Rambles in Shambles

A lot of what you see below are rambles in shambles. Most of them would need re-writing. Most of them will not be re-written for reasons varying from laziness to sentimentality and the-pride-of-the-parent. This is more like a semi-open diary! Your liking it, or otherwise, may not make much difference but comments and suggestions will always be welcome.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Secrets

Aashima was superstitious. She had never shown the lines of her palm to the palmist, or her face to a face-reader (though she knew they were all fake) or her skull to a phrenologist (phrenology, she knew, was debunked now, completely). To make it worse, she never shared her thoughts with other people. It made her feel exposed – maybe naked is a word closer to the truth. She formed opinions about things, issues and people. When forced she would sometimes voice her opinions too, but the opinions she voiced were not the opinions she formed. Her online profiles typically had no photographs, and one-word answers to other questions (like favourite place – “hmm”). “Hmm”, incidentally was one of her favourite words. Maybe it came from one of her parents, who both said that a lot. Anyhow, she played it completely safe, which was as boring as it sounds.

Not that she liked being that way. She envied people who could be open and frank about themselves (or at least appeared to be so). Shankar was one of those people. He could sit with a bunch of strangers, loosen his tie, and start off. Just start off, about anything that was his own, and personal (apparently) – from how he lost his first job to the time he got hauled up by the police (because he had not shaved and the police thought it was an attempt at disguise – well he was so frequently unshaven that he’d have to just shave to make himself completely unrecognisable, she thought). She was sure he could talk about more appalling stuff (like a missing testicle or erectile dysfunction, perhaps) with perfect ease. Shankar used to tell her he was jealous about his earlier girlfriend having a nice life, better than his own. He harboured thoughts of robbing a bank – something he wanted to do at least once in his lifetime; and he used to talk like that to everyone (maybe that is why he got picked up by the police, on second thoughts). She just kept nodding wherever she thought appropriate, and secretly wishing he won’t burden her with more of his public secrets.

What made them secrets was the way he said it, bowing his head, staring into his glass all the time, with those long sighs in between, shaking his head from time to time. It seemed to her that most of these secrets were made up, and described as seen in the crystal ball of his drink. He would place his head in his hand sometimes and wring his forehead, then squeeze his eyes shut, breathe in deeply and shake up from his supposed reverie. She knew it was all made up, but these were interesting performances – some of them were really absorbing – and she had felt drawn into them on more than a few occasions. The only way she prevented that on other times was to closely watch other people getting drawn in. he spoke often of such self-degrading stuff that everyone assumed it had to be true, and it had to take a lot of courage to open up like that.

She knew it took more than that.

She had tried being open a number of times. Her parents read too much into it, and when she told them she was dreaming about the guy next door, they almost bought a home pregnancy kit (which is a funny name, but not entirely untrue for her; in her home, if she would have been pregnant, the entire home would have acted pregnant). Her first and only almost-boyfriend had always slept off in the middle of her most intimate stories. And in the day-time he would keep looking at his watch so much that she could not bring herself to talk. When she left off a story midway, he would never insist on her completing it. He would instead something banal and inane, like those comments people made when covering up for a meeting they’d slept through. She sometimes wondered what she would have done had he insisted. Maybe she could have thought of an alternate ending for her memory, a little like she suspected Shankar of doing, only in Shankar’s case she had her doubts about the beginnings too. When she sat on the next table in the cafeteria, Shankar would sometimes shoot quick glances at her – maybe he checked like a thief afraid of being caught. She had this excruciating temptation to wink, at those times.

They were casual colleagues – like one has casual friends versus friends. They knew each other, but nothing about each other. She never disclosed anything, and did not believe anything he said about himself. And, to be fair, they had never really talked to each other. Opposites didn’t attract in her case, and the highest emotion she felt for him was occasional passing curiosity. They were almost always a part of a group, because Shankar liked to – let’s say ‘confess’, to groups and was in his element then; and because she also hung around in groups. She could be alone and yet not called a recluse. A few times they had run into each other, at bus stops and in elevators, but they’d stuck to a ‘hi’ and looking in different directions thereafter. Maybe he knew she did not trust his stories, or maybe he did not think that much, but just assumed, rightly, that she was not great audience.

There was just a childhood friend of hers that Aashima could think of confiding in, but there she was faced with her second problem – a singular lack of interesting things to confide. Hers was a very standard predictable life that seemed either comfortable or insipid to her depending on what her mood was like. Her childhood was lonely, but then so was her youth and now her early-middle age. There were very few incidences that stood out in her life and weren’t already depicted by others (perhaps better) in their stories, books and movies.

