‘You insulate me,’ Ramanathan said, lying underneath, warm
and taut like baked bread.
I melted like mozzarella on a pizza. Oh, the pleasures of
biting into hot crisp dough overwhelmed with steaming salty goo.
We were huddled four thousand feet above sea-level inside
a tent during a hailstorm. Food rations had ran out three days ago. It was the
perfect time to line the sleeping bag with our bodies.
‘Remember, we roll the dice in the morning,’ I said,
recapping our covenant, ‘though I’d much rather have you alive than dead.’
I sighed.
‘Hey!’ He was offended, ‘I am good meat.’
*
This story was showcased during StoryFest 2020 @ StoryADay
When you gifted me my first wrap-around, did you imagine I'd hold it dear even after five years of not having a word from you. So dear, in fact that I could not find an occasion worthy enough to wear it all this time.
I lugged it around with me where ever I went in search of that perfect occasion - relatives' homes where I stayed for vacations(the skirt packed neatly in the suitcase, glittering occasionally with memory), days spent abroad(where it languished under other clothes - useful winter clothes), from my home to my husband's home to another city (bundled among all the other clothes I could not bear to let go).
I hunted for the right top to go with it. Searched from Khan Market to Sarojini Nagar and finally found the cloth I liked in a seedy Punjabi Bagh shop. I scoured Delhi for the right tailor to stitch me something of it to match the skirt. I left the skirt with him for that time.
Fnally, I wore the skirt (which is always 'your gift', 'a precious memory of an afternoon with silver candles' in my mind) for a concert of French music. Perfect to go with the celebrated language of love in melodious song. I'd finally found the occasion. Yesterday.
And I also found that
it is too long for me, it catches my toes in its embroidered threads. I tripped twice, tied it up high on my waist to resume some semblance of walking and missed enjoying my post-concert ice-cream as much as I could have because I had to keep an eye on all the threads that tangled with my toes with every forward step.
White tiled floor. A white wooden table with dust brown legs. Dust brown chairs. Two cheese sandwiches. Grilled. Coffee.
“So, what do you do?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Umm…I do freelance work. Just started actually.”
“Whaa-kina-wor” Through a mouthful.
“Oh this-and-that…you don’t wanna know.” She waves her arm to and fro. Earrings dangle. Her red notebook is open.
He sneaks a peek over the black scrawl while chomping. Her coal-laced eyes take in his white-striped shirt. Tall, thin man.
“Hmm..I work with -----…you heard of it?” A sip of coffee. Grimaced smile. “The coffee’s bad,no?”
She takes her first sip. Crinkles nose. Smiles. Nods. “No, I haven’t heard of ----. What do you do there?”
“Oh, I work as a journalist. I write articles. For which I’ve to do a lot of fieldwork. Meet people. Talk to them. To tell you the truth, I don’t like the idea of reporting.” Another sip. Another grimace-smile “I mean, its sort of ridiculous to be the one to report. I want to be the one to be reported about someday. May sound a bit weird, y’know…,” a bite of the sandwich. “even egoistic or arrogant… but really…” the last bite of one half, “I don’t want to be the guy asking “aapko kaisa lag raha hai” I cannot be a mascot for world peace and campaign for it from the side. Y’kno wha-i-mean?”
She nods. Earrings caress the jaw line. She puts the cap back on her pen. Flips a page. Black scrawl all over.
“That’s a nice photograph no?” He points to a smiling man holding a tiger cub. Both face the camera.
She nods again. A formal smile spreads on the lower half of her face.
“So, what’re you doing here? I mean how come…?”
“Oh, am taking a course here…” Her voice trails off.
“What kinda course?” Picks up the last half of the grilled cheese sandwich.
“Creative writing.”
“Oh…they have such a course here?” Eyes bore into hers. She bobs her head up-down again. “I din’t know that…what do they teach?” Takes another bite. “I dunno…something’s the matter with these cheese sandwiches…”
“What do you mean?”
“Dunno…something doesn’t feel right…Oh, by the way, what’s your name?”
“N-----”, she grins, a bit sheepish. “You must know many with that name…”
“I’m V-----, oh yeah, I think everyone the world over knows at least two or three women by that name.” Finishes off the last of the sandwich. She squirms. One in many. Always. Sigh.
“Next time, maybe we can figure out a better place to have a coffee…”
Numbers are exchanged.
“So, how will you save my number…?...otherwise you’d forget which one I am.” She is curious.
“Oh… I had cheese sandwiches with you…so N--- Cheese Sandwiches! There’s no way I’d jumble memories up.” Smiles, triumphant.
Cheese Sandwiches and me.
***
A week later, her mobile blinked. He had messaged.
“Hey, those cheese sndwchs gave me food poisoning. In prtty bd shape. How’re u?”
Grilled sandwiches and me. A second later, she burst into light, mischievous laughter.
