Monsoon Memories (15 page)

Pramila with whom Shirin fantasised—sitting on the uneven compound wall of their empty school in the evenings after they had both finished their homework—of being beautiful. In their dreams, they were princesses: fair-complexioned, slim, gorgeous. They would each find a prince, who would rescue them from drudgery and shower them with kisses, who would carry them away into the sunset.

Pramila, in whom Shirin confided her crush on coconut-picking Chandru, he of the gleaming chocolate limbs and rippling muscles, he of the cheeky grin reserved especially for her: ‘I will marry him, run away from home and live happily ever after.’ Pramila, her plain face worried: ‘You will be an outcast, Shirin. Your family will disown you.’ Shirin, repeating the lines she had read in many a romance novel, heard in many a Bollywood movie: ‘I will bear the disgrace, for I have found my Prince Charming, my one true love.’ ‘But he’s an untouchable, Shirin.’ ‘He’s my Untouchable Prince Charming, then. Only I am allowed to touch him.’

In her mind’s eye, Shirin saw the two girls, one dark as mustard seeds, the other watermelon-shaped, both misfits with eager-to-please expressions permanently etched on their faces, just starting to grow breasts and become aware of boys, sitting side by side on the cracked cement wall, painting glorious futures for themselves. How naive she and Pramila had been! They hadn’t realised that, as in every fairy tale, there would be a price to pay for securing Prince Charming. In her fantasy about Chandru, she had blithely accepted the cost of being an outcast as fee. And now, she was one.
Be careful what you wish for.

The office was abuzz with news of the upcoming charity ball that CST Solutions held annually with its partners and clients. Shirin had paid the requisite amount each year but managed to get out of attending, and as far as she was concerned, this year wasn’t going to be any different.

Kate was perched on her desk going through her collection of pens when she approached with a mug of coffee. ‘You’ve got quite a selection here,’ she remarked.

Shirin smiled. ‘What do you want from me, woman?’

‘Come to the ball, Shirin.’ And, while Shirin was still rooting for an excuse, ‘I won’t take no for an answer. Now that you’re manager, you’ve got to set an example.’ And, while Shirin fumbled, ‘The theme is “Multiculturalism”.’

‘There’s a theme?’

‘Wear a sari, Shirin. Everyone’s dressing up.’

‘I...’

‘You have got one?’

‘Yes,’ Shirin lied. Why? ‘Kate, I...’

‘Good. Andrew’s wearing a kilt. I’ll wear something suitably Irish; I have a shamrock T-Shirt, will match it with a skirt or something...’

‘Kate...’

‘You’ll have fun. Live a little, Shirin.’

‘That’s not fair...’

Kate put one hand on each of Shirin’s shoulders, looked into her eyes. ‘Shirin, you’re my friend and I love you. I’ve been meaning to say this to you for ages.’ Kate took a deep breath. ‘Shirin. It’s been eleven years. You cannot hide away forever. And much as it pains me to say this, you may not be here next year. This time next year you’ll be with your family, having fun in the sun, your friend Kate a vague memory.’

I wish,
Shirin thought as she smiled along with Kate at the fantasy. ‘You would be right there having fun along with me.’

‘Come to the party, Shirin. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.’

Sometimes, Kate reminded Shirin of a bulldozer, albeit a well-meaning one, squashing anything that showed the least bit of resistance briskly into shape. She was looking expectantly at Shirin now, eyebrows puckered, green eyes bright. ‘Go on; say you’ll come.’

‘I’ll come.’

Kate squealed, jumped off the desk, put her arms round Shirin. ‘You won’t regret it.’

Justine, who was walking past, asked, ‘What’s all the commotion about?’

‘Shirin has agreed to come to the charity ball. But, ooh, she plays hard to get. Poor Vinod. She must have put him through hell and back before she agreed to marry him.’ And with a wink at her, Kate was gone.

