Obscurities

by Nahid Husain

  Rahul and Anya

  For AJ. T

  Meeting Him

  We walked out of Karidal Hall together. It was a hot summer day, with the golden sunlight screening its way through our T-shirts.

  Karidal Gym was the crux of activity at Sherdale University. Its inhabitants, in essence, were complex druggie types working out, sport buffs playing basketball to let off steam, smooth fraternites, taking the opportunity to show off, and finally, the Indian gang, playing badminton and racquetball.

  We met at the gym. Annie dragged me there.

  “You have to work out,” she said. “You’re getting pretty flabby near the center. Come on, let’s see you do ten.”

  “The Abdomen Crunch.” I read off of one machine. I walked up to it and sat down on the seat, my arms and feet where required. I pulled the bar down, setting it in front of me and began. Or rather tried to.

  “Hey, what mark is this on?” I yelled to Annie. “This is undoable.” I complained, pushing the bar back up, in an air of surrender.

  “No, I think you can do it,” she retaliated calmly, seating herself behind it after I got off, smoothly crunching. It was while she was lost in her exercises that I saw him.

  He stood, with his friends surrounding him, as if he owned the earth. His eyes darted around, as if constantly searching for something. He pretended to look around for a while, and then headed towards us. I looked at him in surprise. He knew Annie. They remained engaged in a long conversation for a while, during which he barely looked at me. He noticed me in the end.

  “So who’s your friend?” he incorporated casually into the conversation.

  “Anya. Sharanya. Business, Pre-med, Islamic Studies.” Annie replied.

  “Impressive.”

  “It’s an impressive school.”

  “You think?”

  I nodded.

  “And I hope not only from the looks of it.”

  “No, I think you will be pleasantly surprised.”

  “Junior, senior, sophomore, freshman?”

  “Do you always ask that, in that order?”

  “Do you always evade the reply?”

  “Depends. On who’s asking.”

  “This time it’s me, Rahul. Friends?”

  *

  I smiled. “Friends.”

  Best Friends

  We were best friends. Be it having coffee at midnight, or pouring our days’ woes out to each other, we were always together. We had a strange bond, that struck others as odd but which was perfectly natural to us. We played pranks on our professors, our friends and won everything that we tried – be it racquetball or the annual writing contest.

  Anya and Rahul. Or A.R, That’s what we scribbled on every door, every building, every desk we came across. And that’s what we came to be known as all around campus – friends. It just became complicated when Rahul added love.

  There were nights of enjoyment, with cars lining outside his three-bedroom apartment, waiting for the signal to change. Those nights, we would be working late, having been kept awake by endless cups of tea and coffee, and being on tenterhooks for a break.

  His friends would pile in, exhausted by studies, work and whatever else college life offered them.

  “So the Dog and the Duck tonight?” he asked.

  “I don’t drink.”

  He looked at me mischievously. “I’ll even have a coke for someone.”

  “And to whom do I owe this generosity?”

  “Does he really require a name?”

  “Most people use that as an identity. What do you use?”

  “Rahul. Can we go now?”

  “OK, let’s go. Provided it’s coke.”

  “Done.”

  Target

  “Sharanya, where the hell are you going in such a hurry?” I asked.

  “I need a few things from the grocery store. Jesus, Rahul, I’m swamped. Madrigal Dinner auditions are tonight, it’s Tanya’s birthday tomorrow…” she said between breaths. “And of course, Dr. Sessler chose this time for an Organic Chemistry mid-term… Rahul are you listening…? Yup, it’s that time of the semester again.”

  I looked at her, her face red and flushed from running and it struck me how beautiful she was. Her brown-and-blonde streaked hair hung across her face in strands because of the wind, and her eyes, almond-shaped and gray, were clouded with worry.

  “I can run down to the store for you,” I offered.

  “No, it’s OK,” she said. Then, as if rethinking, she continued, “Actually, that would help. You don’t mind, do you?” She fixed a sweet smile on her face.

