It was only on her wedding day, right before she was to leave for the pandal, that her mother deigned to break her silence, only to reiterate her warning.
‘You have no idea what you have done to yourself,’ she said with an air of finality, before planting a chilly kiss on her forehead and leading her out of the room.
She still had the wedding photo framed on her bedside table. She and Rajeev sitting next to each other on their ‘thrones’, with Rajeev’s parents on the right, and hers on the left. The only one smiling in the picture was her mother.
Her phone buzzed yet again. Assuming it to be Renu or Neena and planning to cut the call, she fished her mobile out of her bag, when her eyes fell on the ID. Charlie.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, ’sup? Just wanted to know if we have any plans for tonight,’ said Charlie. ‘Coz it’s Shivani’s birthday today, and she’s giving us a treat at this joint nearby which has a two plus one on drinks going on. And it’s karaoke night.’
‘It’s okay. Go ahead.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, of course. We can meet up later.’
‘Thanks a lot! Love you!’
‘Love you too.’
She hung up to see nine missed calls from Renu and Neena. She would have to call them tonight and apologize, yet again. They would be livid for a while, but then eventually forgive her, and life would go back to normal. Well, as normal as it could be. For a moment, she felt tempted to go home and take a swig out of her cough syrup bottle. But then she chastised herself for the thought. That phase of her life was over. She had someone now. She wasn’t lonely anymore. Was she? She wasn’t, she decided. She wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Not after all that had happened.
With a sigh, Anupama rose from the bench and joined the travellers swarming towards the exit. Time to return to the daily grind, she mused.
20
The new society watchman was a lot younger than the previous guy, in his twenties, with an avid interest in the translated works of Kafka and Dostoevsky, and a rather disinterested view of the world around. He wouldn’t smile or chat and seemed to completely ignore the comings and goings of the residents in the building. In other words, he was a godsend for the discreet romance blossoming between the occupants of C-703 and C-704.
Anupama knew that his insouciance wouldn’t last long, not if Mrs Govindikar had her way, which she inevitably would; so it was vital to make the most of this break she had been granted for the time being. After receiving the endorsement from her friends (Renu was still a bit sceptical), her relationship with Charlie had reached a new level of legitimacy – a fact that both elated and terrified her.
They were ‘officially going out’ now, to use her kids’ terminology. Their first bona fide date had been at a quaint little bakery situated deep within one of the cramped, graffiti-decorated alleyways of Chapel Road in Bandra West – a place suggested by Charlie and validated by Anupama as ‘safe’ for their rendezvous. She wasn’t proud of it, but she had nearly gone round the bend preparing for this evening. She had read up on the latest news reports and film reviews, researched on dating tips and articles pertaining to usual guys’ interests and had even looked at the odd sports article or two, which was tough, because she had no idea whether he was into cricket or football or racing. In spite of having met him several times now, the thought of being with him in a predetermined romantic context for a specified period of time scared her witless, and she was determined not to appear dull or uninteresting for even a minute, no matter what it took.
Head filled to the brim with stats, figures, headlines, punch lines, popular discussion topics and a general checklist of men’s issues, Anupama had reached the venue on the dot, only to sit waiting for twenty minutes before Charlie showed up, sweaty and irritated, having been held up in the rush-hour. They ended up spending the evening discussing the morbid traffic situation in the city and cursing its congestion, pollution, heat, civic infrastructure, public common sense, hygiene. At one point, they had even debated over the merits of paper bags versus plastic for some reason. And surprisingly, it had been … fun. In fact, Anupama couldn’t remember the last time she had been so enthralled by a conversation with someone over something as impersonal as sanitation and commuting. It was only when Charlie dropped her at the junction of S V Road and Linking Road that she realized they hadn’t even touched on the burning topics of the day that she had so painstakingly rehearsed. It simply hadn’t mattered.
Their next few meetings were of a similar random and unpredictable nature, with the topics of conversation and debate ranging from the mundane to the bizarre – why were some of the African tribes so tall, where did they get their height from? What was the difference between a Marathi upma and a south Indian upma? Why was the concept of pickles so different in India and the US? Why was kissing termed ‘making out’ when most of the time it happened indoors around here? Why did people find sunsets romantic and sunrises philosophical? Did a caterpillar know from its hatching that it was going to become a butterfly? Did it look forward to the metamorphosis or dread it? Why did the idea of travelling to an unknown place scare some and invigorate others? Why did people live a life that didn’t make them happy?
They never discussed Syria, or the US presidential elections, or the Indo–Pak tensions, or any other trending topic of the week. They had their own little circle of interest and discussion, where no research was required to sound interesting, and no thought was required to begin a discussion. There was no script to be followed, no wit to be displayed. The things they talked about, the way their queries and responses flowed into each other, the simple joys and complex emotions that stirred up in both of them, the little mischievous hints, the annoyed pauses, the meaningful glances and smiles – everything was so natural, so effortless, that it seemed like child’s play in its simplicity. This was the way it was always meant to be, wasn’t it? Where had this openness and honesty been all her life? When had the awkwardness and the formalities seeped in? Why couldn’t it be like this all the time, at least with the people she cared for?
