The First Time (Love in No Time #1) (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

And Friday is here, again. But this Friday feels different than any other. My entire day at work is torqueing around the anticipation this Friday is carrying on its delicious back. And on this day, I realize how jumpy I can get. It is frankly beyond irritating to anyone, especially me! Every time some one speaks or asks me something I jump half an inch on the chair if I am sitting or from the floor if I am standing. My heart too is jumping out of my body and I literally have to clutch it back in before it can decide to leave my body for good. At this rate, I am going to be dead before I even hear his voice again. Calm down, Ms. Sharma! I instruct myself but I know it is futile. But I realize that I am using his way of reference to me as my way of reference to me! Even though I prefer his way. My last name sounds sexier when he says it. He makes my last name sound special, like its something to cherish. Wow! I am really into this shit, aren’t I? I know the man doesn’t do any kind of cherishing and he certain doesn’t like possessing anything that is not Boss or Armani and comes in a glossy shopping bag.

I have seen him with his family—his mother, his sister, and his younger brother. He is very brisk with them, even rude. He seems exasperated, maybe even embarrassed by them. His dad passed away when he was twenty so he became a patriarch as a matter of fate than conscious choice. And maybe it is this lack of choice in matters of family accompanied by a sense of obligation to them as the eldest male child that has resulted in so much angst against them. Not that he didn’t work hard to provide for them. He did but beyond bringing home the bacon he wasn’t anything else to them. Empathy was a foreign word in that family.

I guess I am different. I am not family. With me there is possibility of intimacy that every guy at his age, or any age for that matter, desperately seeks. Do not get me wrong. I am not talking of love as in “I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you.” I am talking of love as in coming—inside someone for the first time. I am talking about the reality (not just the possibility) of having sex with a girl who is willing, familiar, and not an obligation. Willing is the operative word here.

For a girl in this culture to be willing and available without a certificate of marriage is a rarity. It couldn’t happen which doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen at all. One didn’t hear about it often enough which is the important marker of the permissible and the non-permissible in a culture. I was willing and available. The fact that I didn’t live with my family instead sharing an apartment with my friends in Delhi formalized my willingness as a sexual partner.

To be willing and then have no space to enact that willingness kind of negates the very idea of “willing” and also of “available.” But the fact remains that I am an Indian girl but like a girl anywhere else in the world I have cultural access to stories and fables of love and sacrifice. I am brought up to believe in the notion of love but at the same time have no cultural freedom to enact this notion with someone, somewhere. So in a way I have to believe there is love but at the same time to believe love doesn’t exist.

So in a way I can like boys but have no access to them in order to express that liking, even in the most innocent of ways.

Boys were fabled to be bad. They wanted only one thing, I was warned. And there was only one thing that can happen from the bad things that boys wanted to do to girls—pregnancy. So to avoid becoming pregnant outside of marriage, avoid boys.

Parents told their girls to stay away from boys as if this manner of cultural abstinence was enough to prevent a gigantic cultural shame from happening. They never thought to tell their daughters about protection as prevention. They just wanted to avoid the sex question exactly like the way they avoided having sex beyond their procreating years.

I doubt most parents were doing it after their kids were born. Rather the one time they did
it
was on their marriage night and then the pussy and the penis were forgotten relics. But here we were—him and I working against cultural edicts. He was a boy I liked and I was the girl he liked. His hormonal reactions to me he had managed to couch in a language of romance that enticed me against my better judgment.

Can boys in my culture really do romance even as a means to getting sex with a girl? I doubt it. So this begs the question—is he a player?

If he is a player then he has cut his teeth elsewhere. He has practice. And practice makes a man perfect his art of seduction of girls seduced already by cultural notions of love. So the next question is—where is he finding surfaces to crack his teeth on?

This is Gurgaon for god’s sake. It is a small town at the edge of Delhi. There are no receptive, willing girls here. They live a protected, ignorant life. They wouldn’t know how to be even receptive to his kind of treatment. They would instead be affronted and deem him a roadside Romeo not worth their time or attention.

They would deny their own pleasure in his expression of his pleasure because pleasure has consequences, for it steps outside of cultural prescriptions in order to be requited. Pleasure is forbidden. Maybe that is why I was being the typical girl—reacting to his expression of pleasure in this “I am appalled you are saying all this to me.”

