Love Across Borders (13 page)

It looked like it was drizzling outside, a sort
of unexpected, soothing shower, when you can tell that summer is
flirting with you, telling you that spring, with its constant
showers is about to leave, but not without letting you down many a
time.

I poured myself a stiff drink, lit a cigarette
and figured I’d wait another ten minutes. Just in case the curry
smelling fool would arrive. I needed that TV out, and money in my
pocket so I could splurge at a bar tonight, and maybe even get a
hit of X in the bargain if I could manage it.

Just then there was a knock on the door.
God!
Can’t the guy see the damned doorbell? Damn desis.
I chugged
down the drink…whoa…and opened the door.

I had been mistaken, it wasn’t just a drizzle;
it had been pouring, judging by the way the street looked. Hues of
pink sprawled across the blue sky, and the golden rays of the
setting sun seeped through the clouds. The rain had ended, leaving
behind pools of water on the ground, which mirrored the sky’s
cerulean shades.

In front of me stood two creatures, dressed in
cheap, transparent raincoats, sharing an umbrella, looking like
something even the dingiest cat wouldn’t have dragged in. Not even
in one of its nine lives.

The man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that
was tucked in a little oddly, showing off a bit of a paunch, while
his much younger sidekick sported a well-used
shalwar-kameez
. Her hair was oiled and tied in a tight plait
and she was sporting what looked second-hand trainers. They were
holding hands but as soon as I glanced at them, they pulled away,
looking as if they had been engaging in a public orgy.

“Yes,” I barked. “You here to see the TV?”

“Yes,” smiled the man, showing off his white
teeth.

“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for more than an
hour.”

The woman apologized.

“We are sorry we are late, but the bus got
delayed.” Her accent was less pronounced than her man-friend’s,
although she spoke in a rather halting, singsong manner.

Why didn’t you just get a friggin’ cab? Don’t
you think I have anything better to do than wait for two
curry-smelling Indians who will probably not even buy the damned TV
’cause they are so friggin’ cheap?
I wanted to say.

But thankfully, for once, I stopped myself in
time. Before I said things I would have regretted later. Before I
said things that I couldn’t possibly take back, things I would have
to live with for the rest of my life.

I walked towards the lounge, and could hear the
cheap rubber soles of their shoes squeaking on my well-polished
wooden floors.

“Here’s the TV,” I said loudly, pointing towards
the object in question, as if assuming that the duo was dim-witted
and wouldn’t be able to identify it themselves. “It’s in mint
condition.”

“Does it have a remote control sir?” asked the
man.
Ah, he’s not all that dense after all. What’s with the sir,
anyway? Should I ask him to wipe my shoes now?

“Yeah. Somewhere. There’s so much shit here.
I’ll look for it if you give me a second.”

Both of them literally died on the spot,
especially the woman, as I said shit. I rolled my eyes and ignored
their shudders, and started looking around for the damned remote
control. Miraculously, I had actually put it in its place, on the
center table. Turning the TV on, I passed the remote to the woman.
Unfortunately, the TV turned on to show the last channel I viewed,
which happened to be the Playboy channel. The woman turned crimson,
while the man, half-tempted to watch, merely averted his gaze.

For some reason, even I felt a little
uncomfortable, and swiftly snatched back the remote and changed the
channel to something more respectable. I was so uncomfortable, that
when they asked me how much the TV would cost, I quoted a lower
price than planned.

“Are you okay with the pricing?” I asked. Almost
instinctively, they looked at each other. Apparently they
communicated without words.

“Yes, yes, we want it,” they said in unison.

“I can call my friend now and he can pick it up
if that’s okay,” said the man.

“That’s fine. But I have to go out soon; can he
hurry up? Or will he be late as well?”

“No, no, let me call him now. Can I use your
phone?” (No cell phone, I noticed).

I was tempted to point out the grammatical error
in the sentence he had uttered, but managed to restrain myself and
pointed towards the cordless.

He called his friend, murmured something quickly
in a language I didn’t understand, and then told me his friend
would be there in ten minutes. (“He works nearby only, and he has a
big car.”)

Then came a pause. Not being the type to make
hypocritical small talk, I poured myself another drink, but was
nice enough to ask them if they wanted one too, to celebrate their
new idiot box.

“No thank you, it’s still early,” said the man,
while his wife silently appraised the remaining things in the
apartment, gazing longingly at my trendy kitchen.

“She is new to America,” explained the husband,
“She is staying home these days, but will soon get a job. But she
gets bored, so I am thinking we should be buying a television set
for her.”

“Good thinking,” I said obviously disinterested.
I glanced towards the woman, who was now looking at the spice
rack.

“Oh you keep
zeera
,
haldi
and
dhania
!” she exclaimed.