Of course, she was also aware that her meetings with Charlie had a beauty and joy that was exclusively theirs and theirs alone. No one else could have understood its meaning or value. To an objective bystander, their chemistry may have appeared weird or un-relatable. However, it was this very unconventionality that made her feel all the more special for being with him, for having him in her life, and for – what was the word she was looking for – fitting, yes, fitting with him in a way that she herself could not have foreseen until very recently. The phase of her physical infatuation with him had evolved into something more essential and deeper. She still beheld his beauty with a familiar sense of awe, like an artist anonymously observing his own masterpiece amidst a crowd in the gallery, but now, it was these meetings that she eagerly anticipated. In her heart, they were a resounding success, and that delighted her beyond anything.
Using the exit-meeting-return procedures that she had formulated, they could even afford to go to safe zones like the North-West corner of Juhu beach, or the rear of the food court in Infiniti, or even certain restaurants, provided they weren’t anywhere near Charlie’s salon, because his workplace had turned into a hotspot for most of the ladies in the block now.
After the success and envy of Mrs Patil and Mrs Chatterjee’s makeovers, Charlie had become something of a secretly revered maestro in the neighbourhood. Word of mouth spread fast, especially if the medium of communication was hushed whispers. Within a matter of days, Charlie found his appointment book brimming over with ladies from the A, B and C blocks of Atharva Hari, along with a few others from the neighbouring housing societies. Even his longstanding clients found it difficult to squeeze themselves into his schedule, especially if it happened to be during the office and school hours of the Atharva Hari husbands and children.
With an inkling of Mrs Govindikar’s and Mrs Mehtani’s antipathy towards the rather good-looking bloke with the ‘nice
eyes’ and the ‘magic hands’ in C-704, the ladies had been cautious in approaching him. However, it was a given that the secret wouldn’t remain under wraps for long, especially when the elaborate bangs and curly tresses began making their appearance across the parks and the streets and the elevators.
Unsuspecting husbands would return from work to behold their wives nonchalantly sporting brilliant beige and feisty crimson highlights, elaborate chignons, spiral waves, textured locks, tousled ringlets, victory curls and hairstyles with names that sounded like exotic ice-cream flavours. Upon enquiry, all they would get in response was an enigmatic smile that would have put Mona Lisa in the shade. Blow dryers, paddle brushes, hairsprays, pomades and curling irons began to make an aggressive appearance across dressing tables. Teenage daughters began to consult their mothers about the latest hairstyle trends. The departmental store owner downstairs began to get orders for mousses and serums with French and German names that he couldn’t even pronounce. And overall, domestic household budgets rose by an average of fifteen to twenty per cent with certain ‘miscellaneous’ additional charges that would have to be borne at least until the Monsoon Goddess pageant got over.
None of it escaped Mrs Govindikar’s beady eyes of course, especially when all the members of her walkers’ group, with the exception of herself and Mrs Mehtani, began to sport hairdos they wouldn’t have dreamed of attempting even in their heydays. The most remarkable aspect of this makeover was the change in their personalities as well. Some of them even seemed to have become taller overnight, if that was possible. Their shoulders were straighter, their gait bolder, heads held higher with a subtle sense of pride. Ladies who could barely look people in the eye before were now confidently strutting about, flicking side-swept bangs off their forehead and acknowledging the flattering attention they received as their due. Mrs Govindikar didn’t want to sully her image by seeming too curious, so she got Mrs Mehtani to do her dirty work and make the inquiries. The reply was the same every single time. A ‘visiting’ stylist who was no longer in town.
The intricate home-cooked food delivery network operating within the housing society also became secretive towards Mrs Govindikar; every now and then, Charlie would find a new Gujarati, Marathi, or Sindhi delicacy waiting outside his door as an anonymous thank-you gesture.
Anupama found her hands full as well, what with Nimit’s birthday on the horizon, and volunteering to help out in the upcoming Monsoon Goddess pageant. It wasn’t so much volunteering as being railroaded by Mrs Govindikar into providing her services, because the matriarch believed that it was crucial for Anu to participate in the socio-cultural life of the block. She would have politely refused as she was wont to do every year, except this time Mrs Govindikar had some additional artillery in her depot, and Anupama didn’t want to push the envelope too far. The more involved she seemed in these mundane affairs, she reckoned, the less the attention and suspicion she would attract. Mrs Chatterjee, Charlie and some of the single tenants in the Atharva Hari Cooperative Housing Society had offered to lend a hand as well, only to fall on deaf ears. Anupama suspected that if Mrs Govindikar could have had her way, Mrs Chatterjee would have been blackballed from the competition this time; but then that would have belied the democratic principles that she set great store by. Nevertheless, Mrs Govindikar spearheaded the jury panel, which greatly diminished Mrs Chatterjee’s chances of defending her crown this year, despite being one of the strongest contenders in terms of beauty, confidence and personality.
‘I don’t see your name on this,’ Mrs Chatterjee had remarked as she signed up on the application form.
‘I’m not participating, Divya.’
Mrs Chatterjee shrugged. ‘Would have been nice to see some new faces for a change.’
