Black Suits You

by Novoneel Chakraborty

  ‘By the way, aren’t you supposed to be in Kolkata or something? Or are you a Lucknow native?’ I questioned, deliberately steered the conversation.

  ‘The last three generations of my family have been settled in Lucknow. Never been to Kolkata actually.’

  ‘Okay.’

  There was a sudden silence. I didn’t know what else to say and probably he too was wondering the same.

  ‘When are we meeting, Kiyan?’ I blurted out, without thinking it could have been misinterpreted by him.

  ‘Oh,’ he was clearly not ready for it.‘You tell me,’ he continued. ‘I’m free, except for at night.’

  ‘I won’t be able to meet you at night anyway. Parents won’t allow. How about Royal Cafe at around five in the evening today?’

  ‘Great!’

  We were done with the phone conversation. Honestly, I was yet to meet a boy outside of school or college friends till then. I wasn’t conservative or shy that way. I boozed, smoked and watched porn with roomies on mute while making deliberate dirty noises, but I had never been approached by any guy, nor had I approached anyone. I had some crushes in school, but I was more into staring at them from a distance rather than talking. I have forever been the average Indian girl with baby fat on her face and a slightly troubled metabolism. Though I have had boys call me cute, I have never been labelled as hot or a ‘babe’. I don’t think any of my classmates would have ever jerked off thinking about me. I was more of the girl-next-door-with-whom-you-could-share-your-dirty-thoughts-knowing-she-won’t-tell-anyone type rather than the object of the dirty thoughts. And trust me, I was pretty happy with it. It was just that I didn’t want Kiyan to see me the way every other boy saw me. I didn’t want him to find me normal. I wanted to be special for him. But how could someone who was normal for everyone be special for anyone?

  Royal Cafe was situated in the heart of Lucknow, Hazrat Ganj. I had this bad habit of calling my friends from a particular point, telling them I was on my way, and then watching them do stupid stuff while waiting for me. I did the same with Kiyan. I called him at a particular point near Sahu Cinema Hall and watched him from the other side of the road. Standing in front of a parked car with tinted glass, Kiyan kept checking his reflection. He was wearing a black shirt tucked inside his blue jeans and brown leather shoes. He had oiled and combed his otherwise-tousled hair into a decent right parting. He was looking unlike how he looked when I saw him the last two times; like a decent boy whom every girl would love to take home and introduce as her choice to her parents. After about three–four minutes of making him wait, I decided to present myself. I crossed the road. He smiled the moment he spotted me. I smiled back.

  ‘Black suits you,’ I said as he came up to me. For a few seconds, I thought he didn’t know what I was referring to and then glancing at himself, realized it had to be his shirt.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. His abrupt confused state was something I was beginning to like. I also noticed him looking at my kurti (or was it my figure?) I was in a sky-blue kurti with white flowers all over it and white jeggings below. My sandals had a block heel. I had put red paint on my nails and was smelling of lavender. I remember him telling me much later that there was nothing about me preventing him from proposing to me then and there. Though he didn’t propose then, but to be honest, when I think back, I may have said yes.

  ‘Here,’ I said, stretching out my hand, which had a few notes in it.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘I owed you money, remember? Isn’t this why we are meeting?’

  Is this really why we are meeting? I asked myself.

  ‘But I told you the money belongs to all my friends. How can I take it?’

  ‘Why don’t you introduce me to your friends? I’ll pay up individually then.’

  Kiyan once again was lost in thought. And once again I enjoyed his confused expression. A boy would never introduce his girl to his friends before he proposed to her. Everyone suffers from basic insecurities, especially when it is about love. Love? Really? In a few meetings? What he said next made me think I was right.

  ‘Since you are insisting so much, I’ll take it,’ Kiyan said, taking the notes.

  ‘Good.’ I so knew the introduce-me-to-your-friends ploy would work.

  ‘I think we should go inside,’ I said.

  ‘Sure.’

  Both of us entered the Royal Cafe. I liked the way he made way for me to enter first and followed behind. I like it when someone acts like a gentleman.

