Cobalt Blue (9 page)

He probably didn't get the joke but then few people get my jokes. He looked bemused. I thanked him and shook his hand and I might have even hurt his delicate fingers. I went into the house. I had registered that the new paying guest was a good-looking fellow but his hand was cold. Like grabbing some veggies from the fridge.

I didn't see him for the next couple of days. One morning, I was eating pohe when the phone rang. ‘Call him,' Aai said. I was about to go upstairs when she said, ‘Call him from the courtyard. No need to go up.'

When he disconnected, Aai invited him to sample her pohe. He sat down and applied himself to the food. He didn't know me at all then so we didn't talk.

One day, Tanay was washing the bike in the courtyard. I was in the house getting the mud off my canvas shoes. I heard him shouting, ‘One of you must be looking for this.' I looked out of the window and gasped. He was waving my bra at the Nadkarni Girls' Hostel as he shouted. He was only wearing a pair of shorts. Tanay dropped the bucket and came into the house. A dead silence took hold of the Nadkarni Girls' Hostel. He hooked the bra to the clothes line and went off.

I went out and took the bra off the line and marched up to where he was sitting on the wall. He was listening to his Walkman, his eyes closed. I batted him a good one. He opened his eyes. When he saw the bra in my hand, he took the earphones out of his ears. With my hands on my hips, I said, ‘Mine. You got a problem with that?' He slitted his eyes and grinned.

Dr Khanvilkar said, ‘If you get hyper when you're writing, close your eyes, take deep breaths and then look at each memory carefully and try to discard it. Examine it, see it for what it is, throw it away.'

I told Dr K, ‘Memories of him. All memories of him.'

Dr K said, ‘If the memories don't hurt too much, let them come. Don't bottle them up. Everything will clear up eventually.'

My attention strayed to her desk. On the far edge there was a glass frame with a family photograph. At the very corner. A slight push would send it over the edge. My fingers kept wandering there. I thought: I should just tell her and then pick it up and smash it.

When he took over the upstairs room, Aai- Baba declared it a no-go area for me. After the bra incident, he began to warm up. Once, after Aai had shouted herself hoarse, I was washing my hair and drying it vigorously. Through the towel, I could hear someone strumming a guitar.

First it was only random notes, plink plonk plink. My room was right under his. I came into the middle room and settled down to listen. A minute of silence; then a tune, played fluently, effortlessly. And then his voice, joining in. ‘Your Song' by Elton John. I ran upstairs. My childhood dream had been that someone should play the guitar and I would sing along, even in my rough deep voice. I opened the door quietly and went in. He saw me but he didn't stop playing. Involuntarily, I started to sing. In my untrained, anyoldhow voice.

Everything stopped when Baba began to look for me, calling my name. I sat still until he gave up. I looked around and realized he had changed everything in the upstairs room. It had been bare, like something out of Gandhiji's ashram. Now everything was painted. There were mats on the floor, a mattress, books and CDs in a basket . . . crazy. And it also occurred to me that I was sitting very close to him. But I figured that I liked it and I just kept sitting that way. Eventually, he got up and made coffee. He showed me some of his paintings; most of them seemed abstract and boring. But through all this, he neglected one well-known rule of conduct. That when a woman comes into your room, and you're wearing only shorts, you should at least put on a shirt. I rather liked that.

Neha and Anubhav came to meet me. With his new mustachios, Anubhav looks like a responsible and serious young man. Or do they all put on this look for me? It was good to meet Neha though. ‘You'd better come back to college, okay? If you want company, I'll also drop out this year. I'm so glad you're back; I was getting really bored.' Anubhav was amused and uncomfortable that he was amused. I think he wanted to talk to me on his own. He seemed like someone who had experienced great pain. I couldn't meet his eyes. We both knew what had been going on. Anubhav had been my classmate since fifth standard; and he knows me better than anyone should know another person. Which is why he also knows that right now I am in no mood to offer any explanations.