Anupama had hoped that the issue had been laid to rest, but little did she know of the degree of Mrs Chatterjee’s tenacity, for at the next general meeting, Divya raised the topic of how more ladies should be encouraged to participate to uphold the spirit of the competition, and of course, increase the chances of their housing society winning the crown again. This recommendation would have been promptly trashed had she not singled out Anupama as a classic example of hidden potential. The moment the spotlight turned its baleful eye on Anupama, things changed. It was unanimously agreed that the poor widow leading a secluded life with the problematic daughter and the academically average son was the perfect poster-girl for their event. Although no one had a clue what this ‘hidden potential’ was, since when did humanitarianism need a clear motive? Noting the general mood of the masses, Mrs Govindikar took a call immediately and urged Anupama, who at that moment wanted nothing more than to nuke the entire gathering, with a special explosive reserved for Mrs Chatterjee’s big mouth, masked the desire for murder and mayhem within her soul with a hesitant smile, which was received with a thunderous applause.
‘I think it’s awesome. Congrats,’ said Charlie, as they both shared a bhutta between them, the distant Worli sea link bridge looming over the misty Arabian sea behind them.
They were perched on a stony perimeter wall at Bandra fort, yet another certified safe spot considering that the only folks to be seen here were young couples looking for a cosy archaeological niche to make out. Not that they had any such intentions, considering Anupama’s aversion to any display of affection in public. The clouds had cleared up a bit for the afternoon, letting in a trickle of watery sunshine.
‘It’s not awesome,’ argued Anupama. ‘It’s charity. I’m going to be the bloody ambassador of public compassion out there. “Oh, look at me. Sad, old widow trying to fit in. Please love me, accept me.” Might as well wear the obligated white sari too.’
The smile faded off Charlie’s face. ‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that,’ he said sullenly.
‘Like what? I’m just stating the facts here.’
‘Really? So, is that what you are? A sad, old widow in a white sari? How many times have you worn a white sari? How many times have you even worn white, for that matter?’
‘It’s not about the sari, Charlie.’
‘No, it’s about you wanting to be something you are not.’
‘Are you drunk or something? Do you think I want to be a widow?’ snapped Anupama, her volume rising with her temper.
‘No, I think you want to be what you think everyone wants you to be, and that’s what’s stopping you from being what you actually want to be.’
‘What?’
Charlie took a deep breath. ‘Look, I know you’re probably going to hate me for this, but the fact is that no matter how much you want to believe it, you are not the stereotypical mourning widow you think you are. And that’s fine. In fact, there’s nothing fine or not fine about it. That’s just the way it is. So why pretend?’
And there it was. The all-too-familiar nervous-breakdown rage that threatened to make her a psychotic murderess every time. All it took was the one trigger. Pretend. He thought that she was pretending? Her grief, her struggles, her misery, all that shit she had been through – it was all a mere pretence for him? He was her last ray of hope; someone who accepted her the way she was, without judging her. And here he was, on a whole other tangent.
‘So you think I’m a fraud.’
‘No, I think you’re different. And that’s great. So why try to change it?’
‘Different as in – I don’t have feelings, at least not for my dead husband. Is that right?’
‘Anu, you’re twisting my words.’
Anupama picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder wordlessly, her lips pursed tightly.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Charlie.
Without a word, she stepped off the wall to walk off, when he grabbed the strap of her purse. ‘Anu, wait—’
‘Let go, Charlie.’
‘Why are you walking away?’
‘Don’t make a scene—’
‘Arey
, but—’
‘Mamma?’
Anupama froze, her insides congealing into brittle crystal. She didn’t have to glance at the horrified expression on Charlie’s face to guess who it was. Slowly, inch by inch, she turned around to see her daughter, Misha, staring at her. She wasn’t alone. A rather distinguished-looking gentleman in his fifties was standing beside her, wearing a leather satchel on his shoulder, reflecting her look of horror on his face. Anupama didn’t have to guess who he was either. Of all the ways and all the places where she could have met her daughter’s beloved Mehul sir, it had to be this one.
‘What … are you doing here?’ asked Misha.
‘I—’ said Anupama, glancing at Charlie for support, and receiving only a blank stare in return. He had frozen into immobility, his hand still clutching the strap of her bag. She needed words, wit, conviction, time, anything, yet all that came out her mouth was another, ‘I—’
‘Oh – my – God,’ breathed Misha, her eyes oscillating manically between Anupama and Charlie. ‘Oh, my God.’
‘Beta, listen—’
‘Oh, my God!’
‘It’s not what you think it is…’
‘Then what is it?’
‘Her friend is pregnant,’ blurted out Charlie.
‘So?’
Charlie drew a blank again.
‘It’s mine,’ he said, desperately.
‘Oh, shut up, Charlie!’ cried Anupama.
She turned to face her gawping daughter head-on. Firmness was the need of the moment. She couldn’t be weak. She couldn’t be ashamed. She had practised for this scenario a dozen times in her head. She could do this. ‘Well, so now you know. And before—’
‘You are such a hypocrite!’ shrieked Misha.
‘Excuse me?’
Charlie Next Door Page 16