  There weren’t many people inside at the time. We took a table in the middle. I ordered an iced tea for myself while Kiyan asked for a cold coffee.

  As the waiter took our order, we, for some time, just kept smiling at each other like fools without uttering a single word. I wanted him to initiate conversation this time. I wanted to see if he knew how to take charge. That’s an important quality (a soul-arousing one at that!) in a man.

  ‘These people won’t shoot us if we talk,’ he remarked. I sighed, thanking God silently that he had taken charge.

  ‘If you say so,’ I quipped.

  ‘How is life?’ he said.

  ‘Life is what life should be like. Unpredictable. A few days ago, I didn’t know you, and now here we are.’

  ‘That’s true, actually. Did you think about it?’ It came out a tad more desperate than he would have liked. Or so I presumed.

  ‘Think about what?’

  ‘Our meeting at the ATM?’

  ‘Obviously.’ He flushed the moment I said it. ‘I had to return the money to you.’ This time, I intentionally teased him. The way I was manipulating his expressions were giving me a funny high.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I hope your girlfriend won’t mind you meeting me here like this?’ I asked. The most important thing before starting any journey—check if you have the ticket for it.

  ‘No.’

  My heart skipped a beat. A ‘no’ meant he had a girlfriend.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’

  Something within me calmed down.

  ‘Why not? There are so many beautiful girls in your batch.’ My teasing mode was on again. This time his face told me he understood.

  ‘That’s the problem, you see. With so many beautiful girls, how do you know who is the one for you? In fact, how does anyone know who is the one for you?’

  I threw a sharp glance at him and said, ‘I don’t think you can decide the one for you and then meet the person. You meet the person and then know that he or she is the one for you.’

  Kiyan kept looking at me. It was only when the waiter arrived with our order that he averted his eyes. Every second of that silence unfolded in me a certain part that I hadn’t seen before. A part that thought someone could be more important to me than myself.

  ‘What does your father do?’ I asked, to break the romantic spell of silence that had consumed me and perhaps him too.

  ‘He works for the PWD. And yours?’

  ‘We have a garment shop in Aminabaad.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘So, what plans for Diwali? With friends?’

  ‘Kind of. They will drink and smoke, which I am totally against.’

  ‘Hmm, so am I.’

  Kiyan darted an enquiring glance at me.

  ‘Oh, I was only trying it in the train for a friend’s sake. Casually, you know. Otherwise I don’t.’

  A smile of appreciation was duly flashed by Kiyan.

  ‘If you keep away from your friends, then how do you party?’

  ‘I don’t. When I get time, I generally read books. Do you party a lot?’

  ‘Not much. In Lucknow, it is mostly house parties. No good pub. In fact, no pub. There are mostly house parties, but those too are rare.’

  ‘You sound sad, but you just said you don’t party, so how does it matter if there’s no pub.’

  ‘I mean my friends keep asking me to parties, so I drop in once in a while when I’
m here on holidays.’

  The conversation came to a lull, during which Kiyan casually glanced around, looking at nothing in particular. I was sure he must be furiously thinking about what to say next. It was time to tell him something that I had been noticing for a while now but hadn’t said a word about.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ I asked, looking directly at him.

  ‘Am I nervous?’

  ‘See? You are.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ He had his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Actually . . . you have been sipping my iced tea.’

  Kiyan noticed his cold coffee sitting untouched on the table while he was halfway through the iced tea that I had ordered. Embarrassment was never so embarrassing.

  I did have the cold coffee later, even though Kiyan insisted on ordering another iced tea for me. Our meeting lasted about thirty minutes, after which I took his leave as I had to visit one of my friends, Riti. We had to plan how to get my parents to let me attend the all-night party at Riti’s boyfriend’s bungalow in Gomti Nagar. Her boyfriend, Aman, had called all his friends for a post-Diwali alcohol party as his parents were out of town. After I met Riti, we cooked up a simple plan—I would get a call from her at around 9 p.m. on my landline, which I wouldn’t pick up. Either my mother or father would. Riti would tell them she had fever and her parents were out of town, and request them to allow me to come over for the night. Sleepovers were a strict no-no for me and hence this my-friend-needs-me story was important.