I was performing a cultural location in my reactions to this siren call. But I was also unperforming that location in the way I was actually responding to his siren call. I was fascinated by it. I was heeding it in order to make my own pleasure step out in the open. I know this was not a frivolous call. It was a thoughtful one. I think he was equally surprised by his own reaction to me and even as he conveyed it with much linguistic finesse and no restraint born of hesitation, he was also testing me. He was testing whatever he was feeling, I was feeling too—that we were both trying to understand that elemental blue fire that sparked between us every time we were anywhere near each other. Even when we spoke on the phone, with just our voices we were experiencing something beyond culture and culture could no longer restrain this fire. Culture’s favorite handmaiden, guilt, found herself useless in this emergent drama.

“Ms. Sharma, a call for you.”

I emerge from my cerebral reverie and experience a massive thud in my heart. I just know its him again. Phone and him have become synonymous in my mind. Ok, here we go. I wipe my sweaty hands on the side of my shirt and walk to the phone room.

“Hello” I say and hear a very enthusiastic, “Ms. Sharma!”

There is that voice caressing my ubiquitous last name and making it sound sexy. “Should we meet at the 100% café in CP at 1:30 p.m. Its noon now. This should give you plenty of time to finish up work and meet me there, yes?” He seems hurried—like he has somewhere to be or he is aware that I am at work.

“Ok. See you there.” “Ok. Ciao.” And that’s it. We have set our lunch date in the most efficient and no nonsense way possible. But I am left with a vague sense of disquiet that I fail to understand.

Chapter Fourteen

The 100 percent café in CP is a museum. It’s décor and layout is so expansive and gaudy that you are left confused about why exactly you are here. It is not a café in the NYC sense—small, bucolic, and intimate. It is a café in the Delhi/ Punjabi sense—loud, in your face, expansive with its red vinyl sofa and chairs and marble tables. It’s 100 percent Punjabi. Red velvet and crystal chandeliers span the ceiling in the shape of a plus sign or a cross, if you will. The lighting is not muted. The thousand watt bulbs pierce through the dark velvet/ dense weave and throw interesting animal like shapes on red walls with white square frames. The servers wear dark red uniforms, the color and texture of which looks uncannily similar to the red drapes on the massive floor to ceiling windows facing the busy CP circle. In fact, I am pretty sure that the uniforms are made of the same cloth as the drapes like Scarlett’s green dress in
Gone with the Wind
.

The café is packed to the brim. There is no space to even stand. The number of bodies in this place has rendered the AC ineffective. It is hot and sticky inside like it is outside. I think to myself—why in the world did he choose the most gaudy and loud place in Delhi to make his apology?

This place is so counter-intuitive.

Don’t apology and intimacy go together?

I am a little irritable now. I don’t like the setting and he isn’t even here. But then I am always early. I need to breathe. I need space. I run down the stairs of the café and out through the revolving doors to the simmering heat outside. I seek a shaded spot beside a massive white pillar where I decide to wait for Mr. apology. I take in a couple of deep breaths. And end up coughing instead the dust kernels I just breathed in from the dust cloud called Delhi.

I am heading towards being miserable. I decide to give him ten more minutes before bailing out. I am stunned by my lack of empathy in this small matter concerning us. I am certainly giving him no benefit of no doubt like I need an excuse to reject him, even as I am entranced by his playing (trying?). Wow, the dance called push and pull. It is all very thrilling but kind of nerve wracking. It is turning me into someone I sometimes do not recognize--a freak alternate other. Hmmm! That feels . . . Damn, I don’t know how that feels.

I feel light fingers at my elbow. I swing around sharply fully expecting some roadside Romeo feeling me up, a single girl standing near a pillar waiting in his mind for him, available for his dirty touch. But its just my Romeo. He looks good, as always. His brown checked shirt and beige chinos fit well his slim frame. His sharply trimmed beard looks as shiny and groomed as ever. He is smiling. I think I return his smile. His smile broadens.

“Ms. Sharma, how lovely to see you but why are you standing outside. I thought we were having lunch here?”

“I hate this place” I say without any preamble, not even a hello. My mum will not be proud of me just now. She brought me up to have manners. Right now I had none.

“You hate this place?” He repeats. “Why didn’t you say on the phone? I could have suggested someplace else.” “Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t know. I am really not hungry.” I am irritable and pouty. He notices. He leans in a little and takes his index finger across my lower lip, lightly, very lightly. My breath hitches. My eyes go rounder in my face.

He leans back and asks, “Where, Ms. Sharma? Where do you want to go for lunch?”

“No lunch.” I repeat.

“Ok. So do you want some dessert? I know this great pastry shop called the Yellow Brick Road around that corner. It sells your favorite jam rolls. Would you like to go there?”

