Cobalt Blue (12 page)

‘It's no pleasure cruise. It's like taking a holiday in your husband's office. He's always busy. And in the evening, the boys get together for a drink.' Maushi began to feel she was in the way, that he couldn't get on with his routine. So when they docked, she took a flight back.

On the way home, we stopped for tender coconuts. The coconut man seemed to know Maushi well. He chose carefully and the water was very sweet. A short distance away, there was a petrol drum for the husks. Two boys aimed their coconuts at the drum and missed. The coconut man said that he'd charge only half if anyone could throw their coconuts into the drum. ‘Let's try,' I said. Maushi aimed and sent her coconut into the drum. I clapped. Then it was my turn.

‘What's your secret?' I asked.

‘Concentrate on something that will focus your mind,' she said.

I took aim and he appeared in front of the drum. I got it in and then jumped up and down and said, ‘Instead of a discount, just give us another coconut.' Then we drank it together, like they do in the films, with two straws. When we got home, his face was clear in front of my eyes. I felt a deep sadness descend on me. There were no words.

This morning Maushi brought me home. I am sitting at my table in my room and writing this. We had a Marathi poem set for us in school. The poet suggested that the walls of your room know you best. As school children, we mocked the poem but now I wonder: what does my wall think of me? Does it wonder at this Anuja, who has returned after six months away and seems normal again?

After I came back, my parents took me to Sharayu Maushi's house almost within two or three days. I didn't have time to look properly at the house. I haven't been away for more than six months but it seems like a new house entirely. The mess on the table, the clothes hanging on pegs, the things lying on the floor, all these have vanished. They've moved the television into my room. It's not my room any longer, it would seem. They didn't expect me back, it would seem, and they took over my space.

When Maushi's car came into the compound, I stepped out of the house and, by some chance, I looked up at the upstairs room. I blanked out. Someone was moving around there. Someone?

After lunch, Maushi went home; she gave me her Discman and a bag filled with about fifty of Anil Kaka's CDs. Then I thought to myself: I have to do this. After I had tea, I climbed to the terrace. At first, I thought Tanay must have taken the room for himself. But that wasn't it. It was a total mess. The cupboards hung open, their contents strewn on the floor. His paintings had been ripped and thrown here and there. His paint bottles had been scattered. Everything was covered with a layer of dust. In the middle of it all, an Irani restaurant chair, the kind with the round seat and four spindly legs, and on the rack, a big fat glass jar. Tanay must have assumed that I had been abducted or something of the sort and must have taken out his anger on these things. For a while, I couldn't stop thinking of him as I stood there.

I could see him as if in a series of images: working on a painting, cooking his food, listening to his Walkman, leaning out of the window to pluck chaafa flowers, playing the guitar. The intensity of my feelings seemed to have dulled a little. A list of questions began to form, questions to which no one could have any answers.

I sat down on the chair. If he had not wanted me to leave with him, he should have said so. Had I not given him enough time to think? Or did he assume that it was just a passing fancy for me? Perhaps that was it. He thought I was in for a good time and when he saw it was serious, he just had to get away.

Guesses. All guesses. He wasn't the kind of person who told you what he was thinking. Even our friendship had been based on my advances. If it had developed, it was because I had forced the pace. He had made no demands of his own. He had claimed no rights over me. He had never forced me to do anything I didn't want. Only on rare occasions did he get angry about my stubborn nature. But had I mattered to him?

Even after I left with him, we hadn't got together physically, even if our friendship had grown stronger. I had had enough experience not to feel any intense curiosity about these matters. I knew what it was. I had none of the usual feminine anxieties about it. Once, when I had come to the upstairs room, he had drawn me close to him and we had sat together for a long while. When I was sitting behind him on the bike, we were physically close, but most of the other time, it wasn't about that at all. With the exception of when he was teaching me the guitar. He would encircle me in his arms and we would play the chords together. I would breathe deep the smell of his body, rising as if off damp clothes. Once in a while, his stubble would scrape my face and arouse me. My hands would fumble the chords.

