by Abha Dawesar
She had picked up my chemistry register and flipped it open. “Orgo was my favorite,” she said.
“I thought you were a designer. A freelancer.” The words danced on my tongue.
“I am. But I got my master’s degree in chemistry. One ends up doing things one never expected to do,” she said.
I wanted to voice my doubts about our dinner the next evening, but I didn’t know how to do so without bringing up Rani so I only said, “Don’t tell Mom we met today.”
“Let me get you some cold coffee. The mixer is not working, but I’ll shake it up.”
The kitchen was fairly dark. I watched her move around, open the door to her fridge, get melted ice cubes from the freezer.
“Do you still love your husband?” I asked.
“No,” she said. I thought she was going to say something more, but she didn’t.
“Did you ever get involved with anyone else?”
“Yes. A married man.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes. But he was married.”
“When was that?”
“Two years ago.”
She had poured the coffee into a tall steel glass with a lid and was shaking it.
“What’s that?”
“It’s to shake martinis.”
I didn’t want to ask her what a martini was. I’d look it up. The coffee looked almost as frothy as when it was made in a blender. She gave it to me in a tall glass and then led me by the elbow to her veranda.
“We need to talk,” she said ominously. It was the moment I had been dreading. I sat on one of the cane chairs on the veranda and pulled it close to the other chair.
“Anamika, I’m not going to have an affair with you.”
But we are having an affair, my mind protested.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because you’re too young. I have been thinking about this. I got carried away earlier. I’m almost your mother’s age, and it’s not right. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I sat quietly and stared at my glass of cold coffee, wondering how best to convince her to continue. I was sure she had been enjoying herself when we had been intimate.
“How do you think you’ll hurt me?” I asked.
“You’re young, you should be with someone who can be with you. I have a son, I have duties. I can already see that this will go nowhere. We can’t be together openly. In fact, you should get involved with a boy.”
“You can only hurt me if you are mean. And you can do that whether or not we are having an affair.”
“I’d never be bad to you.”
“Then you won’t hurt me.”
“You should be with someone your own age.”
“Age is irrelevant,” I said. I truly believed it, too.
“Don’t get me wrong, I think so, too. I feel close to you. Deepak, one of my closest friends, is much younger than I am. Though not as young as you. But there is no future in this,” she said.
“I don’t want a future. I want now. I went to a sagai yesterday. I think marriage is a trap.”
“It is a trap,” she said.
She brought her face close to mine and looked into my eyes. I ran my index finger on her lips and then kissed them. I thought she’d back off but she didn’t. After a few seconds she pulled away and said, “The only way I can have this affair is if you promise me you won’t get too attached.”
“I promise,” I said without pausing for even a second.
“No,” she said, pulling my chin to her face once more, “really promise.”
“Yes. Yes. Promise,” I said, thinking to myself that love and attachment were two different things.
“I don’t want to feel guilty for monopolizing you. You’re so young you should be free,” she said. Freelance, I thought to myself.
“I am free,” I said, remembering the night I had come to her house for the first time, repeating Planck’s constant like a mantra in my head.
“You’re so beautiful, you know,” she said.
I giggled.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Me being beautiful.”
“But you are.”
“No I’m not. I might be brilliant,” I said, “but not beautiful.”
“Who told you you’re not beautiful?”
“I have eyes. No one needs to tell me. Anyway, it doesn’t matter since it’s not of any importance to me.”
It was shallow to think about one’s looks. I wanted to be only a soul, an intelligent mind, a heart that was brimming with passion. I wanted to be above and beyond looks.
“I’m going to convince you that you’re beautiful.”
“I don’t care about looks.”
If I dedicated any time to my own beautification, it would negate my own view of myself as a mental being. And yet I had picked apart all of India’s features in my mind piece by piece for hours. I had noticed Rani’s beauty and Sheela’s creamy complexion. In that sense I had not shown any of them the respect I showed myself. I didn’t think of any of them as pure minds. I saw them as women. I liked their flesh. Did it detract from my love for them that I loved their bodies, not just their souls?
“What are you thinking? You’re so quiet,” India said.
“Nothing. My mother refers to you by name. I’m not used to it. It feels strange,” I said, not wanting to talk about beauty anymore.
“You’ve never called me Tripta. In fact, you’ve never called me anything.”
“I didn’t want to call you by name and offend you. Anyway, I didn’t know your name for a while. But I have my own name for you,” I said.
“What?”
“India.”
“India? Why?”
“Because when I first saw you I felt the kind of love I feel for the whole country, not just for one part. For all her contradictions, her fierceness, her beauty, her rivers, and her mountains.”
She moved forward in her chair and tapped my skull. “What goes on in that little head of yours? I never thought such things when I was your age. I don’t even think them now.”
I drank the remainder of the coffee from my glass and crunched the little bits of ice that had not yet melted. It was so strange that someone else was thinking about me. India had ideas about me, about the kind of person I was, and I did not know to what extent they corresponded to who I really was. I remembered a theorem on congruent triangles from geometry class. Laws that declared under what conditions certain shapes were equal to other shapes. Was it possible to map human beings in the same fashion, or was it inevitable that errors would be introduced?
