Sightseeing
Photo: Karan Madhok
Short story: ‘I don’t know what in the world I was thinking, but I look directly at him, and he holds my gaze, and looks at my naked teeth. “Pyar kiya, koi chori nahi ki.” I have loved, not committed a theft.’
June 5, 2022
Now, before starting my new job, I can hunker down and spend the next few weeks doing nothing at all. Well, almost nothing. I do have a natural aptitude for problem solving and technology—if I may express it like that girlicon on Whatsapp, with her head cocked to one side and both her hands flung in the air saying, Well, that’s how it is, no?
I don’t want to be arrogant or complacent though. I had spent the last three years being a pucca global desi at Duke. I had jumped up and down and side to side in Burray! the bhangra funk college ensemble. I had purchased BLM merchandise at the Blatinx booth: Smash the gringo patriarchy. In addition to cruise-controlling my GPA starship above 3.6 for 5 out of 6 semesters, and interning with the North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality—Waste Management Division. And networking with LatAm human rights activists, South-East Asian bureaucrats, African entrepreneurs, European philosophers, at whatever lunchtime talk or happy hour that was on.
Duke was offering a software programming primer course on Coursera during my last semester. I enrolled in it, aced it, and joined the Delhi office of KPMG as technology associate. Then, I joined the Gurgaon chapter of Boardroom Sheroes for which I received a black and white Sheryl Sandberg keychain as a welcome gift, in exchange for the 10,500 rupees in annual subscription fees. Then I bought a red-hot Honda Brio, so the keychain came in handy. Perfect.
I take myself and my professional potential seriously. I don’t want to be like my mom and my cousins. And a lot of my high school friends. They’re decent people. Lovely, caring, evenly split the bill… usually. But all of them only seem to light up at the sight of round-round rotis, dalgona coffee or Masaba rip-offs in Lajpat Nagar. And they really just revolve around the men in their lives. Literally. This is my evening: mom retreating into the kitchen from my left: “Your dad did not like the stuffed capsicum recipe I saw online.” Retrieving the brinjal dish from my right: “But I made it mushy just like the bharta.” Circumambulating couch dad from the right, for god knows what reason. “Here you are ji.” Swerve back to the left: “More kachumbar salad?”
I just met my kind of people at Duke. The ones who think about productivity, leadership, prosperous futures. About the Fourth Revolution, about Work. Women who like hustling for more than just a jealous compliment about the new ikebana arrangement they’ve accomplished. And they haven’t even read the philosophy behind what, I’m sure, is a wonderful artform. They just swipe and swap blog images on their apps. That’s the problem.
June 27, 2022
I choose a sleeveless plum dress that just stops short of bandaging my body. A deep, rich lip to go with it. No, I’m not worried about being written off or slotted away. I know I can hold my own.
I’m one of the first ones in the conference room for the afternoon meeting. Raghav Jadcherla—who’s going to be my line manager—will brief us about our new project. Gokaldas Exports wants us to build an application that tracks the company’s compliance on the 100 Acts and 4000 rules regulating the garment industry in India. 95 and 3650 to be precise. Raghav and I form an instant connection. I think he knew by my half-solemn, half-smiling expression. By the way I gently nod at what he was saying from time to time, I know that I have just the kind of tempered enthusiasm that is lacking in the rest of the room. Everyone else is either too bland and disengaged, or too restless and eager to please.
Abrar definitely falls into the latter group. He is also a new associate. I don’t feel especially threatened by him. At the meeting, Raghav was looking at me, going through the different interfaces we should start researching, when Abrar leapt up like a puppy after a liver treat, and all he managed was the most inane observation, about how the Internet of Things can really help monitor SOPs and record recurring violations. I doubt he’s read more than two web articles about IoT.
I just met my kind of people at Duke. The ones who think about productivity, leadership, prosperous futures. About the Fourth Revolution, about Work. Women who like hustling for more than just a jealous compliment about the new ikebana arrangement they’ve accomplished.
I feel more reassured by Vinita. She didn’t say anything at the meeting, but she smiled at me when I looked at Abrar with a hint of exasperation—and more than a little pinch of boredom.