The only time he took the initiative was when we were by the sea. It had only been four days since we'd come to Pondicherry from Mudumalai. Now what? I had no idea. How were we to live? Where? I was the worrier; his face showed no concern. He had gone to the library so I left a note and took the cycle and went off to the beach. On that broad clean sweep of sand, I sat, looking out at a languid sea. I had no idea how long I sat there. Then he was there, sitting down beside me. The sun was dipping beneath the horizon and darkness was falling. He took my worried face in his hands and brushed his lips over my face.

I began to respond and suddenly the physical hunger we had ignored for days sprang to life between us. It was as I remembered, deeper, fuller because we cared about each other. My body was smeared with sand, sticky with mud, but that didn't stop him from caressing me, keeping me close in his arms. In the middle of the night, our bodies drifted apart. Later, the tide lapping against our feet woke us up. We got up, hunted up our clothes and, wheeling the bicycle, we returned to our room.

Outside, it was dark. In this haze of memory, I hadn't noticed the sun set. When I locked the room and came downstairs, Baba had returned from the office. So had Aseem. They were chatting and laughing together. As I went into my room, I saw Tanay sitting at the window, in the darkness.

‘At least put on the light,' I said and switched on the tubelight. He turned to me.

‘How are you? Good to have you back,' he said and then he came to me and began to weep. I said, in a panic, that I was never going to leave again. After a while, the tears dried up and he left.

When Aai came to call me for dinner, she said that Tanay had been hurt the most by my departure, that he had turned silent in grief. He had always seemed on the verge of tears. She had always thought that her children didn't really have strong bonds but she was pleased to see that he had been so deeply concerned.

As she went into the kitchen, she said, ‘At the end of the day, it's family you can depend on. Blood is thicker than water.'

Baba kicking his scooter into life woke me at seven this morning. In the kitchen, Aai was banging the pots and pans as she washed up. Aseem was playing some Mohammed Rafi wail. I could hear him shout, ‘Aai, bath water please,' and ‘Aai, the tea's gone cold, warm it up,' and other such demands. When I came out of my room, Tanay was getting ready to go out.

‘Off somewhere?' I asked.

‘Somewhere? University! It's convocation day.'

So his results had been out for a while. Before I could ask how he had done, he had left.

Everyone left. Only Aai and I were at home. Aai was busy in the kitchen so I was actually alone. I realized I shouldn't be sitting around like this. Until I got admission next year I had to do something. My mind was in danger of rusting, if I just sat around.

In the afternoon, I went and joined a gym. I popped in at Green Earth on the way back. I waited for Sabina, a resource person, for an hour. Late in the afternoon, when she had not returned to the office, I left and came home. I called Neha. She had gone for a film with a friend. It was going to take patience to get back into the swing of things. Everyone had got on with their lives. I had thrown it all away to go off. I thought of calling Anubhav, picked up the receiver and then replaced it. That would be selfish of me. And so I sat there, until evening came, and I wondered: who wanted me back? Why had I returned?

At five, the phone rang. Aai said it was for me. It was Anubhav. He asked if I'd like to go for a walk in the university grounds. When we got off the bike, we walked in silence for a bit. Then we sat on a mound and he said, ‘It's been a few days, right? If you need something . . . Even if it's just someone to talk to, just call, okay? I'm not about to ask any questions you don't want to answer.'

I just nodded. Why wasn't he like other men? Why wasn't he cursing me, screaming at me?

When he took me home again, I got off the bike and stood there, trying to find something to say. He fiddled with the keys of the bike and then turned it off and sat there. In the sudden silence, we looked at each other. Then he kickstarted the bike and rode off.

In the fifth or sixth standard, I forgot to take my lunch box to school. If anyone forgot, Anubhav would immediately tear his poli into two and share. So I ate his poli. I knew there was always a crunchy red apple in his bag and I seized that too and ate it. He never complained.