Then one evening after a party they were sitting on a table alone, Aashima and Shankar. Their office party was over and Shankar was helping himself to yet another last drink that he was finding difficult to finish. She was waiting for Madhu, who promised to drop her home but now both Madhu and her phone were unreachable. She shouldn’t have told Madhu that thing about pulling the battery out of the phone instead of switching it off – so that it was always ‘unreachable’ and never actually ‘switched off’. Sitting on that table seemed the safest thing to do, with all kinds of weird characters circling around them clearing tables and trying to peep into her blouse. Finally Shankar managed to finish his drink, banged it on the table and precariously stood up. The glass and Shankar tottered into near-vertical positions. His laces were undone and she told him, while she wondered how she’d get home that night. He did not seem to hear, and swaggered slowly out of the hall, laces trailing. She went and stood in the balcony for a while, trying to spot anyone who was still there. She tried Madhu’s phone again to hear the same recording about the phone being unavailable and that she should ‘please’ try again later. The voice asked her if she wanted to leave a message. She left a message that just said, “Bitch” and hung up.

A middle aged man made his way towards her. He must have been the supervisor of those men earlier waiting on them and now clearing tables. He asked her if she was ok, and she said she was absolutely fine. Then he just stood there and lit a cigarette, and she told him she was allergic to smoke – which she wasn’t – and he just kept the lit cigarette in his hand and asked her if she was alone, if he could drop her home, who was that man with her, and then if she-well-uhm-you know-well-did-that. She did not ask him what he meant by ‘that’, but she made her way again to the table, and now she was afraid. The man shouted after her to ask how much she charged for a night. She heard invisible sniggers around her, which were now threatening. And then he asked her how much he asked how much she took for one shot. She was blessed with extremely average looks, which protected her as long as there were prettier women around, but now she was alone and being plain did not help. And then, just when she thought she might have to run to the balcony again and jump out, in case things got funny (there was grass below, and a few shrubs that could ease the fall – but even if she survived the fall, there was no surety she’d escape – and escape to what – the whole street was deserted at this hour) – Shankar re-entered the scene. She was never so happy to see him.

He came in grinning sheepishly and wiping his tie with a tissue from the bathroom. He had gone to the loo, and now he was, in his own famous last words, ‘absolutely in control’. She almost hugged him. She now had to ask him to drop her home. She promised herself she’d leave another bitchy message for Madhu as soon as she was home. They walked to the stairs, where the ‘how much do you charge’ guy was standing. He stood on the landing, completely unashamed and with eyes boring into her. She ignored him and ask Shankar if he could drive (stupid question actually, she couldn’t drive herself). He turned around and suddenly caught hold of the how-much-do-you-charge guy by the collar, and before he (the guy) could react, he (Shankar) suddenly kicked him hard in the balls. He made a loud statement about him (the guy) needing more shots, and hard, or something like that. Of-course she didn’t hear that clearly because she panicked and ran, and was halfway down the stairs by the time the sentence was over. The next thing she knew was that she’d slipped on the asphalt and her knee was most probably scraped.

Her heart was beating fast and she realized she was weeping - no sobbing – no, perhaps howling was the word. It took her some long time to realize she was still sitting on the road. She got up, her dress was torn around the knee. Tonight was the night of embarrassments. Shankar walked slowly out of the place and still seemed to be in no hurry. Finally she had to tell him she was sorry to be pushing him, but she was scared and they should be leaving.

She was walking ten paces ahead of Shankar and then she waited by his car. No further activity could be seen from the hall or the balcony, or the stairs. While she stood there trying to breathe normally, she realized it was quite a lovely night. Insects chirped in the bushes, and there were a few fireflies around. The moon was dim behind the trees.

Shankar finally arrived, chuckling to himself. The last thing she wanted to hear was a joke about her falling– or about her weight – or anything else, she’d just had enough of sarcastic men.

But had she? She had just one – well almost one. Her score was in mid-decimals. It turned out that Shankar was reliving the kick in the balls. That was his first. Then Shankar asked her if he could drop her home. She did not say anything. Stupid questions called for stupid answers, and she felt it was one of the moments she could have been extremely nasty, however glad she was for him being there. Some of her fear still remained, and her heart was still beating faster, pushing rushes of warm blood to her throbbing temples; and Shankar was taking an eternity taking out his car keys. He finally unlocked the car and they got in. He started the car and rolled down the windows, then leaned far out of the car to look behind as he reversed. He craned his neck so much that she thought he would topple any moment.

