‘Misha, who were you with?’
‘Friends. Who else?’
‘Was Tarun there?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘What?’
Misha rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, he’s dead to me. I haven’t spoken to him in like forever.’
She had just posted a selfie on Facebook two days ago of her and Tarun inside an auto, with him licking her earlobe as she grinned widely into the camera. It had more than fifty Likes by the time Anupama saw it, with comments ranging from ‘Awwww’ to ‘Twue luv wonly’ (sic).
‘What?’ asked Misha, staring back at her.
Anupama softened her stance. ‘Beta, I just want you to know that you are now at an age where we can be frank with each other. As friends.’
‘Right.’
‘And I trust you completely.’
‘Great.’
‘And I hope that you trust me too.’
‘Sure.’
‘You are a big girl now.’
‘I know.’
‘Show me your phone.’
‘What?’
‘Give me your phone. I want to know who you were talking to.’
‘I thought you trusted me!’
‘I do. And I trust you have nothing to hide right now, which is why you will give it to me.’
Misha shook her head in disbelief. ‘Unbelievable…’
She fished out her phone and keyed in her code. The moment it was unlocked, Anupama snatched it from her hand and went to the call records. The last call was to an unsaved number. Her suspicions heightened. She glanced up to see Misha’s face was blank, giving away nothing. Her suspicions wavered for an instant, before she took a decision and dialled the number.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Misha uneasily, just as the call was answered.
‘What you wearing now, babes?’ drawled Tarun’s voice.
‘This is Misha’s mother here.’
‘Oh fu—Namaste, ji! How are you?’
‘Better than you will be when your wife gets a call from me. Didn’t I warn you not to get in touch with her?’
‘Arey, it’s nothing like that, Anu ji—’
‘To hell with your “ji”! And consider this your last warning.’
She hung up to see Misha gawking at her. ‘Could you be any more dramatic?’
‘Could you be any more reckless? The man’s married, Misha! And he’s old enough to be your father!’
‘Who cares? And he promised me he’s leaving his wife!’
‘I can’t do this again,’ murmured Anupama, walking away.
‘This is so unfair,’ screamed Misha.
As the door slammed hard behind her, Anupama began the familiar chant inside her head.
Shut it away, she hummed to herself, as the migraine in her head turned into a bongo drum chorus. Shut it away, and then open it later.
Gently and cautiously, Anupama squeezed out a tiny dollop of the ‘miracle’ anti-ageing cream that Renu had coaxed her into buying last week, and rubbed it over her cheeks and forehead, trying to cover as much surface area as she could with her fingers. Considering how much the little tube had cost her, she would have to ensure it lasted at least two months to fit within her budget. The makers had tried to justify the exorbitant pricing by claiming the product contained traces of gold, silver and copper peptides. Add in aluminium and zinc and she could, neck up, double up as a Periodic Table of Elements for a chemistry lab in her free time.
She brought her face close to the mirror – a daring act reserved only for when she was alone in her bedroom and mentally prepared to withstand the harshness of direct, overhead lighting. Was it her imagination, or had the laugh lines by her mouth deepened? How was that possible when she couldn’t even remember the last time she had laughed? Another cruel joke of nature against women past forty, she supposed. Her forehead seemed fine – no better, no worse, thank God – but the bags under her eyes were a whole different story. The worst was her neck though – loose, sagging, and with creases that seemed to mark her age like the rings on a tree stump.
Slap on all the gold, phosphorus and platinum you want, honey. That neck will give away everything, the bitter voice inside her said. She wondered why the bitter voice inside her always sounded a bit like Kay.
She pulled back from the mirror and diverted her attention to the rest of herself. Her metabolism – a solitary blessing from her gene pool – ensured that she never grew overweight, although her waist had seen better days. She looked at her cleavage, revealed by the neckline of her nightgown. Time had been gentler in that area, at least. She cupped her breasts and pulled them up a bit. For a moment, she was in her early-thirties again. Then gravity took over, and she was back to being forty-two. Perhaps this is what Renu meant when she said that the right bra could change your whole personality. But how much of a change was deemed appropriate for her at this stage? And why now? For whom?