  Everything went according to plan except that my favourite bua decided to visit us suddenly since I was there for the holidays. So, instead of 9 p.m., my dad dropped me off at Riti’s place at around 10.45. Once dad left, after repeatedly asking Riti if she needed any medicine, which she refused, both Riti and I climbed into her father’s Santro and drove to Aman’s bungalow to find that the party had already begun.

  ‘What took you so long, baby?’ Aman asked as he opened the door for us.

  ‘Sorry, baby. My friend was late,’ Riti told him.

  ‘Okay. No issues. Come in quickly.’

  Once inside, Riti got busy with Aman. Most of the girls and boys at the party were Aman’s friends whom I had not met. There were a few girls from college whom I knew, but they too were there with their boyfriends.

  So I got myself a Budweiser. After a pint, my bladder was full. I asked the way to the washroom, which was attached to one of the bedrooms. When I came out after relieving myself, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Right in front of me was Kiyan lying on the bed on his stomach, totally drunk.

  And this guy, I wondered, had told me a few hours ago that he stayed away from alcohol. Could this guy be even trusted? I asked myself.

  4

  Mumbai

  27 February 2016

  The next morning, Kiyan woke up with a bad hangover. He remembered the book event, the girl dancing on the bar top and also the way she had been adjusting the stiletto, but after that, nothing. How did he come to the hotel? Who brought him here? Was she the same girl who . . . He ordered some fresh lemon and heated up some water using the electric kettle in the room. It was while taking a shower that he realized he had a dark purple patch on his chest. A love bite. As he pressed it, he felt a slight twinge of pain. When did this happen? He wondered and tried to think hard about what all had happened the night before. All he could remember was talking to the girl who had danced atop the bar. She had a problem with her stilettos and then . . . all blank. Storming out of the shower with water dripping down his naked body, Kiyan called up the reception.

  ‘Sir, someone left you with our security guard at the gate. We took you to your room,’ the receptionist said in answer to Kiyan’s query.

  ‘Left me, as in?’

  ‘You were . . .’ the receptionist took time to choose his words wisely. It was a corporate booking guest he was talking to. He didn’t want to upset him.

  ‘I believe you drank a little more than usual, so you were not able to walk or even talk.’

  ‘Hmm, okay.’ Kiyan had understood by now that it was the girl. She must have spiked his drink to . . . give him a love bite? Or did they sleep together, and he didn’t remember anything? He once again pressed the bite mark to feel the pain. What did she want? This wasn’t fan-like behaviour, he thought, and turned to go back to the washroom when the phone rang. Kiyan was quick to pick up.

  ‘Hello, mister bestselling author,’ A female voice said. It was a confident, honey-dipped girly voice.

  ‘Who is this?’ Kiyan tried to look for but didn’t find any caller ID facility on the hotel room phone.

  ‘You were with me last night,’ she said with a hint of amusement. It wasn’t a surprise for Kiyan.

  ‘What does the bite mark mean?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you a lot of things, Kiyan. But words failed me. So, I thought of expressing them through the bite.’

  Her words proved Kiyan wasn’t talking to someone dumb. He took his time to speak.

  ‘What happened, mister bestselling author? You too at a loss of words like me? You too want to express it differently?’ She giggled. Her giggle had an alluring quality to it. He would never forget it, Kiyan knew.

  ‘What is all this about, if I may know,’ Kiyan said.

  ‘No, you may not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said if . . . so I said no, you can’t.’

  Kiyan was about to frame something sterner when he heard her giggle again.

  ‘I’m kidding, mister bestselling author,’ she said. Kiyan was yet to understand if the ‘mister bestselling author’ was a taunt or otherwise. It disturbed him slightly.

  ‘Call me Kiyan.’