  I snapped out of my reverie. Rahul, what are you thinking of? You don’t have time either – you’d better get out of this one and fast, I thought to myself.

  “Where do you need to go?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

  “Target. Why are you acting so strange? Earth to Rahul. Earth to Rahul. How come you’re being so sweet all of a sudden?” she questioned, finally acknowledging my presence. “Are you OK?”

  “What do you need?”

  Rahul, what is wrong with you? You’ve become a love-sick loony without knowing it. My ego was cursing me.

  She looked at me suspiciously for a moment and then began reading off a list of things that she needed, “I need some hangers, a trash can, some clothes pegs, a welcome mat, some washing powder and…” she stopped.

  “And…” I waited for her to resume.

  “And nothing.”

  “No, seriously. I can get you anything.”

  “Well, how about this – and three brassieres.”

  I gagged. Nodding slowly, I asked, “And three what?”

  “Brassieres. Bras – in plain, common English.”

  “Yes.” I was still nodding in shock. “OK.”

  “36B. The size.” She fixed her gray eyes on me, as if waiting for me to retaliate.

  “The size,” I echoed, feeling a little lost and a little like a parrot at the same time.

  “We’re best friends, Rahul. You don’t care, do you? Can you do it?” she asked more pointedly, with fire in her eyes. The same fire of freshman year, which I hadn’t been able to resist.

  “Size 36B. See you at seven.”

  Size 36B, I told myself. Yes, I loved her.

  Say Goodbye

  The summer before Junior Year. The last few days in university had been hectic. With school and work, mounting in layers over each other to make a solid sediment of rocky monotone under everything, there was no time for anything else, least of all to say goodbye to Rahul.

  Rahul. There was so much to tell him. Complex emotions, unexplained thoughts, feelings which radiated an intricacy foreign to daily life. There was so much to say, to unravel, yet I could say nothing at that time. Talking to him could be like talking like a brick wall sometimes. And most of all, because I myself was unsure about what to say.

  Maybe I didn’t want to say anything at that time, but to let things be, just the way they were. After all, we were best friends.

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Where to now?” He stared at my intense blue curtains as if they would talk.

  “The Moon. Australia, Rahul! Remember I said I was thinking of doing a semester abroad there? Well, it’s happened.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And I’m the King of England,” he rejoindered sarcastically.

  I left without saying goodbye. Rahul could be impossible at times.

  Australia

  There were days when the cold would not subside for days – when the winter hail would cake itself on the edges of windscreens and driveways. I would cuddle up to myself in my five-yard chaadar after prayers with a cup of hot mocha cappuccino in my hands and let my thoughts wander into eternity. There were good times, of school, family, and friends, of warmth and laughter, of stories and movies. And there were times of loneliness and tears, of gatherings where sounds and lights extended to everyone but me, moments
where there was just me and God. The myriad of thoughts would stop here and ask to reconsider. I was forgetting someone. I was falling in love with Rahul.

  Two Months Later

  Life without Sharanya. I never thought I would miss her so much. She had fit in so well into the fabric of my life that nothing seemed the same without her. She had been everywhere, in my thoughts, ideals – into everything I endeavored to do or say. She said and did a lot of crazy things anyway. I thought this was one of them.

  I wondered how I would be able to survive without her laughter, without her crazy antics, without the dare-devil relationship that we had. He broke off mid-sentence when he saw her. She was back. When the band started up, it was playing their single:

  Tere dar par sanam chale aye. I made it to your abode

  Tu na aaya toh hm chale aaye. You didn’t come, so I did.

  Bin tere koi aas bi na rahi. Without you, there was no desire left.

  Itne tars ek pyaas bhi na rahi. Thirsted so much that even the thirst left.

  Ladkhadae qadam, chale aaye. The steps faltered, but I made it.

  Tu na aaya toh hum chale aaye. You didn’t come, so I did.

  Life with her could be worse than any class that I was taking in college. I would have to endure her nineteen to the dozen talking sprees when she would talk for ages and expect me to remember every word that had been said for the past one hour and insist on not talking to me if I didn’t.