It hadn’t even worked with Rajeev. She remembered the mix of anxiety and delight with which she had worn her first babydoll lingerie a couple of years into their marriage – three, four? The very notion had seemed controversial to her naïve mind at the time, and that had excited her even more. She had ensured that Misha went to bed early that night, and then the minutes seemed to tick by so slowly. She remembered the naughty thrill as she changed into that skimpy garment in front of the dressing table mirror, seeing an image of hers that had only been confined to her fantasies … the mounting anticipation as she waited for him in the bedroom, lying seductively in bed like she had seen those heroines do … the titillating range of possibilities that flew through her mind, arousing her further … the acceleration of her heartbeats at the sound of the door being unlocked, keys jingling and clattering as they landed on the dining table, the sound of his footsteps growing louder as he approached … the catch of her breath as he opened the door, switched on the lights and turned around – only to freeze in surprise when he saw her … their eyes locking … time had stood still…
And then, his reaction – a single, amused chuckle.
Like he had caught her in the middle of doing something childish.
That was it.
Her desires, confidence and self-worth – all swept away in one chilly wave of disillusionment. She had quickly yanked up the sheets to cover herself. She didn’t want him to look at her body anymore.
Had he ever realized what he had lost that night with his sniggering? What the moment could have been? And what it had become? He had apologized later of course, claiming that he didn’t need any such fancy tricks to feel attracted to her, but the damage had been done. She had never tried anything erotic with him after that.
With the passage of time, sex with Rajeev had gone on to acquire the same charm as her evening walks. She indulged in it every now and then to convince herself she was still putting in the effort, the movements were always the same and at the end of it all, she wondered what the point of all that exertion really was.
Anupama turned off the lights and crept into bed. The exhaustion of the day had begun to numb her muscles in that comforting manner that promised a good night’s rest. She still slept on the left half of the bed, even though the entire queen-sized mattress was available to her. Perhaps out of sentiment, maybe out of habit, or possibly both. Who cared? She had stopped pondering over these things now.
She had barely shut her eyes when she realized she had forgotten to bring along her customary glass of water. With an irritable groan, she dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen. She had turned around after extracting the bottle of water from the fridge, when she saw Charlie in his kitchen through her window. He was standing on a stool, scrubbing the top of his kitchen shelves, wearing a ganjee with abnormally deep armholes that stretched down almost all the way to his waist, exposing a rather significant amount of his torso in the process. Even from the distance and despite the obstruction of the grimy windowpanes of both their kitchens, she could make out that he had a rather athletic physique �
� the Olympic athlete kind with those bony, bumpy muscles. She had just begun to wonder whether it was a result of his genes or some hidden diet and workout formula, when his face tilted a bit to the side and she nearly had a heart attack at the thought of being caught ogling him in her nightgown. She scampered out with the bottle, leaving the glass behind, her heart thudding wildly at the close shave.
The next morning, she woke up early and glued sheets of newspaper over the panes of her kitchen window. It would diminish quite a bit of the daylight, no doubt, but anything was worth her privacy and dignity. Things were so much simpler when that Patel family lived next door. She just hoped the change wouldn’t be too conspicuous to Charlie or her kids.
3
She checked the clock. 11.45 a.m.
She peered through the peephole of her main door. The corridor outside was empty. She pressed her ear against the door. There were no footsteps or voices or sounds of the elevator in motion. That was a good sign.
With a quick glance at the key-holder mirror to ensure that everything was in place, she slipped out with her purse and umbrella. She walked quickly to the elevator and pressed the elevator button, and then hurried back to her door to lock it in order to save time.