He did not seem to know the way to her house, though he assured her he did. He launched into another confession, or maybe a mix of confessions, about how her ear-rings reminded him of his second class English teacher (why were all these crushes on English or Geography teachers? She wondered), who had the same pair (maybe he meant similar), and they tinkled as she walked, and how little second-standard Shankar would get wet dreams in his second-standard sleep, interspersed with those ear-ring-tinkles. She let him finish, right up to his line about his not having told anyone about it so far, a thought that struck him as funny. He implied there was a special connection between them – and looked at the moon and smiled, shaking his head slowly. She asked him if he had wet dreams at seven years of age, and he said it was something like wet dreams. She laughed and asked if he pissed in his pants in the night because of those ear-ring-tinkles? Then she took one of her ear-rings in her hands and shook it, and asked if he felt anything. Shankar stopped the car and got out to – she couldn’t believe it – relieve himself between two large bushes. She always thought the vilest of men do that, and was surprised to find herself laughing.

She asked him again if he had wet dreams back then, and before he could answer, she asked if he was over his menopause then – assuming he had the same number of fertile years the other men did. Shankar did not seem disappointed at all. He just kept smiling and driving. Then he turned to her and told her he lied, most of the time. And she told him that she, for once, believed him completely. They were now in a completely different part of the town, one that wasn’t anywhere near her house. This was in-face the station area, the one area where one could find 24-hour shops in this town. She asked him finally what his plan was, and if he wanted directions to her house. Somehow she wasn’t scared. Shankar said he thought it was a good idea to pick up a bottle of wine to finish the evening off. She waited in the car while he disappeared into a small lane and emerged with an open bottle of wine and – another surprise – an ice-cream that he thrust into her hands. She loved ice-cream, though she did not remembering telling anyone at the office about it. Then he continued driving, occasionally taking sips of wine, in the right direction this time. She wondered why she wasn’t scared of her fellow casual-co-employee whom she had no reason to trust. Her ankle was hurting; she had injured it when she had fallen on him. She hoped she did not feature, at least by name, in another one of his public confessions.

This time around, he kept asking her about her life. She kept mum initially, and then started lying. After the first few, it came extremely easy to her. She was now supposedly born in a different town, different country – now her parents were divorced, father was now a pilot (which was funny, because her dad was actually an accountant, and made for a funny picture when mentally dressed as a pilot) and her mother had given up everything for religious pursuits (she had actually run off with her father’s more glamorous friend). This was nice, and she was soon enjoying herself. When he asked about her sister, she asked – what sister? And then he reminded her she had told him about her two minutes back. She told him she must have been lying. He just took another sip and kept smiling and driving. He was very drunk, but was managing the car ok. The streets were empty, and stray dogs chased them at intervals.

He dropped her off and kept sitting in the car. She had to come back from the door and ask him if he was ok. He said he was drunk. She asked him if she could help him get better. He said he meant he was fine when he said he was drunk – he was drunk and fine. Then he asked if they could talk for longer. She said of-course not. What came out of her mouth instead was an emphatic ‘of-course’. Aashima wondered if she was drunk too. He parked his car and came up the stairs. There were greater forces of nature propelling them on – at least her. She had not meant this to happen. Now she was conscious of her heart beating fast again, temples throbbed back to attention. She opened her door, turned around and said maybe it was not a good idea. Shankar said ‘and maybe it was’ and helped himself in. She suddenly felt very tired and regretted the idea. Sex was out of the question, and so was detailed inane imagined conversation. She told him.

He came to where she was sitting, sat beside her and took her hand. Her fingers were cold. Her temples were warm, and her heart was in her mouth. He calmly told her something that – in his senses – he would not have told her (supposedly). He counted on his fingers for a while and said he had had seventeen drinks, and right now, he was like a brother to her. Even if she had wanted something to happen, he was physically incapable even if he were to be mentally willing. Then he kissed her on her forehead and held her hands between his till they were warmer. She figured she had been lying through the last hour anyway, and told him she loved him. By this time, she had it all figured out. Shankar was probably the safest guy to have up in her flat. When Shankar will confess, no one would believe him.

He had carried his bottle of wine, and poured out what was left in four coffee cups he found in the kitchen. He gave her a cup and made himself comfortable on the armchair with another. Then he asked her about the time she had her first wild affair. She said she did not have one. He was surprised, and then asked her what stopped her from still, telling him. She did not understand at first, and then remembered who she was talking to. She had been right about him all along. She smiled and took a sip of the wine. It had a funny taste – a taste you would imagine if someone said bootleg-tangy-white-wine in your ear. She hoped she wouldn’t wake up blind the next day, from spurious liqueur consumption.

She told him about Nikhil, whom she met while she was in college (Nikhil, actually was her best-friend’s brother-in-law, and she met him recently). She did not remember how it started (i.e. was too lazy to make up that part) – but once they ended up going to the beach. Then the two of them just happened to go on a walk on the shore.

