Close Too Close (17 page)

This one’s a no-brainer. But oh, how soon I wish the rules could be abandoned! Both my arms are loosely gripped above the elbow as strands of hair rain on my cheeks, ears and throat, and the world becomes a teasing softness of full lips – and not-so-soft nips. The vodka’s kicking in, or the kiss is pumping up the high, or is it her shampoo that’s suddenly overwhelming my senses? I long to run my fingers through that green apple cloud but the restraints hold; she takes command of my lower lip and I surrender absolutely to the expert ministrations of lips and teeth and tongue.

‘Forty-five seconds!’ calls Vini. ‘Time’s up.’ A last bite, quick and hard, before my tormentor straightens up, her hair leaving, I’m fairly certain, burn marks on my skin. I have to catch the moan that rises to my throat and change it to a cough, which probably fools nobody.

‘Here, Jo, have some water.’ I take a small sip then a bigger gulp from the glass held to my mouth. Then someone says, ‘Hey! This is like a wine tasting or like those fancy seven-course meals. We should have a taste-changer in between!’

‘Please! It’s called a palate cleanser.’

‘Oh yes, good idea! She has to have one, otherwise the kisses will all get mixed up.’ After some debate, a piece of plain roasted papad is popped into my mouth and, after a quick google consultation, a consensus sip of soda with a dash of nimbu (‘sparkling water with a twist of citrus’) to remove all aftertastes and prepare me for the next round.

‘We should do this in style next time – have those sorbets and all.’

‘I know, like in
Julia
– uff that dining table scene when Lillian Hellman visits Julia’s family, it’s just unforgettable.’

‘Quite a queer film, na? Although what do you make of that scene in a restaurant or something where this guy calls them lesbians and they slap him?’

‘Arre! Could we not discuss a film that like 2.5 people have seen, and get back to Jo and the score card?’

But before I get a chance to declare, confidently, ‘Tanu, seven’ amid gasps and wows, there’s an intense discussion about how the film was made in ’70s Hollywood for fuck’s sake, let’s go by the subtext, yaar . . . and if being in the closet means having Dashiell Hammett as your boyfriend, maybe that’s not such a bad trade-off . . . and anyway being called lesbians or lesbos or lovers by homophobic morons is reason enough to punch them in the nose (or wherever), no matter if you’re queer or straight, and how under such circumstances you are under no compulsion to affirm or deny anything. Just as when some probable-wife-beater-and-loud-talker-on-cell-phone-during-the-film screams ‘Go back to Pakistan!’ at you because you refused to stand when the national anthem was forced down your throat in a movie theatre, the last thing the creep needs to know is whether or not you are Muslim. Although actually,
actually
, he does need to know; he needs to know more than he was ever taught in school or at his grandmother’s knee, but do
you
want to be the one to engage with said creep? And then it’s back to
Julia
and someone promises to get hold of a DVD so we can watch it together at the first opportunity. I listen, and concur, though two-thirds of me is still caught up in Tanusri’s tresses. It’s only when I suggest that they should untie and un-blindfold me now, and re-blindfold me when we’re ready, that we resume. The high has almost worn off, but I promise myself a Bloody Mary later; meanwhile, the taste is sufficiently changed or the palate adequately cleansed and – unexpected bonus – the intellect suitably stimulated.

‘Yay, Number Three, go for it!’

‘Pucker up, Jyotsna!’

Vini’s laptop is, absurdly, playing
switti switti switti tera pyar chaida
– on an evening that has already paid tribute to Joan Baez, Mehdi Hasan and Amy Winehouse. Nothing else happens for what seems like a long time – Number Three appears to be diffident. Then warm palms cup my face and a nose rubs mine. This, I think, has got to be one of the self-avowed monogamous ones, who are not serious participants, but please, what’s in a less eskimoesque kiss between friends?

Ohhh I was so wrong, or the monogamous one has read my mind – or my lips, or my libido, or something: anyway the nose knows what it’s doing, as it travels like a feather all over my face in little waves and circles, over my eyelids through the blindfold, inside my ear and around its edges and down the line of my jawbone, first on one side then the other, then via the dimple on my chin to the hollow of my throat . . . yes like a feather, but also like the nose it is, tip a little roughened by peeling dry skin, sometimes lightly tracing sometimes pressing down firmly and I am loving the rough with the smooth . . . I want it to go places and do things, and everywhere it leaves a tickle of quick warm breath that’s making my own breath come quicker, till it ends with a flourish, skimming my lips from right to left then back again then pausing dead centre like a performer taking a bow and awaiting the audience’s verdict.

I give the nose a quick lick of appreciation, then open my mouth wide and snap in a mock attempt to bite it off. There’s frantic applause. ‘Wow, er – Number Three! Where did you learn
that
?’ asks someone, and I imagine the nose-wali – or wala – grinning from ear to ear. I still have to guess and I still have to mark, but my brain doesn’t want to work so hard any more. It just wants – as does the rest of me – more of the same treatment, any of the treatments so far, as long as I can take some matters into my own hands. But the time for that is not yet, and I wrench myself back from the sweet seep of wetness at my core to wonder if that was Neerja or Vini.

