was giving an unknown person so much of his mental space was disturbing Kiyan. He was simply unable to erase the echo of those two words—‘chase me’—from his mind, even though he had debated the futility of it.

  When Kiyan had read the note last weekend at the hotel in Kolkata, it had seemed casual, but now in his mind, it called out to him like a challenge, like he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t chase her after thinking about her so much

  After the event got over, Kiyan had a quick chat with the sales guy from his publishing house and learnt that the trilogy had gone for a tenth impression. He wanted to go back to the hotel to sleep when he received a WhatsApp message from Natasha asking him if he’d zeroed in on an idea for his next book yet.

  I have. Though a little vague as of now.

  He was bluffing. He didn’t want to sound like he had become creatively bankrupt after the debut trilogy. A quick way of generating a story and subsequently a one-line pitch for it is to ask yourself what is happening in your life at the moment. Kiyan thought about it and started muttering under his breath, ‘Trilogy success . . . bestseller . . . book events . . . someone trying to approach him . . . a fan?’

  What about a sexy story of a bestselling debut author and one of his readers?

  Wonderful. Any hints? Natasha asked.

  A bestselling author and a diehard fan-cum-stalker, Kiyan typed then wondered, would the girl stalking him really give him a story? The thought aroused him creatively. Authors being selfish people, they seek stories in their own emotional debris as well as in other people’s. Natasha had once explained to him that to commercialize what is personal often brings authors a lot of fame. Whether it is good fame or bad fame doesn’t matter because personal stories give readers a chance to connect emotionally.

  I’ll soon let you know, Kiyan WhatsApped back. Was he using his new-found storyline as an excuse to give himself a reason to keep thinking about the girl who wrote to him those two words
: chase me? Kiyan avoided the question in his mind as if it had never occurred to him. Right after the event, he called his driver and asked him to come up to the bookstore exit. He collected all the gifts and bouquets and looked around one more time. There was nobody suspicious enough for him to look at twice.

  ‘Yeah, the event went well.’ Kiyan was on phone as he climbed out of his car. ‘The bookstore was in Aundh, which is close to Pune city. The events are fun. Not what I thought they would be.’ Kiyan crossed the road to enter the Rude Lounge building and waited for the elevator to arrive.

  ‘No, I’m not in the hotel. I came to a nearby lounge. Natasha, my editor, said I need to give her a synopsis for my next soon.

  ‘No, I don’t have a story yet but just a vague idea. I want it to start at a nightclub actually. So, let’s see. Yeah I’ll call you later. Bye.’

  Kiyan got off the phone and stepped into the elevator. He pressed the fifth floor button. Unlike others, he could never pretend to focus on his phone when in public because he had no social media apps on it. He used to be on them earlier, but with time, he had lost touch with his school and college friends. Social networking sites, as he had come to understood, were more of a pseudo connection. True, they helped people trace long-lost friends, but that was about it. After the tracing was done, if one really wanted to stay in touch, a phone number was enough. The rest was all about the gratification of the voyeur monster that lives latent within us all, constantly feeding off the events in others’ lives. Moreover, he liked observing people in public rather than checking updates on his phone.

  Kiyan moved out of the elevator, extended his hand to be stamped by a bouncer and entered the lounge space. Most of the lounge was a dance floor with couches at various corners and a good bar space at the left of the entrance. Kiyan had chosen this particular lounge because it had a rooftop. He felt claustrophobic otherwise. He went to the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke, and looked around for an empty spot.

  Kiyan wasn’t a party animal but sitting with a drink and looking at people dancing to music amused him. It was a sight that told him society wound people up into knots while they let themselves loosen up in a place like this. Music with alcohol was a winning combination for this to happen. But not for Kiyan. He never wanted to let go. He liked control. He liked to be in his senses, to be in charge. Sights like these always worked as triggers for stories. As he sipped his Jack and Coke, Kiyan heard a collective hoot from the clubbers as he saw a girl in a one-piece, figure-hugging blue dress get on top of the bar counter and dance to the ongoing Punjabi rap. Could she be his next character? He wondered. Her dance had a certain wildness to it that aroused Kiyan’s creativity. Like she didn’t give a fuck about what people thought about her. So very unlike him. She had an arresting appeal about her even though Kiyan couldn’t see her face clearly. He kept eyeing the girl and observing her moves, her messy hairdo, the dollops of sweat shining on her bare shoulder and thighs, the curves underlined by her dress and the way the disc lights were falling on her. They lit her up like a true fantasy, a muse. She took a bow as the rap ended, while people hooted and whistled for her. Kiyan wanted to approach her, to know her just that much that it would help add colour to the character he had roughly sketched in his mind in the last one minute. But before he could spot her, she mingled into the crowd.

  Kiyan went to the bar for a refill, eyes constantly trying to spot the girl. As the bartender filled his glass, Kiyan felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, but no one was standing there. He assumed someone must have brushed against him. He took his glass and went back to the same corner, only to see the seat had been taken by a couple who were busy smooching. Kiyan momentarily considered asking for his seat back, but their passion made it clear it was better to leave them alone. He looked around and spotted an empty couch in a corner where the multiple disco lights were shining incessantly. He went over and was about to sit when a girl came and sat down with a thud. Kiyan was immediately alert.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said and shifted just a bit to make space for Kiyan.