Over the months, Anupama had learnt that the art of dodging sympathetic and curious neighbours required, in addition to a generally asocial front, a precisely coordinated entry and exit timing. And of course, luck. Navigating seven floors without bumping into anyone on the way was a blind risk she still had to take. The men and kids were fine, since they hardly ever bothered to chat. But the ladies…
It wasn’t so much their individual characteristics as the homogeneity of their identities that really disturbed her. As far as her opinion was concerned, you could cut and paste one’s face on another, and there would still be no noticeable difference in personality. It had been almost two years now, yet the questions and dialogues remained the same: ‘How are things?’, ‘Kids coping well?’, ‘Let us know if you need anything, no?’, ‘Nimit’s grown so tall so soon, no?’, ‘Let’s catch up sometime over tea, no?’, ‘Saw the Jhalak Dikhla Jaa episode last night? So-and-so is really talented, no?’, ‘Have you lost weight? Get my cook to help along, no?’ The expressions were always the same – the tight-lipped, uncertain smile hovering between encouragement and pity, the solemn softening of the eyes (followed by a gradual glazing if she spoke beyond the thirty-second mark), the automated nods of understanding no matter what or how she replied.
Her tragedy had bestowed upon her a spotlight of public sympathy from which there seemed to be no escape. Add to that the responsibility of raising two children on her own, coupled with the sexless decades looming ahead on the horizon, and it wasn’t long before Anupama became the local poster girl for all that could go wrong in one’s life if the stars weren’t aligned right. Any new updates about her presumed state of melancholy became the CSR (Collective Social Responsibility) initiative of the entire housing society, with neighbours often ringing her doorbell to pass on little offerings of solace like a bowl of sweet curd, or some homemade dhoklas, or Baby’s first baked chocolate cake (‘she made it using honey instead of sugar. So health-smart, no?’) And of course, they always made sure that the gifts were strictly non-marital in nature, lest it seem like they were waving their better fortunes in her face.
Like a recalcitrant pet, the elevator rose up and hailed her with a metallic thump. She got in and shut the doors, with a silent prayer to get through the outer gates without the pressure of having to look a single neighbour in the eye. The moment she saw the top of a head appear below the fifth-floor landing though, she knew it wasn’t her day. And what joy to behold that the head – and subsequent neck, shoulders, torso, and limbs – belonged to none other than Mrs Govindikar, the Queen Bee of the lot. The residential iron lady with a heart of gold. Her sheer presence evoked respect and awe from those who knew her, and perhaps this was the key factor behind her uncontested reign as the Society Chairperson for the past seven years on the trot since her son left for the United States. Anupama instinctively took a step back as the lift halted. Mrs Govindikar pushed open the doors and strode in.
‘Hello, Anupama.’
‘Hello, Mrs Govindikar.’
‘All well with the kids?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
She shoved the doors shut and stood in that erect, dignified manner as befit a lady of her stature. To an inexperienced onlooker, Mrs Govindikar could appear almost grandmotherly, with her mehendi-streaked hair greying at the roots, petite frame and those large librarian glasses that almost seemed to hang off her nose. However, as any flat-owner, tenant, broker, newspaper boy, garbage-collector and departmental store worker connected to the A, B and C blocks of Atharva Hari Cooperative Housing Society would tell you, that assumption was just about as true as Santa’s existence at the North Pole. For within that tiny, willowy frame of a retired school principal existed an iron-fisted leader with an uncompromising set of principles and steely grit that dared anyone to challenge her autocracy.
There’s a new tenant on your floor, I believe,’ said Mrs Govindikar.
‘Yes. Charlie.’
‘You’ve met him?’
Anupama nodded. ‘He wanted some plastic bags.’
‘Let me know if he causes any trouble, and try to keep a watch on your children as well. Never know with these people. God knows what he does.’
Anupama nodded again. A few seconds passed in silence.
‘I hope you are planning to join us this Saturday?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The mini-marathon? Till Inorbit?’
Anupama stared at her blankly.
