Close Too Close (13 page)

My body aches from being stretched out as I am. My hands clench the iron bars above me as my feet desperately strain to retain their grip on the floor. I do not really need to hold on to the bars bolted to the roof; the loops around my wrists will support me well enough even if I were to completely let go. But it would be an admission of defeat to slump in my position. Despite the sweat making my hands slippery, I hold on.

The man in front of me shifts a step backwards, fitting his body to mine. He stands with his back exposed to my scrutiny. He is not an attractive man from this angle, our proximity a matter of his choice rather than mine. The cheap nylon shirt he wears stretches across his shoulders and accentuates their roundness. What I can see of his cheeks makes me realise they are round too. I can see every hair follicle, the creases in his neck. His ears are smooth and surprisingly shiny. He has oiled his hair, and I fancy I can trace the path where some of the oil has gone below the nape of his neck. This intimate gazing upon him overwhelms me and I shut my eyes.

I cannot shut him out though; he has positioned himself too well. Suspended as I am, moving backwards is not an option. Even if it were, I have nowhere to go. The woman behind me now has rested her head on my shoulder. I am not happy with this intimacy and turn my face away from her. I attempt to show my displeasure by shrugging a shoulder, but I cannot shake her off without breaking the rules. For the same reason, I cannot simply knee the man in front of me. I do not make eye contact with either of them, refusing to acknowledge their existence. These rules make me laugh even as I follow them. It seems to me as though the only contact that is not allowed is that of eye to eye. Nothing else is a violation. Breasts are groped and buttocks pressed against genitals; anything is permissible as long as it is done without a nod to the other’s humanity.

The three of us stand there, pressed against each other. My eyes still closed, I force myself to relax. There is no shame here, I tell myself. This place is outside judgement. It does not matter who I am, who I consider myself to be, who others see me as. All that matters is being here, all that matters is accepting the moment.

I slowly go through the various sensations surrounding me. I inhale deeply. The salty and slightly sour smell of the man in front of me is all I notice first. Almost immediately after, I notice that this dominant note is overlain with the sweetness of the oil he has used on his hair and the metallic smell of the iron bars around me. I cannot smell the woman behind me. This bothers me. She is a part of my world too. I am driven by an urgent need to feel her olfactory presence.

She is leaning against my shoulder, and I turn my head to catch a whiff of her breath. It is warm and strangely sweet. It takes a moment before the cause of the sweetness registers. The woman has been eating mangoes. I am reassured by this. I like mangoes for breakfast too. This is a woman who eats and lives, not just a looming shadow.

I continue with my inventory of sensations and come to touch. Here, it is the woman who dominates my universe. Her breasts are pressed against my back. With every breath, I feel her nipples stroke my skin. She is grabbing the bars to either side of me, enclosing me in the warm cage of her embrace. More than her breasts, it is the caress of her arms that feels intimate. This closing in should make me feel claustrophobic, but it does not. Instead, I feel safe, wrapped in security. As long as her arms are around me, no one else can approach. I feel her breath against my neck. It is warm and moist, but leaves a cool sensation. I enjoy the gift of her caressing breath. Then it occurs to me to give the same pleasure I am receiving. I acknowledge to myself that even in this unexpected and anonymous grouping, even in this short span of time, I have developed my favourites. I am more interested in the man in front of me than I am in the hugging woman behind. I want to tease him, to impress my presence on him. It is he who shall receive the gift of my attentions. I have an image of walking home with a man. I want it to be real. I know this is not where that dream will come true, but I cannot resist being attracted to this man.

I incline my head towards him ever so slightly. I know that my breath is leaving a cooling trail on his neck. I begin to control my breathing and let each slow exhalation rake its way across his skin. His stance becomes rigid, and I sense that he is afraid to move lest he miss a single caress. This knowledge makes me bolder. I purse my lips and trace the outline of his ear with my breath. I am rewarded with a shuddering sigh and he backs into me.

It is all I can do to not rest my chin on his shoulder. Is this what it feels like to spoon with someone, I wonder. Like he did only a few minutes earlier, I stand still. Like a woman enchanted by the trusting approach of a bird, I am scared to breathe lest the moment end. For a long while, we stand quietly. The ache in my arms is forgotten. All I can feel is the wonderful warmth of another body resting against mine. I open my eyes and study him as he stands there. He is not unattractive, I realise. He is real. Uncomfortable with the situation, I had only seen the negative in him. Now I see a hardworking and simple man who tries to make the best of what he has. I rein my thoughts in and laugh at myself. I won’t see this man again. We are thrown together by chance. He is not a soul-mate. I scold myself out of my fantasies and bring my thoughts back to the present.

He is pressing against me now, his buttocks hard against that most private part of me. I wonder if he is thinking of what lies underneath the softly-draped sari. I wonder if he is aroused at the thought of entering me, of being enclosed in a protective embrace. I am suddenly uncomfortable as I realise the gap between his fantasy and my reality. I lean into him, shifting my pelvis away. My breasts press against him, and I let them grind against his back. This will take his mind off his earlier quest, I reason. My secret will be uncovered when and how I choose. I will decide the time, the place, and the person to whom I reveal myself.

For a few minutes, my plan of offering my breasts to the man works, and he ceases to grind against me. But soon, his old search begins. Despite my dodging, his buttocks graze against me once, once more, and yet again. On the pretext of shifting his footing, he moves into me. The woman behind, whose touch and breath I so enjoyed, has left me no place to move. He presses against me once again and all at once I have no more secrets. His gasp and the sudden stiffening of his back dispel all my illusions. He hesitates and then presses against me again. His body slowly and discreetly grinds against mine. But I have now lost the pleasure I took in our game. This uncovering of my secret feels like a public disrobing. I feel exposed, dirty, ashamed. I want it all to end.

I seek a way to leave and just above me I see my lifeline. Loosening my hold on the overhead bar, I grab the rope and give it a quick yank. I hear that sharp
ting
with relief.

The driver hears it too and the bus rolls to a stop. I mutter a quiet – and hypocritical – ‘Excuse me, bhaisaab,’ and make my way through the crowded aisle to the exit, my head inclined downwards. Not once do my eyes meet those of the other passengers. Good girls like those I resemble do not make eye contact with men. There is one man on that bus however, who knows that I am not what I seem. I do not look at him either. I do not want to look into the eyes of the stranger with whom I have played an illicit game and see his shock. Still, shock would not be the worst. The worst would be to see disgust in his eyes. I will not look up, I decide. I know where I am, I don’t need landmarks to guide me. I will keep my eyes on the road and walk demurely to the office. Let those who notice think my face is flushed because of the exertion.

I step off the bus determined to walk off, but then hesitate. I look up at the bus. There is one passenger standing where I was, staring at me. One passenger with slightly oily hair and clad in a synthetic shirt. I see no revulsion in those eyes, only a shared knowledge and a shared desire. The bus begins to pull away and I realise I was wrong. The worst thing I could see in his eyes is not disgust. It is pain and bewilderment. He continues to look at me even as I stare hungrily back. Then the bus is gone and I am devastated.

I straighten my shoulders, and gather my pallu about me. I am not defeated. There is next time. He will be back. He will be in the same bus again, hoping to find me. I saw it in his eyes. And I will be there. I step around a puddle, careful not to muddy my sari. I will be wearing it again tomorrow.