July 5, 2022
I want to get this project right. I feel my gut telling me to go with a low code model. And my gut is informed by all the Deloitte and KPMG reports I’ve read about the rising demand for low code models. I’m supposed to work with Abrar on this and present something to Raghav by Friday, but I’m not sure how useful Abrar will prove to be as a resource. He’s more likely to let us sweat it out until we have nothing but the final touches left, then glide in with his cheap, thin brush with the bristles all falling out, daub some hasty strokes on our labour of love and turn around in time to face the patrons. And shout Voila. Asshole.
I mean, I don’t hate the guy as much as I feel sad for him.
Like, every time Vinita and I go to the pantry to hoard up on some free gems or toffee or whatever temptation is sitting there just for us, he’ll accost us on the way to chat with her about some inane project detail. That segues into the most banal whining about all the unreasonable things we have been tasked to do and undo just to get this project through the port.
Once Raghav walked by, and Abrar suddenly started bragging about how the coding for this project was so easy; he has the processes pat down, and he’s already run through all the possible bugs. Transparent. Pathetic.
In any case, I can’t be bothered with him right now. I’m a bald eagle. Someone else with a more limited flying range can hunt down the petty worm, if they are so inclined to track it down first. And I have nice hair—so I’ll be some other eagle.
And it’s not me per se. People like Abrar will unsettle anyone. They’re like a stone hurtled into a still lake. Unnecessary. Inconsequential I know, but the ripples they cause keep spreading, and they need to be held accountable for it. I’m the kind of girl who circles around my own orbit. I want what is due to me. No more, no less. But people like him aren’t like that. They are the rung-greasers, the butt-kissers, the slithering snakes of humanity. Thinking about him is making my glands overproduce oil and cake my CC cream. I should stop.
July 8, 2022
Vinita and I are setting up the presentation for this afternoon. Abrar thinks a bright pink background with Ariel italics in black would somehow capture the geist a la mode—forgive me—much better than the classic, gorgeous black background, with red Helvetica, which we have designed. One that, by the way, also mirrors the colours of the client’s logo. Dick. It’s no surprise though. I was actually so nice to him that first day, complimenting him on his canary yellow shirt. Ok, it was more pineapple than canary, but still quite tragic.
I once asked him where home was. He said “Near Omaxe.” I said, “Chowk?” He said, “Ya, near Omaxe.” I mean, Chandni Chowk is iconic, although Mom says it’s mini-Pakistan, and I don’t think the Muslims in that area even stand out that much, unlike, say, in Nizamuddin. You mostly associate Chandni Chowk with the rickshaws and the people. So many people, driving around in rickshaws, walking. Cows. Sometimes an elephant. It’s cool. Actually, I love it. It’s weird to think of Chandni Chowk having a glitzy mall. That’s just wrong.
I’m the kind of girl who circles around my own orbit. I want what is due to me. No more, no less. But people like him aren’t like that. They are the rung-greasers, the butt-kissers, the slithering snakes of humanity
I’d asked him if he goes to a mosque. He said, “Ya, near Omaxe.”
By the way, this has nothing to do with him being Muslim. My mom would say something like that, but I have Muslim friends from high school, who are now my acquaintances. Our IT guy is a Muslim, and he’s always so nice to me. Always smiling. My dad’s business rival is a Muslim, and he’s always accusing him of passing off machine-stitched carpets from Surat as authentic Kashmiri handloom, which my dad procures from his contact in Bandipora. If that’s true, then this guy is only cheating his own community members out of a livelihood, so I don’t care anyway.
I do find it just a bit odd that Abrar lines his eyes sometimes, because why would you want to play into a stereotype? Maybe he’s gay? It must be tough. Being a gay Muslim from Chandni Chowk, so I empathize. But I’m not the one to hate. He doesn’t have to take it out on me.
August 13, 2022
The monthly Sheroes meeting is underway. Last time, we discussed the rules of prepping for an important meeting, including the importance of personal grooming. I won a free blemish control stick from Body Shop. This time, we are discussing handling competition from male peers. Apparently, the mushrooming of Abrars all over the Gurgaon junglescape is a longstanding malaise.
I feel less alone, but still a little annoyed. Pallavi got outbawled by some insecure, mediocre pig with a know-it-all syndrome. Me too. Preet’s co-worker fielded all the client questions in front of their boss, even though he kept asking for her opinion, and she was the one who had constantly been coordinating with him before the meeting. Me too.
It was all so relatable, and yet, I didn’t know why I felt a little hollow at the end. Like I had travelled through a one-way street, honking along with all my fellow commuters, but then we reached a dead end from where I had to step out of my carpod and quietly walk back to my other life. I need solutions. We’re going to discuss that in the next meeting.
