by Anita Nair
Mother and daughter argued for days while Jak watched and listened. And, as always, he weakened. He fingered the diamond in his ear lobe – his mother’s nose ring – and relented. ‘Let her give it a shot! If she doesn’t like it, she can always come back. Or she can always come to the States for her higher studies. Maybe it is time she got to know India. Discovered it for herself. She’s going through a phase. Of wanting to save the world. Didn’t we all? C’mon, Nina, it’s not all that bad. Both you and I studied there, remember?’
Smriti, seeing signs of Jak succumbing and Nina flagging, had grabbed the ice cream scoop and crooned into it the lines she knew would elicit a smile from Jak. His very own Leonard Cohen advocating: ‘Should the rumour of a shabby ending reach you, it was half my fault, it was half the atmosphere.’
Nina shrugged. Your funeral, the movement of her shoulders implied. Your responsibility. Remember, you, Kitcha, are responsible, shabby ending or otherwise.
Should he have tried harder to make her stay back? Persuaded, cajoled, bribed, done what he could have to keep her with them. At least they would have all been in the same country, on the same continent. Instead of which, he had succumbed to Smriti’s superior will. She was still a young girl, wild, impetuous and wilful, but he had failed to see that. Rather, he had closed his eyes to it. What kind of a father was he? The thought haunted him. That he had been irresponsible. But he couldn’t see her unhappy. That was what it had always been about. Jak couldn’t bear to see Smriti’s eyes shadow.
‘So that was how the two of you met.’ Jak speaks quietly. ‘And the others? The two other boys and Asha?’
‘You keep saying Asha. There was no Asha. There was Nishi, Priya, Shabnam and Anu.’
‘I must have got the name wrong,’ Jak mumbles. ‘Tell me about the other two boys. You knew them?’
The boy nods. The lightness that briefly settled on him flees again. ‘Matt and Rishi. Mathew was from Kochi but he had chosen to come to Bangalore to do biotechnology like me. Mathew was my best friend. Rishi was a senior. He was from Coonoor. He had actually passed out by the time we met but he was very active in the theatre group we all belonged to. It was kind of inevitable that we became friends. We had so much in common, and in some ways we were also the outsiders. So we hung out together.’
Was. Liked. Hung out. Jak notices the use of the past and that Shivu’s hands are trembling.
He pushes the glass towards Shivu. ‘Drink,’ he orders. ‘Toss it down. What happened then? Tell me.’
But Shivu’s hands will not stop trembling.
‘At first, I thought she was attracted to me. I liked her. I liked her very much,’ Shivu says. Suddenly he looks up. ‘How can I tell you all this? You are her father. How can I talk to you about what we thought, said, did… It’s awkward. Shit man, it’s embarrassing.’
Jak doesn’t speak for a while. ‘Don’t think of me as her father. Think of me as your friend,’ he offers.
‘You are not my friend,’ the boy states baldly.
‘Then think of me as someone you just met. A stranger in the bar. And that’s the truth. You and I have no relationship. No tie. You can tell me anything, you know.’ Jak listens to his own voice, amazed. How did he manage to bring that wheedling note into it?
The boy stares bleakly into his glass. ‘All of us hoped to have a girlfriend. But Smriti was the girl one dreamt of. She was cute, smart, and she had none of the hang-ups that our girls did.’
Jak flinches. Our girls. My poor baby, did you even realize how your open ways would be misinterpreted? Jak isn’t able to hold himself back. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she thought nothing of holding your hand in public. Or greeting you with a hug. Or wrapping her hands around your middle when she rode pillion on the bike.’
‘But don’t girls here do all that?’ Jak asks in an incredulous voice.
‘Yeah, they do. But they don’t strip down to a bikini when they go swimming, or sleep over at your place, etc. I am not saying Smriti was easy. She was cool. She was really cool. But she was uninhibited and if we got too physical with her, all she would do was push our hands away and say in that accented Tamil of hers, “Konnudu vein!”’