When we were in Class Nine, everyone paired off. These pairs would last until about the eleventh standard. Nothing like that was going to happen to me, of that I was certain. I spent no time in front of the mirror. My voice was rough, my shoes were coated with mud, I had no time for jewellery. All I had in my favour was my fair Konkanastha complexion.

Perhaps as a result, I have always found a tawny complexion attractive. I tried to get a tan by roaming about in the sun. Meanwhile, the others in my class were exchanging greeting cards, the girls were swathing themselves against the sun, and riding side-saddle on the boys' bikes on prim excursions to Sinhagadh or the cinema. I was up for none of this. Of this, I was certain. I had so few social skills that once, when we went to have lunch at Amala's house, I fell asleep right after the meal and began to snore.

After the tenth standard board exams, we went hiking to Nepal. At Jalpaiguri, we met a bunch of Green Earth volunteers. I had been meaning to look for a summer job. I had offered to help at a snake farm but there had been no reply. So I decided I'd volunteer with Green Earth. I filled out a form; Anubhav filled one out too. Why? I hadn't bothered to ask. But on the trek, I noticed that he had begun to do as I did. But then what other models did he have? He was the kind who wore checked shirts tucked into trousers that had two demure pleats in the front.

Tanned from the trek, we came back and went to the local Green Earth office. I met some interesting folks there; the vacations were going to be exciting.

The work was easy. All over the world Green Earth needed money and volunteers who would help them raise funds and awareness about the environment. They had already chosen some places where they thought we might be able to get in touch with the right kind of people: the university, theatres, art galleries, the aquarium, the planetarium, etc. I was given the art gallery beat on the grounds that people with alternative ideas might turn up there. Anubhav was given the British Council Library; his face fell.

For the next four years, I became a familiar figure outside that art gallery, in blue jeans, green T-shirt and the cap with a dodo embroidered on it. I began to make friends with the other regulars: the chaiwalla, the pavement gallery artists from out of town. The square and the art gallery's big semi-circular building became my turf. Sunderabai, the woman who sold peanuts, became a friend who would give me a drink of water when I was thirsty and watch my bag when I went home for lunch. When I accosted some hapless soul coming out of the gallery with my forms, Sunderabai would move in to sell him some peanuts. At least one of us would score.

By the time I was in the twelfth standard, Sunderabai was sharing her lunch with me. Poor Anubhav didn't do as well at the British Council Library. He had a bunch of stern policewomen to contend with and the hungry lawyers outside the nearby district courts. His enthusiasm soon waned.

That holiday, spent far away from the watchful eyes of relatives, gave me a taste for independence. I didn't feel the need to ask my parents for permission for everything I did. Aseem's humdrum world began to irritate me and I began to take off, to go trekking when I felt like it. What surprised me was that Tanay took my part. When I said I wanted to do zoo management, the parents were aghast. Science? For a girl? But Tanay was solidly on my side. Anubhav also took admission in science.

One day, as we were walking by the canal, on our way back from a film, Anubhav took my hand in his. I didn't pull away. Then he drew me close, put an arm over my shoulder. I felt a quiet thrill of excitement; something new was happening. Without speaking, we continued to walk along the canal. On the main road, however, he moved away immediately, putting some space between us.

The next time he was less timid. I went along because of that trickle of excitement. I let him kiss my cheek and a week later, my lips. I felt as if I were taking my first steps into a new world. Anubhav was no doubt enjoying himself.

I began to notice that he spent a lot of time in class just looking at me. The solicitude with which he bandaged my foot when I injured it on Sports Day drew a lot of attention. I began to wonder if he were in love with me or something.

One Sunday, I went to the hills to plant some fruit trees from seeds that Green Earth volunteers had collected. Anubhav was, naturally, with me. It began to rain in the morning and we were soon soaked. When we came back down, we ended up at Anubhav's bungalow. It was empty.

That was the first time I saw a male body nude. Anubhav's hands roamed my shoulders and breasts, gaining new ground at a victor's pace. In my turn, I tasted his entire body; and we satisfied our curiosity, exploring, investigating, fulfilling some old fantasies. I don't think I felt as much guilt as physical pain. And when that subsided, a feeling of victory, of achievement. Anubhav had got dressed immediately and gone off to sleep. I let myself out of the house. The rain-washed city seemed fresh and beautiful.

