Misha’s cheeks and neck reddened to a deep puce, almost in sync with the shade of the love-bite she had exhibited this morning. Dimly at the back of her mind, Anupama mused over how proud Kay would be of her colour-cognitive skills right now.
‘You can’t—what are you—I don’t—’
The strident ring of the doorbell came to Misha’s rescue; the moment Anupama turned to answer it, Misha limped away to the sanctuary of her bedroom, locking the door from inside. Outside in the hallway, Gopal, the building superintendent, was waiting.
‘Reminder, Madam. About the mini marathon tomorrow. Govindikar Madam asked me to inform everyone.’
Anupama groaned, inwardly praying for a brain haemorrhage to mark a fitting end to it all.
6
The kick-off of the Atharva Hari ‘Save the Mangroves’ mini marathon was delayed by half an hour owing to certain technical glitches – mostly related to the T-shirts for the participants that had been ordered. For one, instead of the dark green that Mrs Govindikar had specifically requisitioned, the suppliers had delivered some horrendous fluorescent shade that was certain to turn translucent when wet. Furthermore, all the T-shirts turned out to be of the same ‘S’ size, thereby leading to much discomfort as residents of varying body structures struggled to squeeze themselves into it. To make matters worse, the proportions of one’s chest and abdomen determined the message displayed on one’s T-shirt depending on how many letters were visible. So, while the petite ones boldly displayed ‘SAVE THE MANGROVES’, others ended up portraying variants like ‘AVE THE ANGR’, ‘VE HE MAN’, ‘SAVE THE NGRO’.
This would simply not do.
Fortunately, Mrs Govindikar, as always, had a contingency plan in place comprising of last-minute rental raincoats that were distributed to the walkers, since it was impractical to carry umbrellas over such a long distance. The T-shirts were unceremoniously discarded with only one sample preserved and nailed by its collar to a placard to serve the dual purpose of highlighting the cause and sending out a grim message to the errant suppliers. It was decided that this placard would be relayed among the members as they walked on, with Mrs Govindikar its flag bearer for the first hundred metres, as that was the maximum distance up to which the press had agreed to trail them.
The aforementioned press had arrived too, in the form of two reporters and one weary photographer who clicked a group picture of the waterproofed marathoners at the start line. The watchman, awake for once, did the honours by blowing on his whistle with all the air his vintage lungs could muster.
And they were off – well, figuratively, at least.
Anupama had always pictured the idea of a marathon as a row of panting, muscular runners tearing their way through hunger, thirst, exhaustion, hurdles and their own inner demons to battle the seemingly insurmountable physical challenges and emerge victorious. Here, huddled on the sidewalk with a troupe of black raincoats waddling about her, she felt more like she was in a funeral procession of penguins. At this rate, they would probably take all day to reach Inorbit, provided they didn’t dawdle or make pit stops for tea breaks.
She could see the regular joggers in the younger crowd itching to break into a sprint. However, Mrs Govindikar and the committee members had been explicit in their declaration that this was not a competition, and they didn’t want to risk anyone suffering any injuries or low self-esteem along the way, which is why a uniformity of pace was crucial.
Hardly surprising, since that was the same discipline with which Mrs Govindikar conducted her evening walks too with the members of her entourage. The sight of eight ladies marching in step through the colony roads, fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs, was a daily occurrence for the locals of Sector 5. Their speed, individual body weights, topics of conversation, and even the number of rounds they made around the colony park remained unwaveringly constant as they orbited every evening from 6 to 6.30 p.m. across their familiar trajectory. And their rituals didn’t just end there, for after the walks were concluded, they made it a point to sit at the juice centre near Fine Chemists and have five servings of pani puri each, as a reward for their mental and physical exertions.