A nerve flutters at the corner of Jak’s mouth. He often mock-threatened his girls: ‘Konnudu vein if you play with the matches. Konnudu vein if you stay up late watching TV. Will murder you, little beasties!’
‘You were saying you thought she liked you,’ Jak says abruptly. Did he really want to hear this boy list in how many ways Smriti allowed the boys to treat her like they would a slut?
‘Yeah! We met in the café a few times and soon I thought Smriti and I were a couple. I wanted to show her off. But mostly it was Mathew and Rishi I wanted to impress. So I introduced Smriti to them.’
And the inevitable happened, Jak presumes. He feels sorry for the boy. ‘One of the others stole her away,’ he says. ‘Is that how it happened?’
The boy shakes his head. ‘Yes and no!’ A note of resignation has entered his telling.
Two weeks later Shivu felt a fist slam into his belly when Rupa called him with news of a sighting. Had they broken up, Smriti and he, she wanted to know. Mathew and Smriti looked very cosy together. ‘What are you guys up to with that girl? Playing passing the parcel?’
Shivu wanted to go to Mathew’s room and haul him out. Smash his face in and kick him in his belly. That was how angry he was. But he let it rest. What was he thinking of, he asked himself, appalled at the beast that he was turning into. Mathew was his friend and Smriti was his girl. How could he doubt them? Rupa was a jealous bitch out to make trouble. There was perhaps an innocent explanation.
Then came news of more sightings. A casual remark. A tossed aside. It occurred to Shivu that the world had nothing to do but keep an eye on Mathew and Smriti.
Shivu didn’t know if it was jealousy that rankled. Or his pride that was hurt – the thought of people seeing them together left a sour taste in his mouth. They are going to think I am a wimp if I let it go on, Shivu told himself the day he decided to confront them. He was afraid, though. He feared his nebulous hold over Smriti and he knew he would lose her if he brought up the gossip.
Mathew was different. Mathew was from here. He ought to know better, Shivu told himself as he pushed open Mathew’s door. They used to share a room once. Not any more. Shivu felt his eyes search the room and his glance pounced on a scarf he recognized as hers.
‘Isn’t this Smriti’s?’ he demanded.
Mathew shrugged. Shivu didn’t know what to say. The shrug was a gauntlet. All’s fair in love and war.
In desperation, Shivu turned on Smriti.
Smriti was furious. ‘You are not my boyfriend. You are my friend. Why do you have to be like all the Indian boys I meet? Can’t we just be friends? You, Mathew, Rishi and I. I’ve been out with Rishi too. So what?’
Shivu poked a straw into his glass. The ice cubes at the bottom rattled. He felt like a fool. He had probably read too much into what Smriti and he shared. On the heels of that came a sense of disquiet. Mathew was not going to like the idea of Rishi and Smriti going out together.
‘You better tell Mathew that you’ve been out with Rishi,’ Shivu told her. ‘Mathew is very possessive. He doesn’t like sharing what is his.’
‘I am not his or anyone else’s,’ she said, dismissing him and his sense of unease.
‘Mathew was a jealous sort, was he?’ Jak probes.
‘Mathew was one of the most generous people I knew. But he was possessive about the people he loved. At first when Rishi and I became friends, he couldn’t bear the thought that I had another close friend. He saw Rishi as an intruder. Eventually, when he saw that nothing had changed between us, he eased up. But I knew he would be furious when he found out about Smriti and Rishi.’
Jak rests his head on his arm. Could Smriti really have been as clueless as she seemed to be? Didn’t she realize she was toying with these boys? Or did she enjoy the power it gave her? Children
of divorced parents are supposed to be needy. Did she need the security of knowing these three young men were smitten by her?
Jak stands up and stretches. Where is this story leading?
As long as Smriti’s last days are veiled in mystery, Jak is going to put his own life on hold. It isn’t that he wants to. But his mind will not obey. His mail box had spewed fifty-six messages that morning. He let his eyes slide over them without a flicker of interest. Some had to do with the book he was researching. One was from the journal he was supposed to submit a paper to. Two invitations to a weather conference, two more to lecture in Waikiki and Brisbane. All of them necessitated his attention and action.