She would need to buy a sari, Shirin thought as she took a sip of her coffee. It was lukewarm. Bittersweet. Like the memory of the trip to Chennai to buy saris for her wedding. She and Jacinta setting out at dawn to catch the express bus from Mirakatte to the train station in Mangalore. Madhu bustling around packing the food she had spent most of the night cooking: idlis, melt-in-the-mouth soft, wrapped in muslin; pudina chutney flecked with mustard seeds; tender coconut, cardamom seed and jaggery stuffing oozing out of thick patholis wrapped in banana leaves; parothas; egg curry. Madhu pulling Shirin into a tight embrace so close Shirin could feel her hot spiced breath on her cheeks. Jacinta telling Pedru Ab, proprietor of the ‘Medical Store’ that sold liquor, whom they passed on the way to Mirakatte trying to gingerly step over the drunk sprawled across the entrance to his shop, ‘We’re going to Chennai to buy saris for Shirin’s wedding.’ The pride in her mother’s voice blooming in Shirin’s chest. Mangalore Train Station: Crowds pushing, elbows digging into Shirin’s arms, shoulders, stomach. The reek of sweat and unwashed bodies. Scents of Bru coffee, samosas, seera and upma from the canteen permeating the stale air. Beggars circulating, jostling the crowd: ‘Amma, enu thinnilla, enadru kodi.’ Jacinta hugging her handbag and the tiny pink train tickets close to her chest. The train pulling into the platform with a shudder and a sigh. Everyone lunging to find their compartments, a spare seat. Jacinta yelling, ‘Second Class, S2, Shirin,’ above the crush of people separating them. Shirin finding their seats and holding on to them, arms spread out, while waiting for her mother. Jacinta’s face in the window peering in: glasses awry, hair escaping bun, worried eyes lighting up when they saw Shirin, face transformed by her rare smile.

Her mother’s smile. The gift of at last being able to picture it again made tears smart as Shirin walked to the coffee machine to get a fresh cup. How could she have forgotten the way Jacinta’s smile could soften her whole face? And that day, that particular smile had been reserved just for her.

Jacinta and Shirin had sat across from each other, silent for the most part as the train ate up the miles to Chennai, watching crows disperse in droves from telephone lines scared by the train’s piercing whistle; pretending not to notice labourers unashamedly hitch up their lungis and defecate on the railway tracks; watching as the sun’s rays lost some of their fire, as they slanted lukewarm through the dirt-encrusted window, creating patterns in the grime, as dusk painted the rows of emerald fields and dancing coconut trees grey, as the sun dipped into the sea, draining the sky of colour. They had shared in silence the food Madhu had packed, listening to the chatter of the family next to them, exchanging smiles when the children argued and the harassed mother threatened to throw them out of the train. And as twinkling yellow lights relieved the black outside every once in a while, they had climbed up to their narrow berths, top bunks facing each other. Shirin had watched as her mother fingered the beads and murmured the rosary, as she tucked it back into her sari blouse after, as she adjusted her handbag masquerading as a pillow under her neck, as she pulled the pallu over her eyes. Just before she closed her eyes, she had turned, met Shirin’s gaze. ‘Goodnight,’ she’d whispered with a little smile. Shirin had realised then that this was what she had been waiting for, and she had allowed her own heavy lids to close, had fallen asleep to the steady rocking of the train punctuated by shrill whistles, oblivious to the whispers and giggles of the children in the bunks below packed two to a narrow berth: the head of one circling the feet of the other; to snatches of conversation as people walked by and the occasional howl of pain as they bumped heads on the bunks; to noise and bustle as the train pulled into a station; to vendors hawking their goods at all hours of the night, ‘Fresh Oranges,’ ‘Halwa,’ ‘Chai.’

All her life she’d angled for her mother’s approval. She’d tried so hard. Especially after Deepak betrayed her with the note. The shock when she found it in her maths notebook when she came in from break:
I love the way you flick your hair back when you’re concentrating, the way your face looks in profile framed by all that beautiful hair. I love the way your smile lights up your face. I love you. Tariq.
Tariq, the studious, bespectacled boy who sat behind her in class, who always came first to her second in the end-of-year exams. Was this note really meant for her: dumpy, bookish Shirin? Or was this all an elaborate joke? Heart thudding, she had turned round, met his gaze: big brown eyes staring intensely at her from behind square black frames. He’d smiled at her then, a soft, shy smile. And she’d turned back to her book, to the note, face flaming, hands trembling and a warm sweet feeling coursing down her insides.

Afterwards, her mother flings away the scissors, her cold eyes flashing. ‘No daughter of mine behaves like this. Gallivanting with Muslims.’ That word. And she is five again, scared and ashamed, the sour taste of bimblis in her mouth. ‘I am disappointed in you. Ashamed of you. Behaving like a whore. And—’ a contemptuous glance at Anita, peeking from behind Madhu’s left shoulder, ‘—corrupting your younger sister with it. You will go to confession tomorrow, both of you. And Shirin, you will only go back to college till the end of this week, just so he can see you like this. This… boy. How could you? Next week onwards, you will go to PPC College in Pelam. Remember, I am watching you. If I get word of you behaving like this again, I will disown you. You will be dead to me…You will not bring disgrace to our family. Is that understood? I said, is that understood?’