The group used to comprise of nine ladies at one time, until Mrs Divya Chatterjee from C-Wing made the mistake of losing five inches around her waist during her summer break. This was too much of a radical change to be processed by the members of the Govindikar Walkers Association, and matters were worsened when Mrs Chatterjee refused to divulge the details of her dramatic transformation, claiming it was all due to yoga and a balanced diet (as if!). The final nail in her coffin had been her insistence to wear track pants now that she could carry them off, instead of the prevalent dress code of salwar-kurta and sports shoes. Recognizing the signs of a rising anarchy on the horizon, Mrs Govindikar had promptly and politely conveyed to Mrs Chatterjee the circumstances of her discontinuation with the group, and that had been the end of it all.
Now on rare evenings, if you were lucky, you could sometimes see the slim, solitary apparition of Mrs Chatterjee in a track suit, jogging all alone in the darker recesses of the children’s park, like a rudderless ship cast adrift.
Incidentally, Mrs Chatterjee was rather conspicuous by her absence in the marathon today; an oddity for someone so fitness-oriented. Her husband had cited ill-health as the reason, but there were hushed murmurs of it being a subtle act of rebellion on her part against Mrs Govindikar’s initiative. After all, as per Kamala bai’s reports, madamji had looked hale and hearty enough this morning when she had gone there for her duties. Dark whispers had followed of the possibility of Mrs Chatterjee getting ousted from the Cultural Affairs Committee of the Society too at this rate, if her attitude didn’t improve. There would be a vote, naturally, but then who could be expected to go against Mrs Govindikar’s will for the sake of a woman who had drunk beer in front of everyone during the Holi celebrations last year?
Noticing a spot of slush on the sidewalk in front of her, Anupama made a small leap over it. Unfortunately, the tile on which she landed was a moss-ridden one. Her foot slipped and skidded out of control. She threw out her hands reflexively, and a hand grabbed her arm just in time. By some instinct, she knew who it was even before she saw his face.
‘Careful,’ said Charlie, holding on to her firmly as she steadied herself. He was wearing the same raincoat as the rest of the marathoners, but unlike the others, he looked as if he were modelling it. She cast a quick glance around to see if any of the others had noticed, but there was hardly any reaction. Everyone else was concentrating on watching their steps while simultaneously trying to shield themselves from the downpour.
‘Thank you,’ she said shakily.
He nodded, and walked on without another word or even a smile. Anupama felt a pang of guilt. Misha’s ankle had really been sprained. She had physically examined it herself this morning when hunger and thirst had forced her daughter to abandon her self-imposed incarceration. She wondered whether it was too late for an apology, or if that would only make things worse. Perhaps she had managed to permanently scare him away. Perhaps it was all for the best. The only thing to do now was to let it be. No need to seek closure. She didn’t care what he thought of her anyway. How did it matter? This was what she wanted to begin with, wasn’t it? Good thing it had happened in such an effortless manner.
However, despite these mollifying thoughts whirling inside her head, her feet had somehow unconsciously carried her up to Charlie’s level, and they were walking abreast now, each looking dead ahead. She didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at her. After a few steps, she glanced up at him, and then, he glanced at her. Then, they both looked resolutely ahead.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, keeping his eyes on the road.
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t you like me?’
‘Who said so?’
‘It’s just that every time I meet you, I end up upsetting you so much, and I don’t even know why.’
‘No, nothing li
ke that,’ she said, trying hard to keep her voice casual. ‘It’s just that things have been a bit tense lately so…’
‘I am a nice guy, you know,’ he added. ‘I mean, I don’t know what kind of an impression I’ve given you, but I just wanted to clarify that. You can ask Mrs Patil if you want.’
‘Why would I ask Mrs Patil?’
‘She knows me well. She’s a client of mine. A regular, actually.’
She had almost forgotten about his ‘profession’. And now, with this casual reference, she felt all her earlier misgivings flooding back into her mind. She turned around to catch a glimpse of the innocuous-looking Mrs Patil, clutching an umbrella (she was one of the few who had shunned the raincoats) as she chattered away with Mrs Saini. Who would have guessed? Even in the shock of the moment though, Anu couldn’t help but notice the change in the woman’s appearance, the centre of attraction being her hair – once long and tied back, her shoulder-length tresses now flowed freely, swoopy layers cascading down and framing her face perfectly. She looked five years younger, at least. JD’s services were obviously suiting her.