Shankar asked if it was a moonlit night.

She closed her eyes, and suddenly she felt she was on a lovely beach. The moon was shining over the silvery waters that gathered in a long foaming, writhing serpent all along the never-ending shore. Sand shone like mirrors where the waves left. She was walking with this man she had never met. The sand was soft and cold. She was looking down at her feet, and all she saw after a while was her feet and his, in rhythm. She had no idea where she was going. Suddenly, when she looked up, she was totally alone with him on the beach. The other friends were distant shouts mingling with the noise of the sea serpent that stretched, still, from one end of the beach to the other, as far as the eyes could see. No words exchanged – he bent to kiss her. She could not see his face clearly, in the dark. She just let herself be kissed. She was young. The frond of hair that bothered her forehead was again there, blowing in the slightly cold breeze blowing them closer. She felt her fingers in his hair, and his arms around her. In his arms was the only warm place on the cold beach that was getting colder. Their lips met again and she felt the moon grow dimmer around her, and then the world faded away slowly. Soon it was just the two of them in the Universe.

A whiff of cigarette smoke reached her nostril and she woke up from her dream. Shankar was not laughing. He squinted at a point in mid-air. She sat silently, quite shaken by the fact that for a while, and for the first time in her life, she felt so close to, well, the real thing. Shankar was not saying anything, but he was clearly awake and listening, with a soft smile on his face. She then told him about the guy, the guy she made out with and then made wild passionate love to on that moonlit beach. The composite guy made up of all the nice things she had secretly seen in men she had met over the years. He had someone’s nose, another guy’s forehead, someone else’s hair – and then someone’s money, someone else’s sense of humour – and of-course he was a sex God who couldn’t live without her. She wondered how ridiculous she sounded. But she was startled to realize they were now on the bed. Shankar’s head was in her lap. She was stroking his thinning hair. Her imaginary sex-God boyfriend had lovely hair – silky and thick, and slightly curly. But then she shouldn’t be with Shankar in real life, as in now, with his head in her lap. Somehow it did not seem to matter so much, but maybe it would in the morning. She took another sip of the spurious wine and wondered how to push Shankar out of the house. She was enjoying the day-dream but then she could carry on herself. Shankar tilted his head to look up as if he read her thoughts. Her stroking had stopped. He took her hand and put it on his head again. The hand started stroking his hair on its own. Morning seemed quite an alien concept.

Shankar asked her about her family – but hadn’t she told him already? But then she found herself telling him about a very different family. Everything was perfect in this family. They were reasonably rich, and her father was an accountant who was doing well. Her mother did not run away but stayed at home to prepare the most delicious food that never got over. Their phone-line was never disconnected as they always paid their bills. Their dog never grew old and blind, and he never died. Everyone loved each other.

She went on till morning, taking sips of his cheap wine and when that was over, the expensive Portuguese wine she had kept hidden for a special occasion. One of her 'awake’ moments, she realized now she had her head in Shankar’s lap, and their fingers played with each other as she spoke. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. Imagination was so much better than what one had to live through each day. In the soft darkness of the night, it seemed more real than the real. Why did everyone prefer the ugly real world when there was a world where you actually rule. She just made her Dad a little taller and a lot thinner. Her mother had almond eyes, and she herself was so pretty. There were people to love her, and people for her to love – each one unconditionally. She could create new people and new houses when she wanted. It was a little like a video game.

When the morning came and she woke up, the realized she and Shankar were both fully clothed in crumpled party clothes. The sheets were crumpled and resembled the Himalayas, as seen from an airplane window. Both wine bottled were empty. The house smelt of tobacco, and she had a splitting headache. Shankar was twisting and turning back to life. He gradually squinted into reality, closed his eyes and rolled off to sleep again. When she had a bath and came out, he was on the armchair again, sucking some cough drops that had been lying on the table. Then when she finally made coffee for both of them, he looked at her searchingly and asked what they had been talking about last night. Last night was a blank for him. He had been at the party, and then both of them were on the last table. People around were clearing tables. And then how did he end up here, on her bed? He hoped he had not done anything funny or stupid.

Then he lit a cigarette and launched into a confession, about how once he was so sloshed that he got mugged and did not even remember, and then some pretty woman from Paris who was visiting town gave him a lift. It was a moonlit night, and she bought him ice-cream from the railway station. Then he thought they had wine, he and that amazingly beautiful woman from Paris. They had spent time at his flat, and she stroked his hair. She still sent him postcards.

She looked at him as she washed the coffee-cups, and the ash-tray. The small bald portion in the middle of his head, slightly to the front, was shining through his thin hair. They had an aspirin each and he offered to drop her to office, one condition – that she tell him clearly what happened that previous night.

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