In the end Jak decides on one thing. He will hire someone to deal with all of this, till such time as he manages to shrug his apathy off. He will write to Sheela. She will be able to find him a research assistant.
Outside, the afternoon has settled into dusk. How long must I court this boy? Am I Scheherazade or am I the Caliph? Was there any real difference between them anyway? They were both putting off the inevitable.
So that neither of them would have to decide what to do next.
V
What comes next in Meera’s life is a mail from Sheela. Meera is surprised. The PR woman and she barely know each other. Randhir dealt with her directly when he hired her for all the promotional work for Meera’s books. Meera had to just sit through the interviews and photo shoots of her home while Sheela bustled in the background, making countless calls and mapping appointments on her Blackberry. All Meera had to do was reinforce the image of the corporate wife with a single tiger lily in a tall vase and plumped up silk cushions, and offer tea from a tray. Sheela was pleased at how well it all went and so Meera became part of her list.
There haven’t been as many invitations to PR events of late. Perhaps Sheela has heard of her fall from grace. But here she is, inviting her to a flower arrangement book launch and – ‘by the way, would you know of someone who could be a research assistant? A friend of mine, a college professor here on a sabbatical from the US, needs one. He’s quite desperate and will pay well and it will be flexi hours. This is his email id.’
Meera ignores the invitation and dashes a mail off right away with her telephone number. The subtitling editor’s job has been offered to her. She is to start next week. But what if this is a better option, she tells herself. What if it is something that she would feel less undignified about doing?
On the phone his voice is deep and gravelly. An elderly voice thickened with age and much smoking, she presumes.
‘Hello, may I speak with Meera Giridhar?’ it asks, a polite, carefully modulated voice.
Meera says, ‘Yes, this is Meera.’
‘Hello, Meera, how are you? This is Professor Krishnamurthy speaking. I received your mail this morning and thought that I would like to chat a bit.’ The voice pauses. ‘Get to know if you would be interested in working for me.
‘I like your qualifications and the fact that you live in this part of Bangalore helps. We can work the hours around to suit us both without worrying too much about commuting time. But we need to meet so we know we are compatible. Very essential for people who have to work closely,’ he adds.
And so a date and time is fixed.
Later that evening Meera discusses it over dinner.
‘Do you really have to do this?’ Lily asks, spooning her soup noisily.
‘Mama, please,’ Saro interrupts. ‘Meera knows what she is doing.’
Meera throws her mother a grateful look. This is a mother she no longer recognizes. The imperiousness has been replaced by protectiveness. When the children or Lily are difficult, it is Saro who rushes to rescue Meera.
‘But it’s a secretary’s job! How could you?’ Lily demands.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Saro retorts. ‘Besides, she is going to work for an academic. Professor Krishnamurthy. Meera says he has traces of an American accent. Meera, you must have him over for a drink sometime. Let him meet your family and see for himself that you are from a privileged background and it is just special circumstances…’
‘Mummy, stop.’ It is Meera’s turn to halt the conversation. ‘I don’t have the job yet. Besides, he sounds like a very elderly man lost in his books. Not the kind who would care who or what I am as long as I function effectively.’
‘How old do you think he is?’ Lily asks suddenly.
Meera shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe your age. Maybe Mummy’s age. I really can’t tell.’
‘Maybe he is your age,’ Nikhil says suddenly.
Meera frowns. ‘Highly unlikely, but we’ll see!’
‘What will you have to do?’ Nikhil rolls his egg into his chapatti.
‘I am not sure yet. Research whatever he wants me to. Type letters, etc., I presume.’ Meera watches Nikhil eat with a frown. ‘Won’t you have some of the salad?’
Nikhil picks up a lone stick of carrot as if it were a dead cockroach.
‘What will you wear, Meera?’ Lily looks up.
‘A sari,’ Meera says. Her mother nods in approval.
‘A smart cotton sari, and you can have my pearls. Look elegant always, that’s half the battle won!’