August 16, 2022
A new day. A new week. A new me. I’m wearing a classy black shift dress with oversized sleeves; mid-thigh cut-off. I will find the solutions.
I’m just setting up and decluttering my space. The air conditioning feels way too cold though. These people really have no concern for sustainability. Whatsoever. Abrar is wearing a cham-cham pink polyester shirt. So bad. Even if he had the physique for it. Or the complexion. It makes him look even more like a baby whose mommy is still in charge of his wardrobe. He’s pretending to be absorbed by the contents of his computer. I check my phone and I see that he has forwarded a video featuring a Sikh boy dancing with many excited dogs who are on the other side of the fence. The boy stops dancing, and then the dogs stop too. Then he starts again, and then the dogs. I text back asking him if he was the boy or the dog, wink wink. He presumably didn’t know what to make of that, so he just haha-d and said he was the guy who shot the video. I miss being at Duke.
I text back asking him if he was the boy or the dog, wink wink. He presumably didn’t know what to make of that, so he just haha-d and said he was the guy who shot the video. I miss being at Duke.
I don’t know how I got through the rest of the day, but just when I thought I should stay back for a bit longer and try to refocus, Raghav sends a mail to the Gokaldas team, confirming that Abrar will be visiting the Bangalore factory accompanied by me. What does that mean now? That was more than a little uncharitable. I mean it didn’t necessarily have to mean that I was Robin to Abrar’s Batman. It could mean that I was filling in for Raghav in a supervisory position, accompanying Abrar, but if that was the case, Raghav should have acknowledged me first.
Abrar is going to be just thrilled at his little, cheap victory. It’s too much after that dog video. I blame myself. I should have been more aggressive about my ideas for the trip. But why is Raghav so gullible? I think he really is falling for Abrar’s gimmicks. I mean how sticky is his dartboard for Abrar’s buttery, blunt arrows to be hitting bull’s eye. I thought he would appreciate someone like me.
This is bad management. A bad manager affects the morale and performance of even stellar performers by rewarding mediocrity in the team and throwing the whole ship off balance. I like him as a person, but he should read a few good issues of HBR. Peter Drucker. Paul Lawrence. Even Forbes India will do.
I don’t know, is Abrar ‘better at people’ than me? I don’t think my exasperation with him shows through that much, but sometimes I see Raghav throwing me a side glance when Abrar is talking. If I have let my impatience show through on occasion, it has been moderate, and completely justified. He says a lot without saying anything.
Fuck this. I’m going home. I need to think of other things.
My mom had to borrow my Brio for my cousin’s engagement shopping, so I’m taking the metro. I used to love taking the metro when I was in school with all my friends. It’s still better than the hell-rides sanctioned every second by the Mumbai Suburban Railway, but I just haven’t done it in a while.
I walk it to IndusInd station and up to the platform. I see the Sikanderpur train leaving, so I just hop on to the second-last compartment. Safety-wise segregation be damned. It’s not too crowded, but of course, there is no place left to sit.
I’m bored and try to catch a radio signal on my phone. I don’t know why I haven’t listened to the radio lately. I don’t even notice if it’s on when I’m driving, because I’m just thinking about avoiding an accident—or worse, a conversation with some fool on the road. So now, in the metro, the radio is a luxury I must exploit. This is trash. Trash. Trash. Wait. “Ae dil hai mushkil jeena yahaan, zara hatke, zara bachke, yeh hai Mumbai meri jaan”. Oh my heart, it’s difficult living here; step back a little, watch out a little, this is Mumbai, my love. Ka ching. I love the mouth organ in the background score. Or is it the harmonium? Majrooh Sultanpuri wrote this song! Those were the days. When the great poets adopted their birth town as their alias surname. Sahir Ludhianvi. There are others whose names I can’t recall. Hasrat Jaipuri! A few more, I think.
I must visit Nani like I used to during the summer holidays. Sweet Nani. I’m sure she still has those cassettes of Dev Anand and O.P. Nayyar classics. I loved those. I used to keep a diary with all the details—not just the playback singers, but also the music composers and lyricists. It made the Barabanki summers feel kind of European. Just sunbathing to the sound of click-clacking horseshoes and gentle melodic strains. Once I was back in Delhi though, that diary would get stashed away in the bottom row of my study cabinet, and there it would rest until it was May again.