  I Love You

  She embraced him tightly, her body arching against his so tightly that she felt she would never stop.

  “Where were you, you crazy boy,” she whispered. “I missed you,” half-crying and half-laughing.

  He disentangled himself from her. “I was right here,” He said smiling. “I’ve seen you laugh, cry, shout your lungs out at those protest rallies, gossip nineteen to the dozen with Ruhi about nothing in particular, sing, dance, pray…where would I be, Anya, except with you, every second, every moment of my time.”

  “But you never told me,” she looked up him, amazed. “I always thought you would go out with Kaanchi, Savitha…even Ruhi – and I kept waiting for you to throw the bombshell, to tell me who the lucky girl was – and you, you idiot—” she broke off, crying, profusely in his arms.

  He held her against himself, crying too by now. “Oh, Sharanya!” he said, running his hand through her hair. “Why haven’t you come? I’ve waited for you, in every gig that I’ve played, in every song that I’ve written, in every melody that I’ve sung. But it’s OK now.” He said, composing himself.

  “Now that we’ve demonstrated our passion in front of everyone,” she muttered sarcastically, looking at the throng of people who had risen to explore the confusion in the band’s program.

  I looked at Rahul, half-embarrassedly, but so happy that I could barely control myself.

  “Want to make a move?” I asked.

  “Let’s go,” he replied softly, with that wild look in his eyes. It was this look – this ‘I relinquish the world and I don’t care’ look that I had fallen in love with in freshman year, although I had never been able to tell him. After all, we were two of a kind – alone, in our own worlds, where nobody existed but ourselves.

  He had to finish up, but he didn’t care. And at this point, neither did I. There was so much we had to catch up on – just him and me, no silly pride.

  Body and Blood

  Sometimes he was irrational, even dangerous. I remember this one time we were at India Palace, having dinner, when he suddenly remembered that it was Durga Puja and he had forgotten to put the red tika on his forehead. So he cut a slit in his little finger and put the finger on his forehead so it oozed down to his eyebrow space.

  “Rahul, what are you doing?” I asked, watching him in some surprise and some horror.

  He looked at me and determinedly put the finger on my widow’s peak and held it there so that the red covered it.

  “You know what that means?” he asked, a stony look in his eye.

  I, shocked beyond measure, nodded.

  “I love you, Anya.”

  -30-

  Among -30- columns and end-of-semester blues were threads of memories…memories of him in his crisp white kurta and me in my royal purple outfit, millions of silver sequins on the ghagra and dupatta on Navratri, and then us on Eid: me enveloped in a spun-gold chaadar; lightly blowing on his forehead and kissing it, wishing for now and always, that no harm would ever befall us.

  End-of-semester blues: when the fall sun slowly hid behind the winter moon; when cups of hot coffee replaced the morning Frappuccino; when it was time to say goodbye to classmates and professors when you were getting to know them. Those were times when I felt lost, as if I had to cling to those last remnants of time, to keep some kind of a record of what I was doing, where I was going, and when it would ever end.

  Vignettes - 1

  Soulmates

  For AJ. T.

  So we fall in love. Among russet leaves and beneath shady bridges, in dense forests where only the purity of sunbeams penetrates, where eternity and infinity replace the dimensions of space and time, where there is no one but you and me.

  Do you not know that we are the two pieces of a broken soul? That when you think of me, I know. That when you dream of me, I feel. And that when you touch me, I throb. That you cannot live without me because I am incomplete without you?

  Where are you? How many more times do I say I’m sorry… I’m sorry I doubted, I’m sorry I was afraid, I’m sorry I did not come when you called? There is nothing without you – no emotion, no happiness, not even pain. I am nothing but stone, a wandering spirit that roams around from place to place trying to find you among millions of floating bodies knowing that you will never come… But you will. Because no one will love you like I did. If I doubted, it was because disbelief was corroding my heart, if I regretted, I once forgave, and if I left, I once surrendered. And you will because you are incomplete without me – that every night I spend alone, you spend it with me; that every memory I cherish, pierces your heart, and that every time I am lonely, you too are searching for a consolation.