  ‘I will . . . when our breaths fall on each other’s faces . . . I surely will.’

  ‘And what do I call you?’

  ‘Call me Kashti,’ she said.

  ‘Kashti . . .’ Kiyan repeated under his breath.

  ‘That was orgasmic,’ Kashti said with a sigh.

  ‘What do you want Kashti? Why have you been following me to every book event?’

  ‘That accusatory tone is making me feel guilty, mister bestselling author.’

  ‘I just asked a simple question—what do you want?’

  ‘Okay. I want to fuck you. How about that?’

  Kiyan found her bluntness unsettling.

  ‘I don’t go around fucking my fans.’

  ‘Now you are being presumptuous, mister bestselling author.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘That’s because I never said I am your fan.’

  If this had been a novel then Kiyan knew this was the moment when the plot thickened.

  ‘Then who are you?’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘So you are going to tell me some day?’

  ‘Else I wouldn’t have approached you.’

  ‘You have sent stalker-ish photographs, a note and given me a love bite. That’s not exactly approaching someone.’

  ‘Are you ruing the fact that I haven’t approached you yet?’

  This was a trick question. What should he say? A direct yes? Because that was the truth. He wanted to know who this girl was who had given him the deepest love bite of his life, someone he wrongly thought was a fan and one whose name—Kashti—made him feel as if he had heard it somewhere, though he wasn’t sure where.

  ‘What if I say yes?’ Kiyan said.

  ‘You say if a lot, mister bestselling author. Girls fall for guys who are specific with their intentions. Care to be confident for a change?’

  Girls fall for guys . . . there was intention hidden in the subtext of it, Kiyan thought and then warned himself not to be presumptuous about it.

  ‘Okay, I’ll be specific. Meet me,’ he said.

  A pause later, Kashti said, ‘Very soon.’ And cut the line. Kiyan immediately called the reception and asked if the call could be traced to the number it was made from. The receptionist took half a minute and said the call was made from ro
om no. 717, in the same hotel where he was. Kiyan turned around quickly but stopped when he noticed himself in the full-length mirror. He was naked. And he hadn’t realized it earlier, but the conversation had given him a major hard-on.

  He quickly dressed to scoot to room no. 717, which was a floor above the one he was in. The door was open when he reached. He knocked once and then stepped in, alert. The bed was messy, the curtains were drawn and a tea set was on the centre table. He could see someone had just finished the tea in one of the cups. Kiyan was taken aback when a housekeeping boy came out of the washroom.

  ‘Yes sir, may I help you?’

  ‘Where’s the guest you had in this room?’

  ‘She just checked out.’

  Kiyan rushed downstairs, but he was too late. The guest, as he was told by the receptionist, had checked out of the hotel half an hour ago but had gone back to the room on the pretext of looking for her phone. And that’s when she called me, Kiyan thought. With much persuasion and by using his charm, Kiyan was shown her name but not the address. Her name indeed was Kashti. But there wasn’t any surname. He knew he had no option but to wait for her to get in touch with him again.

  * * *

  That didn’t happen for an entire week. It had become a pattern now—she would appear during the book event and then disappear for the entire week. The following weekend, it was time for another book event, this time in Mumbai.

  During the three-hour-long launch in Crossword, Kemps Corner, Kiyan’s eyes were working hard, searching for her. One glimpse. That’s all I’ll need to recognize the girl this time. Or that’s what he kept telling himself, knowing well that he didn’t remember much about Kashti except that she danced like crazy and had fiddled with her stilettos. And of course, that she was daring enough to spike his drink and take advantage of him. He knew she had to be there and had a gut feeling she must be seeking an opportunity to surprise him. And that made him remain alert.

  Compared with other cities, the queue for book signing was the longest in Mumbai. It took him close to two hours to only sign the books and pose for selfies with the readers. By the time the event ended, the entire stock of the trilogy at the store had been sold out. This time, his editor Natasha and marketing manager Supriya were present at the launch. They decided to go to Social in Colaba for dinner.