Why are all these poets Muslim? Maybe they just took on these Urdu names. A la mode. It’s odd to think of Bollywood being run by Muslims in those days. Mother India, Mughal-E-Azam. Dilip Kumar is Muslim too. Madhubala must have been the minority on that set. She’s gorgeous. I once heard a Pakistani man on some TV special about her proclaim that he had never seen someone more beautiful. Where is she from originally? Oh, she was born in Delhi. Wait, her birth name is Mumtaz, too! No way.
A loud cough startles me. I look down at the man sitting across from me and he gives me this weird stare that’s so difficult to categorise. It’s a little creepy, a little flirty, like he’s a Jim Carrey impersonator having a wet dream. I just shoot him some general disdain and scroll through my phone. He tries to cough again, but I know he’s faking it for attention. This is the problem with public transport.
I look down at the man sitting across from me and he gives me this weird stare that’s so difficult to categorise. It’s a little creepy, a little flirty, like he’s a Jim Carrey impersonator having a wet dream.
August 26, 2022
I was a little passive at the meeting this morning. I’m thinking of quitting this place. I need to start thinking of how I can serve Sheroes better in a position of leadership. And it’s too early to launch into independent consultancy, but I think I could write finance and technology features for different media. There’s YouTube of course, but maybe after I fix my acne. I think I can write about leadership. Women in leadership, that kind of thing. The Sheroes will be a great network for that. Abrar can stay here being mediocre and sucking lemons and balls. Raghav will finally see through him and wish I were around.
My car is being serviced so I have to take the metro again. It wasn’t that bad the last time, really. I caught some nice songs on the radio. Once again, I tune back into Radio Nasha. I’m about to wear my pods when a cough startles me. I look down and I see that same guy I’d seen the other day. The Desi Jim Carrey.
I shift my weight back to lean on the pole and I throw him my most effective glare. Freezing and sharp, using his staring face as my whetstone. He quickly looks back at his book. He is probably just a regular misogynist, casually annoying women in any number of ways every day because that’s his alternative to pursuing a meaningful career.
September 4, 2022
I’m finally in Bangalore for my factory visit. There are pros and cons to being here. I will meet a couple of old friends from Duke tonight. Abrar is around for the meetings, but I don’t plan to invite him anywhere else with me, of course. Or even talk to him when we’re back at the hotel.
We’re meeting Naveen at the Bangalore office. He gives me the same sympatico vibes that I got from Raghav—but we know how that turned out. Abrar starts pitching the project idea. Naveen asks about the need for low code. Abrar says it’s because it’s the buzzword; everybody is doing it. I say it can help Gokaldas collect better data, not just for compliance. but to improve quality, performance, and all other aspects of their business, through just a one-time investment. Naveen shifts a little towards me and says that it makes sense.
Of course, it does. Beautiful, smooth sea from now on. I feel redeemed.
September 7, 2022
When we return to Delhi, I hardly mind it when Abrar gives Raghav the full downlow of our visit. I just settle back and shine a beatific smile on him. The meeting wraps up in so many minutes. My work here is done.
My car is back, but I still decide to take the metro. It’s nice to listen to music without having to navigate your way around moronic road rage. And I’m feeling good. I’m about to enter the station when a small cough startles me again.
It’s that man! He’s reading a book. With Ghalib on the cover and an Urdu title that I can’t read. Standing upright right there at the entrance and holding a small, crooked smile on his face. He looks up and catches my eye before I can look away. I quickly turn and go into the station. I don’t know why but I’m still thinking about him. I don’t know if I feel a little differently about the whole thing, about him. What did our earlier encounter mean? And I think, so simply, and yet, after a glacial passage of time, he likes me. It makes me smile a little! This is silly. Who is this man anyway and why am I even thinking about him? But I am. And I’m smiling.
I need to listen to the radio. “Ye aankhen dekh kar hum saari duniya bhool jaate hain.” When I see these eyes, I forget the whole world. A tiny trickle of laughter slips through the walls of my willpower. I love this song. Let’s just relish it and go back home.
September 13, 2022
It’s an incredibly banal day at the office. So banal, in fact, that I can barely recall what happened just an hour ago. I updated some databases for my daily achievement quota. Now I’m heading to the metro. Why not? The building may be basic, but the sunlight that gently washes it every evening is still gorgeous. I like looking at the sunset. It’s nice just waiting outside, near the entrance, absorbing the scene, people coming in, people leaving. So, that’s what I do. I must have spent ten minutes there, just looking at all the people.