We were quiet for a few seconds.
“You know, I don’t want to use you for sex. I don’t want this to be about that,” she said suddenly.
“Use me for sex?” I asked. The idea was thrilling and grown-up. It sounded like the Sartre story I had read. Could she actually reduce all of me to my body and want me? It was better than being wanted for my brains. My mind had got a lot of accolades since I had started school, but my physical being had been neglected. No one had bothered with it. Even Rani, who slept with me, was with me because she was attached to me emotionally.
“I want you to use me,” I said.
xi
Mandal
I rarely called my friends at home, but I left India’s house feeling the need to talk to Sheela or Vidur. Vidur was more intelligent, so I decided to call him. A man with a very polished accent answered the phone. I thought it was Vidur’s cousin, who was visiting from Bombay. He asked me my name and said, “Hold on one second, Anamika.” The sound of my name from his voice box was very intimate.
“Was that your cousin?” I asked.
“No, it was my father. He came home from work early.”
He had sounded rather young. Vidur was well-spoken but not that sophisticated. His father spoke English with a refined, almost British accent.
“I called to talk about something. Do you agree that people who place emphasis on looks over intelligence are shallow?
” I asked.
“Of course,” Vidur said.
“And it’s so because when one does well in class it is a result of one’s effort, whereas one is born with good looks?”
“Yes, of course,” he said irritably, as if such reasoning could be taken for granted.
“But Vidur, one is born with intelligence just as one is with beauty,” I said.
“But one still has to work hard to do well. Remember that genius is mostly a matter of perspiration,” he said, getting exasperated.
“Wait, imagine a guy in our class who is way brighter than any of us. An Einstein. Someone with a photographic memory who never has to make any effort to learn.”
“That’s a more difficult case,” Vidur conceded with hesitation.
“Or what if Sheela argued that she has to work hard to look pretty. That she wears cucumber face masks and washes her face with turmeric, so she deserves credit for her beauty.”
“Why are boys intelligent and girls pretty in your example?” he asked.
“It can be the other way around, that’s not important.”
“My dad says that if I had a sister, she’d be both better looking and smarter. He says he wanted a daughter,” Vidur said loudly. I could tell Vidur was saying it for his dad’s benefit.
I heard his father in the distance say, “I didn’t say that. I was merely trying to tell your mom that girls and boys will turn out well if you raise them well.” I loved the voice, its deep timbre, and the way Vidur’s father enunciated his words.
“That was my colonel speaking,” Vidur said.
I knew his dad was in the army, a fauji, but I didn’t known he was already a colonel! I knew roughly how long it took a fauji to get to that rank. Only a few exceptional officers could skip ahead. His dad must be a different breed. I wanted to ask Vidur how old his dad was. But I didn’t.
“So what’s the answer? Are Sheela and Einstein junior equally meritorious?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
“Why don’t you ask your father?” I said.
“Why don’t you ask yours?” Vidur said.
“I don’t talk to my father about looks,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll ask mine and tell you what he says tomorrow.” We hung up. The emptiness of the house hit me only after I had put down the phone. I had come in with my own keys without Rani’s welcome but had been too preoccupied to notice. Now I remembered that she had gone to the jhuggi to meet her husband.
I took off my school uniform and hung up my tie, skirt, and belt. Then I sat on the bed and stared at the wall. The heat combined with Rani’s absence made me torpid. Forty-five minutes passed like that till the doorbell rang, snapping me out of my reverie. I was wearing only my school shirt, so I had to pull on pants before I could answer the door.
“How was Sports Day rehearsal?” my mother asked as soon as I opened the door.
“There were just preliminary discussions,” I said. I was sure my face was turning black with guilt. I had lied before, but this time it pinched me. And yet I couldn’t openly visit India as frequently as I did because then I’d have to explain why she was so important to me. If I told my mother that I was in love with India, then she would put an end to it. The lie was a means.
“I told Mrs. Tripta Adhikari about dinner tomorrow,” I said.
“She’s divorced. Adhikari is probably her maiden name. You should call her Ms.”
“Is Rani coming back?” I asked.
“We’ll find out in the evening. Maybe she can work things out with her husband.”
I shrugged indifference and went back to my room. I pulled out my chemistry assignment sheet. Our teacher had handed us all a cyclostyled sheet with ten questions. The ink from the paper rubbed off on my hands. I sat at my desk and tried to answer the questions but could not get my mind off Rani. I usually did my homework without referring to my books and notes, but I couldn’t focus at all. I reached in my book bag for my chemistry lab register and realized I had left it at India’s house. I’d need to pick it up or ask her to bring it discreetly when she came to dinner.
Just before dinnertime I heard the bell ring. I stopped myself from jumping up and running to the door. Rani could come and find me if she wanted. I looked at my clock. The second hand moved a full circle around the dial and then another. Then another. There was a knock on my door.