“Well yes, for whenever I want to cook a
desi
meal.”

“Oh…you seem so American…where are you
from?”

“Um, Pakistan I guess.”

“You are going back there?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, you will be so happy. Your mother will take
care of you and so will your family. These Americans are so cold.
Always wanting to be quiet and clean and neat. No fun. Not one of
them plays in the rain, you know. All of them have umbrellas.”

Apparently, it didn’t take much for this woman
to begin listing her woes against America.

“Why did you come here then?”

She paused before replying. “I got married.”

Her husband glanced at her with pride. “She is
adjusting,” he said, “she has learnt how to use the washing machine
already, even though it has only been a week since she came here.
And I am teaching her how to use the cash register at the 7-11
where I work, so she can get a job too.”

Wow, what ambition!

There was something about the couple that I
didn’t understand. Maybe it was because they seemed to be so happy,
despite not having much. (I mean, no cell phone, no cab fare and no
TV up till now…). Or maybe it was because despite the fact that
they weren’t in the best of places they were living happily in
their own little world, instead of going all out and trying to
become ‘American’ like many of the immigrants in the US. (Maybe I
was one of them too?)

Maybe it was the alcohol, or God knows what, but
I told them to help themselves to the stuff in the kitchen, the
spice rack, the Tupperware and the cooking utensils. Expensive
items that I had bought, being brand conscious and all. I had
thought that I would take them with me, but something told me the
couple needed them more.

“Oh, see, Nikhil! This is how we Asians are to
each other. We help each other out when we can!” exclaimed the
woman excitedly, as she began to collect the stuff in a shopping
bag.

The doorbell rang (no more knocks…maybe the
friend was a little more with it.)

Within minutes they were gone, but not after
thanking me profusely, calling me ‘
bhaiya
’ and what not. I
poured myself yet another drink, called a cab and headed towards
the bar, washing the whole incident off me…for that time, at
least.

But a few days later, as I began packing the
life that I had built for myself over the course of many years into
boxes, I came across the couple’s umbrella. They must have missed
it, but had chosen to let me have it.

It hangs, as I said before, near the entrance of
my apartment. It has been more than a decade since that rainy day
in May, and sometimes, the umbrella smells like the rain, promising
new, clean beginnings that can allow you can start anew, to forget
the past, and be comfortable with the thought of tomorrow.

I think I’ll let it hang there for a little
while longer. Or maybe I will throw it away. It is, after all,
tattered and torn.

I’m not sure though.

∞

ABOUT THE EDITORIAL TEAM

Curated and Edited by

Naheed Hassan

Sabahat Muhammad

Edited by

Mimmy Jain

Mimmy Jain has been a mainstream Indian journalist
for the last 27 years and has worked in senior positions at
publications such as The Economic Times, The Times of India, The
Financial Express and Mint. You can find Mimmy at
https://www.facebook.com/MimmyMGeorge
,
and at ‘Living in the Happily Ever After’
(mimmyjain.wordpress.com).

Sundari Venkatraman

Sundari Venkatraman tried drawing, painting,
tailoring, embroidery, knitting, gardening and an umpteen other
things before she discovered writing. Double Jeopardy is her first
novella, and has been published by Indireads. Contact Sundari at
http://www.facebook.com/AuthorSundariVenkatraman

Zeenat Mahal

Zeenat Mahal (@zeenat4indireads) is currently doing
an MFA in creative writing from Kingston University, London. She
won a BBC short story competition in 2001 and has been a regular
contributor to newspapers. She is working on a literary novel with
elements of magical realism, while continuing to write romances.
She can be contacted on her FB page
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Zeenat-Mahal
.

Sucharita Dutta-Asane

Sucharita Dutta-Asane is a writer and independent
fiction editor based in Pune.

In 2008, she received Oxford Bookstores’ debut
writers' (second) prize for her anthology, The Jungle Stories. Her
articles, book reviews, short stories, and a novella, Petals in the
Sun have been extensively published across electronic
publications.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Aman ki Asha

Romancing the Border

Peaceniche.org

Tehelka

The Dawn Group

&

Khudi

Khudi
is a youth-focused
social movement working to promote a democratic culture and
pluralistic politics in Pakistan. Through varied initiatives, Khudi
promotes the use of peaceful dialogue and discussion as the primary
tools for dispute resolution, and aims to foster a culture of
healthy debate within society. To this end, Khudi organizes regular
trainings, seminars and debates, as well as partaking in public
services and civil society associations and engagements.

Khudi’s work also includes the publication of
Pakistan’s first bilingual monthly youth magazine ‘The Laaltain’
and the production of socially aware TV content for young
Pakistanis. Khudi believes that direct and long-term engagement
with the country’s youth is the best route to building a more
progressive, prosperous and peace-loving Pakistan.