She turned her eyes back to Charlie. ‘Can I be honest with you?’
‘Sure.’
‘How can you be so open about these things?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Aren’t you worried about your reputation? What if someone finds out and reports you?’
‘Reports me for what?’
‘You know for what.’
‘No, I think we are on two separate planes of understanding here.’
Anupama lowered her voice. ‘You know what you do is illegal, right?’
He stared at her. ‘It’s illegal to be a hairdresser?’
They walked on, eyes widened and gawking at each other.
‘You are a hairdresser,’ she repeated tonelessly.
‘Hairstylist, actually,’ he said. ‘I specialize in ladies’ hairstyles.’
‘And those clients and women you were referring to…?’
‘Yeah, they visit me at the salon.’
Oh God.
He unzipped his raincoat, reached into his T-shirt pocket, and passed her a card. ‘I’ve been handing it around to whoever is interested. It’s in Juhu, so if you want to book an appointment anytime, just let me know.’
Her head was a swirling mist of daze, guilt and embarrassment. She took his card mechanically.
‘You look a little shocked,’ remarked Charlie.
‘No, no.’
They had walked on a little further, before he turned to her with a curious look on his face.
‘Wait, what were you thinking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You thought I was doing something illegal, right?’
‘No.’
‘But you just said that.’
‘Oh, I say a lot of things, Charlie. Just ignore me.’
She hoped against hope that he would drop the subject. However, they had barely gone past three steps, when Charlie broke into a mischievous grin. ‘Ohhh, now I get it! No wonder you were so anxious around me.’
‘Charlie, look—’
‘One night you see me smoking a joint on the terrace, and you think I’m a drug supplier or something, right?’
She paused, and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s me. I just jump to conclusions.’
‘Well, don’t worry. I am not into any of the hardcore stuff, and even the weed is occasional. Usually, I just chill with a beer.’
‘But why on the terrace?’
‘Like I said, I don’t like closed spaces, especially when I’m drinking. The terrace is the closest thing I’ve got.’
‘How did you open the lock?’
‘I broke it,’ he replied, and then passed her a smirk. ‘Is that illegal too?’
A bus honked behind them. Anupama was surprised to see how much they had drifted to the centre of the road without even realizing it. As they sidled back to the pavement, Anupama cast a look behind. They had left the others quite far behind.
‘We should wait for them to catch up,’ she said.
‘Why? Most of them look like they won’t make it anyway.’
‘I know, but Mrs Govindikar said—’
Charlie snorted. ‘It’s not a school trip, Mrs Arora.’ He added, ‘Unless you want to be with them, in which case I’ll move on.’
Anupama glanced back. The Govindikar Walker Association members were all trundling along as a single unit, chattering animatedly to each other. Behind them, some tired residents had begun passing fruit juices and energy drinks amongst themselves in a show of solidarity, even though they were barely five hundred metres away from the starting point. No way was she going back to that sordid troupe.
The notion that others might find her drifting away with some young guy a little inappropriate did cross Anupama’s mind, but thanks to the raincoats, it was impossible to figure out who was who from behind. And no one would notice her gone in that crowd anyway. They were used to her absence. She had made sure of that.
‘Let’s just walk slower, at least,’ she suggested.
How long had it been since she had had tea in a leaky lean-to chai-stall, perched on a rickety plastic stool, with raindrops pattering all about her? Must have been long enough, for the experience seemed almost exotic to her now. Rajeev was a stickler for hygiene and anything from the sidewalk was frowned upon. After the children had arrived, the regime got even stricter, until the only teas they had outside their home were the synthetic machine-processed ones from overpriced cafeterias. Bland and tasteless no doubt, but at least you didn’t risk oral infections from the leftover saliva of previous customers.