N and V are, as indicated earlier, a couple, currently practising monogamy-of-sorts. Nobody’s quite sure
what
sort, just as nobody’s sure which live-in or currently dating couples in our wider concentric circles are
not
monogamous. There’s theory and there’s practice, there are fierce discussions and there’s many a slip (or non-slip, depending on how you look at it), but very few care to wear their monogamy, if any, on their sleeve, except for those in the outermost ripples who do so as a matter of course. I think of N and C as rather brave, for this reason. It’s why tonight they’re playing for fun and not for stakes. Mandira’s not competing either, because of a frozen shoulder. I arrive at a decision.

‘Vini. And, let’s see – 7.25.’

‘How wonderfully precise!’

‘And how honest – considering that if your guess is right, Jo, you could have said “ten” and it would make no difference.’

‘Well, if that
was
Vini then can you imagine the swollen head!’

‘Or nose in the air . . .’

‘Since you guys insist on talking about me like I’m not here, I may as well go get myself a plate of food.’

‘Vini come back! All is forgiven!’

‘Vini, come back with more ice! This has all melted.’

‘Get your own ice, Hothead!’

I imagine Vini in her purple shirt and round glasses and wonder how she’s doing, really. She’s just come out to her parents, who are divorced, and her father’s not talking to her, while the mother blames the father when she isn’t blaming herself or weeping on the phone and demanding Vini come home to Vizag so she can talk to her ‘properly’. They don’t even know about the ‘steady partner’ bit yet; while Neerja does have, of all things, a supportive and evidently heterosexual twin brother who gets a lot of teasing sympathy from her friends for having missed out on the gay gene. And suddenly it hits me – oops! that nosing was such a dog-inspired thing, it must have been Neerja and not Vini. Neerja’s actually a vet, and a sort of honourary dog herself. ‘Can I change my guess?’ I ask, but of course that’s against the Rules.

We still have to work out the nitty-gritties, but if I have more right guesses than wrong, all the better for me, obviously. And now I need time out to pee. This involves being untied and escorted to the loo by Ruchi, unblinfolded just outside so that I don’t see anyone or anything that might clue me in, and then getting the full regalia back on before we continue. A tad regretfully, I use the water spray thingy to rinse off the stickiness below as well, pat myself dry, then spend a long time looking at myself in the mirror and pulling faces and wondering should I use the mouthwash or will that muddy the waters. I settle for a splash of water on my flushed face and some wistful work with an earbud, before emerging in a quite virginal state, my senses and other things all nice and cool again.

Ruchi looks somewhat troubled, and I notice the door of the bedroom we’re in is now shut. She tells me in low tones that we have an unexpected guest. Queer, and a good friend of Abhay’s. He’d invited her because he’s been wanting her to meet us, and then she said she couldn’t make it, so when we began he didn’t say anything, but apparently she got unexpectedly free and just landed up. Anyway the thing now is, would I like us to carry on? Or should we postpone the rest of it till next time? Knowing there’s a stranger in our midst, my comfort level drops. I say that if she seems okay and if Abhay trusts her, she can be an observer; she needn’t know anything more than that it’s a party guessing game.

But no sooner does the new arrival see me than she exclaims, ‘Jyotsna! Am I dreaming?’ The deep voice is deeply familiar yet I cannot place it, and then my shoulders are gripped hard by the owner of the voice as Abhay says, astounded, ‘You guys
know
each other?’ Before I can frame an answer, I find myself being bear-hugged, and kissed on both cheeks.

‘Looks like Romila is playing too,’ Tanu observes dryly.

‘Romila!’ I squeal. ‘Omigod where have
you
sprung from? I
knew
I knew that voice! People come on, untie me, I have to see her!’ I’m granted this concession and there she is, Romi, my old college crush: the slim volleyball champ, now more comfortable around the midriff than before; her mass of below-the-shoulder curls replaced by a short stylish mop. We smile at each other amazed and I hold out my arms, closing with my return hug the fourteen-year gap. Finally I put into words my sense of grievance – ‘But you were straight as an arrow! What happened?’

‘A bad divorce happened, my dear, and then the best sex of my life – with a woman – and then Abhay.’ When Tanu goes aaaah, Romi is quick to clarify, ‘Oh, he’s not – we’re not lovers. I’m hardly his type.’ Abhay protests, and she gives him a playful sock on the jaw. ‘Abhay and I are best buddies. He’s my guide to all things queer. We’re colleagues, you know.’ I stare at Abhay, still wide-eyed and wonderstruck, and he’s grinning and grinning like he’s just given both of us the most beautiful present, which of course he has.