Then I finally step into the station.
The first train that comes in is too crowded. I wait for a few more minutes and get into the next one. This cabin is packed too. I make my way down some cabins. The crowd seems different today. Anyway, I listen to my radio, but nothing great is on. I change stations and only get ads. I get off at Sikanderpur. I’m walking towards the turnstile (or whatever they call the electronic version of that). And he’s there, on the other side, looking at me. We look at each other and then he walks off, and I almost walk into the woman ahead of me. But she returns my smile, and I look down and stop smiling.
I’m walking a few steps behind him now. He carries an embroidered jhola today. Interesting black hexagonal repeat pattern on a nice, dirty cream. I should buy a new bag, too. This one is an old Hidesign. Can’t go wrong with it, but I think I want one of those ikat bags that I see in all these small-sy boutiques around town. On vegan leather. Some of them can be almost as classy as an Anthropologie make.
He looks to his 3 o’clock, almost to 4:45. Then looks ahead again. His pants are too loose on him, but the cream complements his bag and his brown shirt. He’s medium build, shorter than me. Medium brown skin, complements mine. I have to pace myself to maintain the same distance.
He stops to look inside his bag. I try to slow down and get too close behind. He coughs gently and continues walking. The station is feeling warmer now. I start sweating and dab my nose with my hand. He’s looking in my direction; well, in the direction of the train. I look that way too. We get into different cabins. I can’t see him anymore.
September 15, 2022
Even a genuine smile on my face doesn’t make me look good. Now, I can only imagine how ridiculous it must look, this attempt to stuff my smile back into expressionless nonchalance.
I want to see him again, just to confirm my suspicions, although I feel confident about my judgement. I wait till the desks begin to clear out and then head to the metro. He’s there at the entrance.
I must be looking foolish. Even a genuine smile on my face doesn’t make me look good. Now, I can only imagine how ridiculous it must look, this attempt to stuff my smile back into expressionless nonchalance. I shoot him a glance for less than a second, during which time I can’t even be sure what I saw. This is stupid.
Is he walking behind me? At the platform, I turn and see him to my left. He’s clutching that Ghalib book in one hand. I think I’ve seen some Ghalib poetry in my grandfather’s cabinets in Barabanki, some even in Urdu, but I only associate the iconic poet with this song from Chitrangda Singh’s movie. “Hazaaron khwaishen aisi ki har khwaish pe dum nikle. Bahut nikle mere armaan lekin phir bhi kum nikle.” A thousand desires like this, and every desire leaves me breathless. Many are fulfilled but still, not enough.
I look at him again, but he’s not looking at me. We enter our train, separated by a cabin and a hundred people heading home to get the grime out of their face and feet. I put my pods into my ears, and Talat Mahmood is moaning melodiously about unrequited love on Vividh Bharati. Not quite what I was hoping for. But I’m not really listening. I can see him looking at me through hundreds of chinks in the arms of our fellow, unwelcome passengers. At least one-third of his face is covered. I smile, even as Talat deplores the injustice of a society that judges a rebuffed lover harshly.
I can tell by his eyes that he’s smiling back.
September 19, 2022
Vinita walks up to my desk and looks down at me in amused surprise as I accidentally bestow her with the unadulterated grin of a Cheshire Cat in Wonderland. I will tell her later. She wants to know if all the compliance protocols have been verified at the backend. I tell her I will check with the team.
When I have a moment alone, I search for Deewan-e-Ghalib on the net. Jackpot. But I don’t have the requisite vocabulary for Urdu. How is he reading this book which I can’t entirely follow even with the copious footnotes? This feels less like breezy sunbaking on Nani’s terrace, and more like my ninth standard history exam. Too many dates, and zero romance.