“No dessert. I am not a dessert person.” I am such a liar. I am totally a dessert person. But I am just being difficult. I am becoming averse to sweets and sweetness for no reason at all. Am I testing his boundaries now? How far he would pursue me in spite of my snarkiness? Or am I testing my own boundaries? How far would
I
go to deny my own feelings?

He sighs. “What is on your mind, Ms. Sharma? I am trying. I need a little help here from you, if you don’t mind.” He looks tired and sincere at the same time. Potent combination. The affect is me saying, “We could go to my apartment.” Damn!

I really am my worst enemy or best friend, take your pick. His eyes light up like I have never seen before and his mouth curves into an audible “oh.”

And after half a beat he asks, “What did you just say?” knowing fully well what I said. And I boldly go there again. I proposition him, again! “We could go back to my apartment. No-one should be in right now.” I look at my watch that says 2:30 p.m. and then back at him.

“Ms. Sharma” his voice holds wonder like he has heard or seen something totally unexpected. “Do you know what you are saying?” I nod. “Hmm.”

He is still smiling in that wicked sort of way. He is looking so boyish despite his beard and his peppered hair that add years to his actual youth. His eyes address me intensely. He is making sure that I know I have just thrown the gasoline drum on a raging fire and all exits are closed now. Burning is no longer an option. It is inevitable.

He straightens from where he is leaning against the pillar. “Can you wait for me here? I need to go back to the office, grab my bag from the office and also get my scooter? I can drive us back to your place. Yes?”

He is giving me one last chance to change my mind. He is letting me exercise a mythical privilege if I wanted to as a desired woman. Desired women have power, you know. He knows that and he was letting me work on that knowledge if I so desired. I am no ordinary woman in this moment. I can do extraordinary things like proposition my brother’s best friend to come back with me to my apartment for you know what. Well, actually, I really didn't know what. I think we could possibly make out but I doubt anything else could happen. Could it? Now I don’t even trust myself to know anything about my own reactions to him. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, right? He was coming home with me. And I fail to take my exit.

“I can wait. But don’t be too long. This invite comes with a deadline and your time starts now.” I look at my watch rather dramatically. He smiles as he takes my bait and walks away briskly to do the needful so we could be on our way.

My body relaxed, now that he was no longer inhabiting my immediate space. All the breath I was holding left my mouth in a big whoosh and as the oxygen again flowed into my brain, I began to realize the consequential enormity of what I had done—I had invited home my brother’s best friend who not two days ago panicked and called me his cousin to an arbitrary, looser guy in an Indian-Chinese restaurant, and had invited me to a café that I hated with all my heart! Where was my self-righteous indignation at that? Missing in action, I suppose. My hormones were speaking rather loudly for me, even when I gave them no permission to do so.

I saw his scooter before him—a black Vespa had turned around the corner. He waved for me to hurry towards him so I did. I quickly climbed in the back, held tightly on to him and we were off. The hour-long journey was conducted in absolute silence. Even if we tried we couldn’t hear each other in all that traffic. And what was the point of talking anyway? We were past talking at this point. The only thing on both our minds was the apartment and the possibilities it held.

I directed him to the apartment he had never been to before. I got off as soon as he parked the scooter in the front and without looking back walked up to unlock the door. He followed me with his helmet on one arm and his bag in the other. The apartment looked a little messy so I apologized but then waved for him to make himself at home or whatever that meant. Actually, it meant that he take a seat while I took a most desperate leak. All that jumping over speed-breakers and potholes had jingled my over full bladder. As I washed my hands, I almost reluctantly looked at myself in the mirror. I looked so windblown. My hair was standing at all ends as if I had just put my finger through an electrical socket for fun. My cheeks were pink as if they had been vigorously sanded to achieve that polished affect. My lips were chapped. There were visible cracks in them. I needed fixing to say the least. So I fixed myself and in the process delayed going out to him. But the sand had run out.

I found him standing in the middle of the living room looking unsure about what to do but not awkward. No, he never could do awkward even if he tried. His hands are on his hips as he seems to be assessing his immediate surroundings—a heavy wood dining table with four heavy back chairs, a white cloth sofa with ten colorful pillows of all sizes, two floor cushions with zigzag black/ white pattern placed over a white and cream column pattern thin cotton floor rug. An open wall closet has three sets of blue stained wine glasses and a Phillips music system (that Jaya often refers to as her dowry that she brought to our shared home) that I now turn on to play my favorite Bollywood music channel Radio Mirchi.

But he doesn’t seem to like my choice for he is frowning and then he asks, “Do you mind changing the channel to an English one? I don’t do Hindi, Bollywood or anything Indian. Sorry.”