  Come back to me. Make me alive again. Give me back the twinkle in my eyes, the magic in my smile, and the spirit in my laughter. Perhaps they were only for you.

  Perspectives

  So I am sitting here, hopeful and sadly lovesick, or rather restless and sadly obsessed, waiting for him to walk by. Who is him? Him who doesn’t know that I’m obsessed, or him who doesn’t care? Both, I guess.

  I live in another world, where we know and love each other, and exist in another, where I don’t even know him. Just the profile of his face; the distinctiveness of his gait; the outline of his shape, that never materializes – never ever – as if it was a recollection that never claimed reality as its origin, as if it were an image that didn’t take its sharpness from actuality. Sometimes, I feel if I wish hard enough, I can make him come true. At others, that I’m just out of it.

  A Day Off

  I feel like God should give us a day off sometimes. A day to experience the heights of passion banned by reality. A day to succumb to unimaginable emotions. Maybe I’m not asking for it plainly enough. I want a day to drink, dance, have sex, get high and commit suicide.

  Dreams

  God:

  I am losing my faith. How many times are you going to make me fall and get up again, only to find that l am not really up? I need to get out of here, this hole, this well of emotion that I am buried alive in, this tomb of hell. It is scorching hot. I feel like I will erupt, go mad, fall in sync with the rhythm of another world. I can feel the passion rising up in me and I can’t let it out. Tiny thoughts are pricking me, as if I am in hell, burning alive.

  You have broken my soul, God. I gave up everything for you. You said, “Give,” and I gave up my world. You said, “Bear the pain,” and I took it patiently. You said you would be there for me when I needed help, but you weren’t. You weren’t there when I was crying; when I co
llapsed. You weren’t there when I was all alone, and she couldn’t see the pain, or the hurt, or the loneliness in my eyes. You weren’t there in the darkness of those starry nights, when my tears were mine, and there was nothing except sand and dunes, and an indescribable emptiness.

  Maybe somewhere, there was Satan in my soul. Some tension that would not be let me be content with only giving. Tiny pricking thoughts that have haunted me, perhaps forever. Only, I failed to acknowledge them. Some guilt, some egotism, some obsession that took hold of me when my faith was at its weakest and killed me.

  And now there is nothing. Without you there is nothing. I have lost myself in this hell of fear, doubt and suspicion. There is no beauty in the vastness of this desert; no music in the rhythm of this procession; no color in the sky at sunset. God, come back to me. Give me back my peace, my music, my color, my beauty. I am sorry.

  She moves slowly, her black hijab and abaya flowing in the wind. She is tired; I can see. Her face, tanned and beautiful, is etched in the depths of my mind. I trace her profile with my finger in my imagination, and see her eyes innocent, black, yet passionate, as if she believes in a world that is not mine.

  “Zahra, come inside,” a voice calls from inside her tent. She looks at me defiantly, as if she can read my thoughts, and moves towards her tent. I want to reach out to her, encompass her in my arms, and combine the innocence in her eyes with the tension in my soul. But let unsaid words remain unsaid. Let thoughts be pure and true. Let passion erupt like the colors at sunset. Let love be as I love you.

  We meet under the starry sky, infinite like the desert itself. The camels are asleep under date palms highlighted by the silvery moonlight. The tents are open, their flaps moving gently with the wind. The silvery ripples in the oasis seem as if they are dancing to their own rhythm. She sits beside me, her hair loose all around her, her wild, black eyes brimming with emotion. I want to touch her face to see if it is real. To see if the profile in my imagination feels as beautiful as it seems. But we both know our limits. We are both the only children in two of the most prestigious families of the clan. It is a matter of principle: “Practice what you preach.” It would break my father’s heart if he knew that his son was indulging in something that he punished others for. And then of course, there was religion. My religion – Islam, the religion of peace.