  ‘Not a problem.’ He noticed her dress and realized it was the same girl who had danced on the bar minutes ago. He tried but couldn’t see her face since she was bending down, fiddling with her stiletto. Kiyan sat down beside her, still observing her from the corner of his eye.

  ‘You came here alone?’ the girl asked, without looking at Kiyan.

  ‘Yes.’ A pause later, he added, ‘And you?’

  ‘Alone.’ She was still fidgeting with her stiletto.

  ‘Any problem?’ Kiyan asked.

  ‘The stupid heel broke when I was dancing.’

  ‘I saw that.’

  ‘You saw the heel break?’ This time, the girl turned to glance at Kiyan. The way her hair fell on her face increased the initial attraction he had felt for her to a different level. With blue, red and golden disco lights falling on the other rest of her face, he couldn’t make out her natural look.

  ‘I saw you dance on that bar top.’ He had to lean forward a bit to be audible.

  The girl gave him an acknowledging nod and took her stiletto off. He couldn’t decide whether her shapely feet or the dark nail paint on the toenails were more beautiful. She stretched her feet slightly as if they were hurting her and then started massaging her calf.

  There are people with whom you love to talk and there are people with whom you love the silence. The latter was true with this girl. They weren’t talking, but every action of hers was like new information for Kiyan. It felt like he was getting to know her from the way she took off her stiletto, the way she moved, the way she touched her calf and pressed it while tucking part of her hair behind her ears; every action of hers had a sexy narrative to it. Kiyan didn’t realize when he finished his second Jack and Coke. He tried to get up to fetch another glass but fell back on the couch. He closed his eyes shut tight once and then opened them to realize his head was reeling slightly while the images of people dancing, the lights and the noise were all progressively turning fuzzy. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the girl. She was telling him something, but he couldn’t hear her clearly. Everything seemed like a lucid dream where he knew he was present but nothing was registering in his mind. The girl put one of his arms around her shoulders and helped him move out of the lounge. A bouncer came to help but she told him he was her boyfriend and she was capable of taking care of him herself. Kiyan, by then, had slipped into semi-consciousness.

  Once out of the lounge, the girl took Kiyan to a car. She unlocked it and made him comfortable on the front seat. She quickly climbed into the driver’s seat and drove the car to a mostly secluded place. They sat still, she waiting impatiently for a couple to pass by. The moment the couple’s reflection disappeared from the rear-view mirror, she turned to Kiyan. Looking at him hungrily, she licked her lips twice. She reached across him and pressed a button by the window, making Kiyan’s seat recline. He was constantly blabbering something, but none of it made sense. She looked straight into his semi-open, rolled-up eyes and made herself comfortable on top of him, putting her knees on his sides. She drew close to his face and touched his forehead with her nose. She dragged the tip of her nose from his forehead to his chin and then to his chest, inhaling his fragrance as if she was inhaling life. She didn’t breathe out immediately. She held her breath like she was allowing his fragrance to permeate through her. After some seconds, she leaned forward once again and exhaled softly on his face. One by one, she unbuttoned his shirt till his torso was bare. Placing her face on his bare chest, she started rubbing her face across it, breathing out hard and feeling her passion escalate. On an impulse, she bit him right on his chest and dug her teeth deep into his flesh until she was sure it would leave a mark. As she sat up staring at the bite mark, she sucked in her cheeks and wondered, The taste of you is even better than your thoughts, mister bestselling author. She giggled naughtily and bent down to suck his lips.

  * * *

  A Girl’s Diary

  20 Febru
ary 2016, 11.58 p.m.

  It was the day after Diwali that Kiyan called me on my mobile phone. I was waiting for it.

  ‘Hey, how is Diwali going?’ he asked. It felt nice to hear his voice. For the first time, I realized someone else’s actions can tell you a lot about yourself. Like the call from Kiyan told me, conclusively, that a part of me had been waiting for it; a part that had been asking a lot of questions since we met at the ATM and then in the night train. But I chose not to answer them. Not yet.

  ‘Good. And yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Great. Diwali is actually that time of the year when almost all my cousins are here. So it’s really fun.’

  I sensed relief in his voice, as if he had wanted to make the call for a long time but wasn’t sure how I would react.

  ‘Same here. More than the festival, it’s the get-together that is more enjoyable.’

  ‘And the sweets from Ramasrey!’ he added, sounding like a kid.

  ‘Bongs and their love for sweets,’ I said. He laughed. I could imagine him do so. In fact, I’d observed him acutely in the train. It had helped me imagine him a lot since that night.

  ‘More than sweets, I indulge in the chaat they serve at King Chaat in Hazrat Ganj,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, I love chaat too,’ he replied. It sounded like he was weighing his words before saying them.

  ‘Actually . . .’ Kiyan said, ‘I don’t like chaat much.’

  It was my turn to laugh out aloud. I wanted to pull his cheeks for the cute confession.

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so before?’ I was finding it hard to control my laughter.

  ‘Well . . . you know . . . ummm.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, I got that,’ I said to calm his awkwardness. Of course he had said it to look like we were similar. Something guys often do to make the girl like them. But the immediate confession made him stand out from the ones I had seen or heard about.