That was a long time ago, though. Nowadays, tea was served in little plastic tumblers even in roadside tea stalls, to be discarded after use, along with the saliva. She wouldn’t even have known that, had it not been for Charlie’s suggestion to grab a cuppa before their return.
The mini-marathon had ended up becoming a micro-marathon as one of the ladies, Mrs Kaushik, began complaining of chest pain as the Olympians drew near the Mith Chowki signal. Panic and hullabaloo ensued as every marathoner jumped to her aid, some offering to take her back in a taxi, others leaping into passing autos so they could get back quickly and arrange for some home remedies, others scurrying into the market nearby to see if they could find a clinic of some sort, and still others making a dash for the Infiniti mall a little distance away, claiming there was a chemist store inside. Within a matter of minutes, three-fourths of the participants had disappeared.
The irony was that, in all the confusion, none of them remembered to take Mrs Kaushik along. The poor lady was left behind in the rain, sullenly rubbing her chest under her raincoat and mulling over what to do next, until Mrs Govindikar took the initiative and declared the marathon a success regardless of its non-completion. They had reached out to the media, which was the important point, and owing to the weather, there were hardly any spectators on the road to illuminate about the cause anyway, so she didn’t see the point of tormenting themselves any further. Her proposal was met with murmurs and nods of barely-concealed relief. More autos were hailed, and the few remaining marathoners found themselves packing into groups of twos and threes and hurrying back home.
Anupama and Charlie had, in the meantime, progressed so far ahead that it took them a while to realize that no one was following them anymore. With nothing else to do, she had just suggested turning back when Charlie spotted the tea stall. The euphoria that rose within him at the prospect of sharing a monsoon roadside chai was infectious. Besides, Anupama reasoned, it might have looked odd to return with Charlie in full view of all her neighbours. This way, at least they could have some buffer time for everyone to go indoors before they got back.
‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ said Charlie, gazing out at the rains.
‘Yes.’
‘You should come up to the terrace sometime. It’s very pleasant when it’s not raining, with the breeze and everything.’
Anupama smiled lightly. ‘I am afraid my terrace-crashing days are behind me now, Charlie.’
‘Oh, please. You must be, what—’
He hesitated. Anupama turned her eyes on him. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know …’ he mumbled nervously, ‘early … thirties or something…?’
‘Yes. I had my daughter when I was nine.’
Charlie guffawed, spilling a bit of his tea. ‘Well, you know what they say. It’s not about what’s up here,’ he said, indicating his head, ‘but about what’s in here.’ He pointed at his chest.
‘I’m referring to the heart,’ he clarified, a beat later.
‘Yes, I got that.’
‘And I’m not saying that your head looks old, but that the mental—’
‘The explanations are really not necessary.’
Charlie shook his head in dismay while swiping at his wet locks, which had fallen over his forehead again. How did they always maintain their symmetry? ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I always end up being weird whenever I’m around you.’
For some strange, peculiar reason, Anupama felt her heart skip a beat at that.
‘Has it ever happened with you?’ he asked, raising his greyish-brownish-hazel-whatever eyes to look at her.
‘Hm?’
‘This whole messing up when someone’s around and you don’t even know why. You know what I’m saying?’
All of a sudden, the back of her neck felt like there were ants crawling all over it. She resisted the urge to scratch and casually sipped her tea. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yeah, you always seem so calm and collected.’
Anupama looked up to see if he was being sarcastic. The expression on his face seemed genuine enough, though.
‘Except for that tiny incident about the cream biscuits,’ he tacked on as an afterthought.
‘Which we agreed not to talk about.’
‘That’s true. But while we are on the topic—’
‘We are not.’
Charlie fell silent. However, the glazed look in his eyes and the faint smile on his lips left her in no doubt as to what was going on in his head.
Charlie Next Door Page 6