Okay
. I like Bollywood because it is so dance worthy even though the lyrics are almost too simple, even banal. They speak simply of desire and unrequited love and right now I kind of get that in a semi-baked way. I switch to the 80s channel and
Foreigner
is wailing about someone playing “head games.” Damn!
Foreigner
of all bands has to be playing as we face each other with all our vulnerabilities growing like the magic stalk in our middle. I mumble for him to sit down and ask him if he would like a drink.

“What do you have?” Oops! I actually don’t know what we have.

So I say, “let me check” and walk of in search of his elixir. I find some vodka and rum in the kitchen cabinet.

“Would you like a Rum and Coke or Vodka and lime juice? I throw over my shoulder. But find him standing right behind me, too close to my ejected bum as I am still in a stretched out stance retrieving the two bottles from the wall closet. Gosh! He is quiet. I slowly straighten everything, retrieve the two bottles, and retract my bums.

I wiggle the two bottles in his face and ask, “So what will it be mister?” He is too close. The summer heat he has gathered into his shirt on the ride home is now radiating onto my equally over heated body. He leans in, as if I need any more closeness from him, and says, “Vodka lime is good with me. Thanks, honey.”

I hide my nervousness by putting the Vodka bottle in his hand, “Here you know what to do with this. Pour your measure of Vodka in that glass over there while I go look for the lime-juice in the refrigerator.”

I walk around him to escape his enveloping heat. His arm snakes out, circles my waist and then hoists me to his left hip. With his other hand he pulls my chin up to make me look into his eyes.

“Are you nervous Ms. Sharma?”

“No.” I spit out a little too sharply.

I shake my head to both affirm the negative and loosen his grip on my chin. He knows what I am trying and instantly his grip tightens. Then quickly lets go only to skim his index finger across my cheek in a gentle slow caress. His thumb caresses my lower lip as he continues to stare at me. His breathing has changed as has mine. I think he might kiss me but he is content to rub his thumb back and forth across my lip. I can feel my lip swell from his insistent pressure and my nether parts are doing the clenching and unclenching dance once again. The trickle of wetness is threatening to be a flood and he hasn’t even done anything beyond touching my lips. Seems like he has hit the jackpot of erogenous zones on my body. Confusion mixing with arousal is more potent than Vodka missing with sweet lime juice. My mind is trying to take over from my body. My body wants to stay but my mind wants me to leave. But where would I go? This is my apartment. If anyone had to go it was him. And his mind was certainly not asking his body to leave because of the way he was looking at me still.

His head dips and I know I am going to get my first kiss. I panic and jerk my head to the side so his lips land on my cheek instead. He lightly kisses my cheek and then increases the pressure to plant a deep, wet one there. Suddenly he lets me go, smiling at me as he does so. I am sure I am all red in face even if my brown skin will not show it. There is enough heat in my cheeks to light a forty watt bulb. I quickly open the fridge door and stick my head in. The coolness therein is divine. I want to stay like this. I want all the heat to dissipate before I face him again.

I know he is still behind me, looking at me, waiting. I find the lime juice, close the door rather loudly and finally turn to face him. I try indignant when I hand him the juice. Instead of taking the juice from my hand, he takes the juice with my hand clasped around it and pours it into his vodka-laced glass. And his eyes stay locked on me all this while. I think he is waiting for a reaction from me and I give him nothing. He lets go of my hand and the bottle. Then takes a big swig of his concoction. He smacks his lips rather exaggeratedly to express his satisfaction. “Not half as bad as I thought. I should give this a name.” I can’t help but smile and there is his patent smile again.

God! I am dizzy now with his foreplay of the minimalist yet sexually arousing kind. My head is spinning. I need to sit down. So I invite him to sit as well. I motion for him to sit on the couch and once he is seated, I go in search of peanuts for him to enjoy with his drink. Yes, I am Ms. thoughtful even when flustered. I bring back a small bowl and offer it to him. Instead of picking up a delicate number of these peanuts, he takes my wrist and pulls me gently. I flop next to him quite indelicately but feel quite proud that the peanuts are safe in their bowl. I use the bowl now to shape a space between our thighs—as if the shape of the bowl is the armor I need to keep him at bay. I feel silly but I hope I am not conveying either. I pick at the peanut bowl as my heart flutters like a bird in a cage. My spine straightens even more as I feel his gaze burning into my sides. I hear him crunch and sip. Another crunch and another sip. There are no words. Just bodily sounds emanating in some preconceived rhythm. I think fifteen minutes in, I can’t take it anymore. I need a drink too.