I search for the ghazal equivalent of a shiny, illustrated children’s history of India instead. “Ishq par zor nahin, hai ye vo aatish ‘Ghalib’/ Ki lagaaye na lage aur bujhaaye na bane.” There is no controlling love; it’s that fire ‘Ghalib’ that doesn’t start when you start it, and isn’t put out when you try to put it out. Why does this evoke a memory of Priyanka Chopra crowned with feathers? It’s not terribly stupid, it’s actually quite peppy and quirky. I listen to it. May love be upon you. And then I listen to “Chaiyya Chaiyya”. “Jiske sar ho ishq ki chaaon, paaon ke neeche jannat hogi.” Those who have the shade of love above their heads must have heaven under their feet. I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated that line in the way it deserves, but Gulzar belting this out for Mani Ratnam is so apt. A pure gem. Then I listen to “Zaalima”, and I don’t even feel guilty about wanting to hum it out loud over the fanatic air conditioning, even as I silently soak in it. “Saanson me teri nazdeekiyon ka itr tu ghol de.” Dissolve the attar of your intimacies in my breath. Amitabh Bhattacharya must have heaven under his feet. Is it just a little ironic that both these lyricists are Hindu? Maybe not.
I see Raghav approaching my desk. I have to snap out of my lusty torpor and compose myself back into awful seriousness in under a second. He wants me to check if we have missed out on any compliance regulation at the backend. I say I will.
Then I find more babysized tidbits of Ghalib to nibble on. “Hum ne mohabbat ke nashe me aakar use khuda bana daala/Hosh tab aaya jab usne kaha ke khuda kisi ek ka nahi hota” Under the intoxication of love, I made them God. (I) came back to (my) senses when they said that God doesn’t belong to just one person. I wonder if Ghalib is questioning our idea of fidelity and love here, or merely expressing his sorrow at finding out his love also loves someone else.
Super-chic Zeenat gently swaying over a guitar in plain, off-white overalls and sparkling Madhubala twirling in all the bling she could mooch off Akbar’s treasury. Me and him swimming past the crowd of faces that inundates us to latch on to each other for one more second, for one more day, in this clueless, tailspinning existence.
September 24, 2022
His face is not one that scientists—who measure beauty through the limited artifice of proportions and parabolas—might declare attractive. But it’s a beautiful face. Lopsided and a little creepy. Not like the perfect symmetry of Guhan down in accounting. Vinita introduced Guhan and I around the time I was fuming about the Bangalore trip. Guhan is sweet and efficient at work. He likes spring rolls the way Vietnam intended: with fresh spring herbs and vegetable juliennes rolled in translucent rice paper, and not the oilboarded travesty they slap you with in India. And he’s by far the most tolerable of the odd bunch of people Vinita hangs out with. I mean, they just sit at the food court and quiz each other about which Social they like best. Hauz please.
We actually went on a dinner date yesterday. The sex was tolerable. I pleasured myself more after I came back home and hosted a one-person throwback to pillow kissing, imagining the warmth of his body spreading over me under my florid blanket, nuzzling into his hairy cleavage, and giving up the burden of being awake to the world.
September 26, 2022
I’m at the metro but he is late, and I’m getting impatient. And then I see him walk up the stairs and glance away. He coughs a little. I smile at the drab letters announcing the existence of IndusInd Bank. My pods go in and I tap my radio open. “Chura liya hai tumne jo dil ko nazar nahi churana sanam.” Now that you have stolen my heart, don’t steal away your glance, sweetheart. I don’t know what in the world I was thinking, but I look directly at him, and he holds my gaze, and looks at my naked teeth. Pyar kiya, koi chori nahi ki. I have loved, not committed a theft. Super-chic Zeenat gently swaying over a guitar in plain, off-white overalls and sparkling Madhubala twirling in all the bling she could mooch off Akbar’s treasury. Me and him swimming past the crowd of faces that inundates us to latch on to each other for one more second, for one more day, in this clueless, tailspinning existence. I get out at Saket and I’m ready for bed.
November 19, 2022
Busy, busy Saturday. I attended the all-important salary negotiation session at Boardroom Sheroes in the morning, which turned out to be quite the boar. Haha. Then I picked up my Sabyasachi rip-off lehenga from the dry cleaners for Abrar’s sister’s wedding. Yes, we’re sort of friends now. I mean, why not? He’s decent enough if you look past his colour schemes. Scientists say we all have different neural transmission systems that have a bearing on our aesthetic choices. So not everybody has the same… taste. And I got what I wanted from our assignment; no point dredging a calm lake now. “Aur bhi dukh hai zamaane mein mulaazmat ke siva.” There are other sorrows in the world than a job. So thrilled that I found something to rhyme with mohabbat.
I wish he could see me like this. The yellow is nothing like the perfect slice of sun in the photoshoot but the amber warmth is still pleasing. “Jab tak na pade aashiq ki nazar, singaar adhoora rehta hain.” Until the eyes of your lover behold (you), (your) ornamentation is incomplete.