By evening, my heart had stopped thundering. When I telephoned him, he asked me over. I wanted to sit and chat with him in the old way but he drew me into his arms as soon as I walked in and said, ‘I love you.'

I drew away and went to stand by the window. His eyes seemed to fill with tears but I felt it was the time to speak clearly and honestly.

What happened between us was lovely. I enjoyed it but I only let it happen because I wanted the physical experience. I don't think I am in love with you. I think I might prove a difficult person to love. Let's just assume that bit is over.'

It was just as I feared. He walked out, banging doors as he went. I had to leave then and I walked home, trying to sort out what I felt. I had changed the rules. I had acquired a new vibe.

The only problem was that I couldn't share these feelings. No one would hear me out in the right spirit. My female friends would have had heart attacks. It wasn't as if I was close to any of them. I had to hug my happiness to myself.

Anubhav's rage lasted a month. Then he said, ‘I'll wait for you.'

‘You're free to do as you please,' I replied. But I did want him back, as a friend.

When I met Anubhav, I understood why he was so uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable because of my ego. It had pleased my ego that he had been willing to wait. But I did not want him to see me in my condition.

Why aren't things easy? Or do we make them difficult?

As I went about the house when he was a paying guest, I would glance at the upstairs room. Tanay seemed to have become a full-time resident there. I'd see him from time to time, sitting in the window, his back to the world. He had always had his eye on that room. As long as he was happy, Aai-Baba didn't object. And since Aseem now had their room to himself, he was happy too. But still no one gave me permission to go upstairs.

Every Sunday, cupboards would be shifted around; nails would be knocked into walls. We could hear all this happen down under. I'd wonder: what was he doing upstairs? One Sunday, when Aai-Baba were out, I decided to find out. The room was locked; he was out too. I stood there, taking it in, the colourful mats, the paintings on the walls. All this on his own? What could he not do to my room? What if he were to come and put things away, sort out my clothes, change the bedclothes, sweep, swab, organize the books? How much energy Aai would save if she didn't have to nag me.

At that point, he returned. He'd had breakfast at some Irani restaurant. He opened the door and invited me in.

‘Nice room,' I said and went and sat down on the bed.

He ran his finger from his shoulder to his chest, looking meaningfully at me. I didn't get it at first until he smiled and did it again. Then I looked down at my shoulder; my bra strap was showing. The same bra. We both laughed until our stomachs hurt.

‘I want to learn the guitar,' I said.

‘Any time,' he said. ‘You're always welcome.'

‘Not here. That might get complicated.' He suggested the recreation hall at the art school; they even had a guitar there, he said. Good idea.

We chatted about this and that. He could cook and liked cooking. He knew French. He had guts. After his parents died, he had lived in hostels. He answered all my impertinent questions with a pleasant face. I asked him whether he painted in the way he did to mystify people. He didn't take it badly. He didn't defend his work, didn't explain it. From time to time, he did speak, but only a few relevant words. I had never met anyone like him. When I stopped blabbering and got up to go back downstairs, he said, ‘You seem very curious about me?'

‘Nothing like that, okay?' I replied and took the stairs, two at a time.

Then the board exams began and we didn't see each other. Examinations brought out the mother hen in Aai. Baba would stay up late to make me cups of tea or coffee. Aseem would clean the nibs of my pens and fill them with ink. Tanay would take me to the examination centre by bike and come fetch me. And I realized that these people, whom I saw as boring, were actually, fundamentally good at heart. They loved me and they tried to demonstrate it in this way.

That seems true even today. What if they hadn't taken me back when I returned? What would I have done?

I've only just understood what Sharayu Maushi used to say to me. That we were a transitional generation and that gave us several advantages. We had been given the freedom to choose how we want to live and behave. We were lucky to have parents who felt blessed in having children and were willing to take all the responsibilities that came with it. And so our sense of freedom is only a rehearsal. The next generation will have to pay the price.