‘Didn’t you read the circular on the notice board?’
‘No, I must have missed it…’
‘It’s been there for a week now, Anupama,’ she said, with a hint of admonishment in her voice. ‘We are all participating in a mini-marathon this Saturday, the proceeds of which will be donated towards the cause of protecting our mangroves from extinction. I am one of the key organizers.’
Of course she was.
‘Sounds great, Mrs Govindikar, but I’m not much of a runner—’
‘Well, none of us are going to be running, obviously. We don’t want to make a spectacle of ourselves. The point is to be a part of the movement. There will be coverage in all the local papers, so it’s important to have a good turnout. You can walk with us if you want.’
Anupama gave a non-committal nod, racking her brains to rake up a suitable excuse. Almost as if she were reading her mind, Mrs Govindikar remarked, ‘It would be nice for you to step out more and socialize, dear. Living in a shell – it only makes things worse, trust me.’
Anupama gave another vague nod, wondering why the elevator was moving so damn slowly.
‘I will send Gopal up with the circular. You can hand him the registration fees and sign up. It’s at eleven a.m. sharp.’
The zombie nod again. The cursed lift finally reached the ground floor. Anupama pulled the doors aside and stepped out, grateful to be free when she realized that Mrs Govindikar was keeping in step with her, and marched alongside, not having been done yet.
‘Try to get your children to participate too,’ she insisted. ‘I never see Nimit in the playground with the other boys.’
‘Yes, he is more of the indoors type.’
‘Why? What does he do all day?’
Play Xbox and watch porn in all probability. ‘Research mostly. And he is also working on his grades. Eleventh class, you know.’
‘That’s fine, but one needs to be balanced in all aspects, Anupama. A little nudge every now and then, that’s all that’s needed. Or else next thing you know…’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘he will end up like that Mrs Kaushik’s son from A-Wing. Boy took up some literature course after twelfth. Literature! Can you imagine the poor woman’s plight? Here she was harbouring dreams of her son becoming a neurosurgeon in the US like my Kunal, and now…’
With a heavy sigh, she lowered her eyes. Anupama had a petrifying premonition of the day when Nimit’s board results would become public. Having full knowledge of her son’s academic capabilities and track record, she had no doubt that he was hurtling towards a life in the humanities disciplines as well.
‘Well, children are experimenting with newer fields these days, Mrs Govindikar.’
‘To what end? When was the last time you heard someone say, “I hope my daughter grows up to marry an English lecturer one day”? Might as well be homo, God forbid.’
It was stupendous just how many offensive slurs and stereotypes Mrs Govindikar could subsume in a single sentence. The grim mood was abruptly shattered by a strident honk. Anupama glanced ahead to see Renu waiting in an Uber outside the building gates, much to her relief.
‘Is that your friend?’ asked Mrs Govindikar coldly.
‘Yes.’
‘The unmarried one?’
‘Yes. See you, Mrs Govindikar.’
Anupama practically ran the remaining distance to the car, thanking her guardian angels for their impeccable timing.
‘You are a life-saver!’ she exclaimed, getting in.
Without a word, Renu shifted aside, keeping her eyes ahead. From the tart look on her face, Anupama could tell she wasn’t over the events of yesterday.
‘Renu, I am sorry about yesterday,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to avoid a scene.’
‘Anu, next time, just do me a favour and make a scene. Anything would be better than that zombie phase you slip into.’
Anupama nodded. Renu leaned forward and asked the driver to turn on the radio – a clear harbinger of peace. The RJ on air was chirping on about the joys of the monsoons with such enthusiasm you would think she came from a line of paddy farmers.
‘How come you came by Uber today?’ asked Anupama.
‘I don’t drink and drive.’
‘We are drinking?’
‘Anu, please. I don’t have time for such superfluous questions.’
‘It’s not even one.’
‘So? You got a lecture to attend after this or what?’
Charlie Next Door Page 3