Nani is staying with us for Lavanya’s engagement, so I get to spend some time with her now before the cousins latch onto her like jungle predators tomorrow. I want to know about her cassette collection. I ask her to pick her favourite song. “Aayiye Meherbaan” and “Chalte Chalte” from Pakeezah, she says. I totally relate to the first pick, I tell her. Madhubala is magical, but I never got the hype around Meena Kumari. Meena Kumari is incomparable, she says. Is it because of the whole Lucknow thing, I ask? No, she did many films set all over, she says. It’s her adakari, her artistry. I sync up the TV and look for the song on my phone.
The haath phool is dazzling, but it’s the way she gestures with that hand to signify the night standing still after her chance encounter with him, and then gently curling it away, that embodies the adakari Nani is talking about. I can see it more now. “Yun hi koi mil gaya tha...mere saath chalte chalte.” And just like that I found someone, with me as I was walking. Lata channelling this through Meena Kumari’s soft, suffering, hopeful eyes, has made everything else stand still in its orbit of insignificance. Even Mom. Nani sighs, smiles at me and says, Mahjabeen. Who? That’s Meena Kumari’s birth name.
Why do we fall in love with the people we do? Is there actually something special about them, over and beyond what is found in the other losers that surround us, or do we choose to see them that way, prizing chance encounters over logic, because it would be too tiresome not to see it in anyone? How does that special quality graduate from fickleness into something that overcomes the vagaries of time, lasting beyond death, for a lifetime, for twenty, or even ten, seven years. Is it because we actively persist in our delusion, chiselling away at anything that may dispel it, or is it because that same special quality weighs down our fluttering frissons of feeling into a more indelible imprint in our hearts?
Why do we fall in love with the people we do? Is there actually something special about them, over and beyond what is found in the other losers that surround us, or do we choose to see them that way, prizing chance encounters over logic, because it would be too tiresome not to see it in anyone?
I have to get ready.
November 20, 2022
The wedding is overrun by the smell of rose. Abrar is bustling back and forth, and his relatives are looking at me with suspicion. I want to rip off my bra but make my way to the paan counter instead. Where is Vinita?
I can’t believe it. He is there. At the paan stall. We don’t know what to do. We say hi and look at the lawn. My hair must have become incredibly frizzy. I’m pouting. Am I chewing something? What do you do, he asks.
Things get a little better from there, and we run through a standard session of introductory interrogation. Where does he work? Is he from out of town? I’m more comfortable now. He taps his fingers gently against the tumbler in his hand. He won’t tell me what he does exactly. What’s with this secret spy energy? I tell him I’m impressed that he makes time for Ghalib despite working at RAW. He smiles and says it’s part of the job in a way, to speak the language of the ‘criminal’. The motto of the agency is Dharmo rakshati rakshitaha. The law protects when it is protected. I nod and smile vaguely. I didn’t quite catch that. I’m sweating a little more.
But he enjoys Ghalib. I nod more forcefully. I need some tissue paper.
We’re talking about Santosh Sivan’s cinematography now. Or he is, and I tell him I think “Raat ka Nasha” is an underrated song. He smiles without guile. I don’t know why I said that. Vinita joins us and we talk some more. We make innocent fun of Abrar. He says he’ll see me around, and leaves.
I’m driving back home, and I’m glad the roads are empty, because I just feel numb. I don’t know what to think. My hands become clammy and sweaty, and I turn down the temperature in the car.
I think back to how his fingers kept gently drumming on the copper tumbler... or brass. I love that. My heart is beating but my mind is troubled for some reason. I don’t know who he is. Or do I? Who did I fall in love with? Am I overstating how I feel about him? How I felt. I mean, so what, he’s doing his job? And some criminals speak Urdu this language of love.
“Woh yaar mera khushboo ki tarah/Jiski zubaan Urdu ki tarah.” My love is like a fragrance, whose tongue is like Urdu.
I smile through my exhaustion. I think we’re going to be okay. He and I. And I hate driving anyway.
***
Asha Jyothi has studied literary and cultural studies at EFL University, Hyderabad and public administration in Columbia University, New York. Her work has been published by Kitaab and Ayaskala. You can find her on Instagram: @lightnessofhope and Twitter: @lightnessofhope.