When Anubhav left, I entered the house to a familiar scene. Baba and Aseem were watching cricket. Aai was bumping about in the kitchen. Tanay was staring into space. I said nothing and went into my room and bolted the door.

In a minute, someone was knocking. It was Aai. ‘Come and eat,' she said. Because Aai told me to eat, I ate. Because Baba told me to take my medicines, I took my medicines. Then I retreated to bed, covering myself with a sheet. The fan clinked and rattled as it stirred the air. The girls in Nadkarni's were playing antakshari. I couldn't sleep so I got up and sat down at my table and started to write.

When things got unbearable, I came home. If things had gone well, would they have ever seen me again? And why unbearable? Because I could not take care of myself? Because of my sick mind?

How had I imagined I would live without anyone by my side? I had planned nothing. Was that what went wrong? I should have sought independence. I should have thought to earn. I should have thought about saving. And then, I should have thought about a room of my own, however small. After a day's work, doing something I liked, I should be able to return to this place and relax in the manner of my choosing. Our house was big enough for middle- class dreams but not for privacy. I wouldn't even clean this room that I would have, if I didn't feel like it. And I'd have lots of greenery.

I had even told him about these plans. He had said, ‘You are complete in yourself. You're so clear about what you want.' I had felt a rush of pleasure at his praise. I had not thought to ask him what his plans were.

I had another dream, which I'd fulfilled in Pondicherry. I had begun reading English books and, finally, I had even begun to decipher the American accent. I was in awe of how kids in those books and films would think up ways to earn some money doing small jobs for other people during their holidays. I had always dreamed of being a waitress.

So when I met Madame Eveline in the bazaar at Pondicherry, she appeared to me like a wish- fulfilling goddess. She was standing in front of a fisherwoman, carrying her wooden basket, slippers on her feet but a slash of red lipstick too. She brought each fish close to her face as if she were examining it for clues. The fisherwoman did not seem bothered; this seemed to be a daily performance for her. Then she saw me and began to chatter away in Tamil. I stopped her and asked in sign language how much the fish I wanted was going to cost me.

Madame Eveline stepped in and began to give me advice in English. She dropped everything and began to choose fish for me. I began to protest but the fisherwoman caught my hand and signalled me to let Eveline do what she wanted. The old woman began to sort through the prawns until she had chosen the best for me. The fisherwoman's board was messy, as was the sickle with which she sliced fish. Next to her, a cat was eating the offal. I thought the old lady was a little mental but she wasn't. She was just a loving, eccentric and determined old lady. But this I only discovered later.

I had no money with me then. What I had brought with me was over. I had to ask him for money for every little purchase I had to make. He never gave me his wallet—not even to make things easy for both of us. Nor did he ever go to the market; but when I asked for money, he'd give it to me.

After she had selected the fish, Madame Eveline asked me in her French English, ‘Do you make the cooking?'

‘No, I can't. My partner can, though. He's quite good.'

‘My partner makes fish well too,' she replied. ‘And he keeps my little fish happy too.'

She winked and laughed loudly. I could only stare at her.

We walked together to the road. Her ‘partner' was waiting for her in a jeep. He looked about seventy-five years old. His name was Philip, he said. They had opened a restaurant in the ground floor of their home. They ran it together; he cooked and she sat at the counter, was the chief waitress and also cleaned the place. They had about twenty tables, they said. Only one or two dishes were on the menu, based on what Madame Eveline found in the market. The menu was then written in chalk on a blackboard. She enjoyed doing that, she said. But, ‘Philip often forgets what has been written on the board and cooks something else. And then we fight.' So now she had another board hanging in the kitchen. They needed some help. They had had two young women living on the premises but had been forced to dismiss them.

‘Why?'

‘They were stealing,' said Madame Eveline. ‘Grain. Money.'

I got into the jeep and said, ‘Show me your restaurant.'

When I returned to our room, I told him that I had decided to take a job. No, that I had taken a job. ‘Great,' he said. ‘Now you'll have something to do.'