Nikhil drinks up his milk, mumbling, ‘Why don’t you wear cargo pants and boots if it’s a battle?’ He grins at their horrified expressions and says, ‘Why can’t you dress like you always do?’
The three women turn on him in unison: ‘You don’t understand these things!’
Then she sees him. Striding towards her with a long-legged gait. Meera feels her heart sink. She knows the man. He is the one who dropped her and Nikhil home that afternoon. And now he would recognize her, too, and would want to know about her runaway husband. Meera swallows.
He comes to stand before her and in his eyes is a flare of recognition. ‘Meera?’ he asks. ‘Meera, right?’
‘Hello.’ She smiles. Meera looks past him towards the door. She can’t remember his name or anything about him. Right now, she wishes he would just leave.
‘What a surprise. How are you, Meera?’ He continues to stand there after they have finished exchanging pleasantries.
‘So…’ he says. ‘Are you meeting someone too? I am here to interview a lady for a position as my research assistant. Tell you what, Meera. If you have a moment to spare, why don’t you join us? I would like an opinion. I haven’t done anything like this before, in India.’
And Meera suddenly realizes that he is the elderly gent, the Professor Krishnamurthy she is waiting for.
‘Professor Krishnamurthy, I think I am the one you are here to interview,’ she says quietly.
He straightens abruptly. ‘Oh! Meera Giridhar. Very silly of me not to have recognized your name. So, shall I sit down?’ he says, pulling out a chair.
‘This is a surprise but I am glad it’s you, Meera. Really glad. But what about your cookbook writing? That can’t be easy. I know it’s very hard work. And to take this up… Will you have the time?’
Meera stretches her lips in a parody of a smile. ‘I am actually between books.’
‘Great!’ he murmurs, leaning back.
I must say this for him. The man is circumspect, Meera tells herself. He hasn’t asked me about Giri yet. Most people would have.
VI
Most people would wonder at this man who sits before her. Lily and Saro wouldn’t approve; the children would. And Giri? He would dismiss him as a no-good poseur. But Giri isn’t here. So she will watch and wait.
Meera studies him carefully as he talks into the phone. She rather likes what she sees. He is not Giri with his carefully brushed hair, Mont Blanc pen in his breast pocket and gleaming brogues; the Rolex Oyster and pin stripes for workdays and studied casuals for weekends. Giri was always living up to an image of himself and he wanted her to do the same. It is a relief that he is nothing like Giri, this big man with his firm stubbled jaw and twinkling eyes behind narrow spectacle frames in a bright shade of blue. She sees the brace
lets on his forearm, the gold amulet strung around his neck on a leather thong and the diamond ear stud.
She can’t see him in a suit, hemmed behind a table laden with corporate-alia. Nor can she see him in a classroom. What does he do, this Professor Krishnamurthy?
She teases the image of him this way and that. A smile escapes her.
She feels his eyes on her as she pretends to toy with the mutton cutlet he insisted on ordering, saying, ‘Sheela recommended it highly and I want to try it now that we are here.’
Meera smiles and says, ‘She is right. It is rather delicious.’
She is hungry and has to control herself from eating it all up in one gulp. And then a little thought on mice feet scuttles through her mind. What does he see when he scrutinizes her?
What do I see when I look at myself? Meera peers at the face in the glass pane. She has always seen herself with other people’s eyes. Lily’s serious granddaughter. Saro’s fussy daughter. Giri’s elegant wife. Nikhil and Nayantara’s dependable mother.
What does he see? A silly cookbook writer. A pathetic, abandoned wife. A desperate, no skills employee.
She looks around Koshy’s. She sees a woman she recognizes and smiles at her. The woman throws a languid wave at her. She must be wondering about Professor Krishnamurthy, Meera tells herself, matching indolence with a careless toss of her wrist as acknowledgement of the wave. ‘Hi. Hi. Now get the fuck out of my face!’ Meera grimaces.
He snaps shut the phone and says softly, ‘It doesn’t matter if you haven’t done this kind of thing before. You will learn as you go along. All I ask is that you keep an open mind and make a sincere effort. The rest will follow naturally. I really would be very happy if you could take it up.’