Shirin finished her coffee, shook her head, tried to clear her mind. But the memories kept coming, persistent.

College the next day, the sniggers, the jeers: ‘Turned into a boy overnight?’ The look on Tariq’s face, the note awaiting her in maths class: ‘I am sorry.’ She had passed the note back. He had run up to her after class, ‘Shirin—wait.’ She had hurried away; turned just in time to see Deepak’s arm swing back, make contact with Tariq’s jaw…

She had tried so much harder after that, to be the good daughter, to do her mother’s bidding. She had tried… She hadn’t expected to bump into him again at uni…
Enough
… She opened Outlook, flicked through her mail. Nothing urgent. A couple of documents to be handed in by the end of the week. Issues that may have cropped up during testing, to be sorted. No issues yet. Good. She was taking over Jay’s team on Monday. Then, she would have no time to breathe. But until then... She opened Explorer, googled ‘Anita Sinha’, clicked on the first entry: Anita Sinha, Model, Face of India. Leading Modelling Agency. Linked with Bollywood.

And found
her
Anu staring back at her from the screen.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Film-Star Aunt

‘R
eena, how do you know about Shirin?’

Aunt Anita leaned forward, her fingers trembling as she picked up her cup of tea gingerly from the table.

‘I found a picture of her, with you and my dad, when you were about my age.’ Her sleuthing notebook was under her pillow, the photograph nestling within it.

‘Where?’ Aunt Anita shifted in her chair. ‘I thought all the photos were destroyed.’

‘It was tucked behind one of the pictures in an old photo album in Taipur. I think Madhu saved it.’

‘That photo must have somehow escaped being burnt. That was the fate of all Shirin’s other photos.’

Time to put Part 2 of Plan C into action. ‘What did she do that was so bad?’

Aunt Anita stilled. She was silent for so long that Reena, who had been holding her breath, let it out, convinced she was not going to answer. She swatted at the mosquitoes that had started buzzing, looking for human flesh to feast on. Darkness had set in early, due to the storm, bypassing the twilight that Reena loved.

Her aunt spoke then, so quietly that Reena had to lean forward in her chair to hear. ‘It’s best to leave the past alone, Rinu.’

‘But surely you must miss her. Don’t you ever feel like contacting her, seeing her, knowing how she is? If I had a sister...’ She stopped, realising that she had done the very thing she had not wanted to do. Her aunt was crying silently, huge tears running down her cheeks from behind her sunglasses.

‘Of course I miss her. She was my confidante, my protector, my best friend. If I did something wrong, she took the blame. She couldn’t bear the thought of me being hurt. I’d give anything to talk to her now, when I am going through this—this thing with Uttam...’ She shut her mouth with her fist, as though afraid she’d said too much.

‘Then how can you live your life, not knowing where she is, how she is?’

So softly that Reena had to strain to hear, ‘Because I am a coward.’

What did Aunt Anita mean,
Coward
? Daring, fearless Aunt Anita, who defied her mother to marry a Hindu… Why was she afraid to contact Aunt Shirin? Who was she afraid of?

‘Sometimes, it is easier to leave things as they are, rather than to fight, go against the flow…’ Aunt Anita was saying, still in a whisper.

Fight whom? Go against whom?

‘She used to say I was the brave one... I have yet to meet anyone as courageous as her, doing what she did…’ Aunt Anita continued, still in a whisper.

Aha. A clue. Whatever Aunt Shirin did, Aunt Anita thought it courageous. It didn’t make sense though. None of it did. If Aunt Anita didn’t agree with what had been done to Aunt Shirin, if she thought what Aunt Shirin had done was courageous, then why hadn’t she
done something
? Why continue to pretend Aunt Shirin didn’t exist?

She identified with this newfound aunt of hers. She knew what it was to be invisible, to have people look right through her like she didn’t exist. ‘What did she do anyway that is so awful that none of you even acknowledge her? And if you don’t agree with what happened, why don’t you contact her? You are an adult. You can do anything. Who are you afraid of?’

‘Shh...’

Reena hadn’t realised she had been yelling. It was as if, by defending her aunt, the girl in the photograph, she was defending herself.