“Yes,” I said. Rani came in.
“Little princess, how are you?” she asked.
“How is your man?” I asked stiffly.
She came up behind my chair and put her hands on my shoulders.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
“No.” My body was shaking. I was afraid it would show if I stood up. I kept my hands tucked under my legs because they were trembling, too.
“You’re angry,” she said. She brought her face close to mine and smiled. She was treating me like a child, a spoiled prince.
“So what’s going on?” I asked.
“He wants me to go home. He said he would never drink.”
“Are you?” I asked. I knew from the way I was speaking that I sounded distant, though in fact I felt I was about to break down in her arms.
“I told him I’m not leaving you. I brought my clothes,” she said, stroking my neck.
I felt light, as if relief was an antigravitational force. I embraced her.
“You want me to stay here, little princess?” she asked, flirting with her eyes.
“Yes. Definitely,” I whispered.
“Come eat. Memsahib is calling you for dinner,” Rani said.
I was quiet over dinner. I didn’t want to lie about the school Sports Day again. I kept my chemistry textbook on the table and peered at it while I ate. Usually H2S gave us hints in the lab that were not written in the textbook or were hard to find. I was hoping that if I combed the chapter something in the lesson would trigger my memory and I would remember what I had written in the lab register. I made no conversation whatsoever. If my parents said anything to me I grunted. As soon as I was finished eating I retired to my room to study.
After Rani had finished cleaning the utensils she came to my room. When she saw me reading she made her bed on the floor and lay down. I waited to call India. I read for a little longer, till my parents’ light went off. Then I shut my door and whispered, “Rani.” She was still awake. “Come here,” I called from my bed.
“Little princess, are you sure?”
“Yes.” I thought I’d chat with her for a few minutes before calling India.
She had started talking like a servant again and become mindful of her position after her visit to the jhuggi today. I wanted to erase her background, her past, and the stigma of consorting with a person of much lower caste. This was something I could never tell anyone, not India, not Sheela, not Vidur, not my parents, not any future lover.
As we lay together, the scent of wet mud wafted in from my window.
“It smells like rain,” Rani said. I got up and looked out the window. In the dim light I could see needles of water falling.
“It’s raining,” I said, returning to her.
“I’m very happy,” she said as she ran her fingers along my forearm. I didn’t want to interrupt the moment we were sharing. I decided to call India some other time and fell asleep to the smell of the earth and of Rani.
The next morning I saw Mrs. Pillai when I stepped off the school bus. The rain had cooled Delhi, and a slight breeze was blowing. The pallu of Mrs. Pillai’s sari fluttered and flew off her shoulder. She reached forward to grab it. I was walking a little behind her and off to her side. I saw her neck stretch out a few inches like a crane’s as she set the pallu back on her shoulder.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I said, lurching forward.
“Oh! Hi, Anamika. The weather’s so pleasant.”
“You’re looking beautiful,” I said.
“Oh!” she said.
“Ma’am, can you recommend any good books? I’ve been
reading Sartre,” I said, speaking rapidly, embarrassed by the compliment I had just paid her.
“That stuff’s too negative. I’ll lend you something. Remind me.”
“Mrs. Pillai,” Mrs. Thaityallam said, intruding upon us.
“Ma’am, I’ll be off,” I mumbled.
“Child, remind me,” she said. As I walked away I was filled with a bittersweet sensation. She hadn’t ignored me completely when Mrs. Thaityallam had interrupted, but she had called me “child.”
In the school assembly that day, the boy who read the news said that the government had decided to implement the recommendations of the Mandal Commission and increase the number of reserved seats for scheduled castes in schools and colleges. This was fresh news from the morning. It shocked me. It was followed by a brief talk on the Bermuda Triangle by another student. After that the principal came up and spoke. He usually addressed the school on Monday mornings. It was unusual for him to speak midweek. He spoke about merit and the value of hard work. The teachers were not supposed to take obvious political sides, and although he didn’t explicitly mention the Mandal Commission, it was obvious he was talking about it.
The princi’s talk created a buzz. Students clumped together to discuss it instead of walking back to class. The teachers formed spontaneous circles and argued. Voices were raised. I made my way down to where my classmates were standing.
“The new reservations are completely wrong,” Vidur was saying to everyone.
“The scheduled castes have been wronged throughout our history. We have to atone for it,” Sheela was arguing with equal passion.
“The brahmins have exploited everyone for centuries. The chutiyas,” Chakra Dev said, materializing from nowhere. He put his hand on Sheela’s shoulder as if they were both on one team.
I was incensed by his hand. Vidur’s eyes were blazing, too. Sheela shook her shoulder and glared at him. “Don’t touch me, mister,” she said to Chakra Dev. He walked away. We all watched him till he was a few feet away before turning back to look at one other.
“For or against?” Vidur asked, looking at me.
“Against.”
“Do you know how many atrocities are committed against them even now?” Sheela demanded.
“That’s a separate issue from reservations and a much bigger one,” I said.
