The Plunge (6 page)

Anjali waited anxiously in the reception area of Siddharth’s office.

He had some urgent work in the administrative wing.

Would he blame her for her sudden and unexpected reaction during the interview when the editor questioned the merit of her writing?

“These are subbed stories. These don’t prove your merit as a writer. How do I know that you can write?” She couldn’t think of a reply when the editor asked her that, flinging the copies of her published articles towards her, across the table.

She wished she could punch the man in his face. What arrogance! That’s when she decided to storm out of the interview midway, with a hasty “Thank you”.

Tears threatened to flow out of her eyes. Anjali she felt embarrassed about the emotions that were wriggling out, making her uncomfortable.

Was Siddharth angry with her? Did he think she had behaved childishly with her rude response? Thoughts raced in her mind as she sat, unable to relax.

“God, please, please…help me,” she chanted.

She was nervous from the moment she had seen him. And now it had turned into awkwardness. She ran her tongue over her dry lips.

She had avoided Siddharth’s eyes from the instant they said hello. When she dared to look at his face briefly, all she could see was an outline and vague features, and his grin. Their eyes met only a few times.

Anjali wiped her sweaty palms on her sari and clasped her restive hands, anxious to steady them.

She had not imagined Siddharth to be attractive. He had a young face and a smart stride, and not the middle-aged figure she had expected to meet. He was not boasting when he described himself as tall, dark and handsome. She had thought their meeting would break the charm. Instead, she felt more drawn to him. It was something to worry about.

She had lived this moment a thousand times in her mind, her dream moment, ever since she had developed a desperate longing for him.

It was Siddharth’s idea to meet in a public place the first time to put her at ease before the interview. And she had messed it up. How stupid she was!

“Come on, let’s go for lunch,” his words woke her up from thoughts. She had not seen him emerge from the room and walk to her side.

Anjali followed him in silence like a child involved in some mischief. She almost floated in the direction in which he led her through the busy street.

A constant trembling travelled through her body, which worsened when his arm accidentally brushed against hers. She felt a tingle on her skin, and goose bumps all over her body. It was as if her nerves were reaching out, wanting to connect.

It was a small restaurant, fit to accommodate about twenty people, and served mostly Indian food. Square tables were arranged with just enough space for the waiters to walk around. The purple walls had paintings by unknown artists.

They were among the few customers at that odd hour, suitable only for high tea. Nobody around seemed to be interested in them. This was typical Mumbai, non-probing.

He did not discuss the interview. She felt relieved.

“What will you have?” he asked, revealing no emotion.

She stared at the menu. Her eyes flitted through the sections: Starters, Punjabi, South Indian, Chinese…, but the items listed in the sections failed to register.

Anjali sat undecided. He ordered vegetable cutlets for both of them. She was too nervous to eat. When she tried to gulp down the first mouthful with tea, she spilled it over her sari.

While she sat totally spaced out, he reached for the napkins and handed them to her. She tried to clean up the mess with little success.

Without a warning, he rose from the chair opposite and sat next to her. She looked at him searchingly. Siddharth squeezed her hand and smiled.

It was a moment she had imagined many times, but the experience was far more thrilling. Anjali trembled more as she grasped his hand in desperation as if she feared he might disappear suddenly.

They did not talk for a while. Their mutual attraction had grown manifold since they had met, Anjali realised.

It was raining steadily when they stepped out of the restaurant. She loved getting drenched, which he seemed to know intuitively. He held her hand as they waded through the monsoon’s steady flow. He would feel her unsteady palm in his grip, she worried.

She looked at him with raised brows when he shifted his hand to hold her closer. His arm wandered around her, gripping her waist, crushing her towards him. The rain poured heavily on them. A shudder travelled through her body.

He waved down a taxi to reach the hotel. They had planned to spend his remaining time together.

She went into the bathroom to wash the slush off her feet and to dry herself. Siddharth dashed in without hesitation. She was shocked when he undressed and tugged her towards him into the shower. It was too late for her to protest, for he was already nudging her out of her clothes.

As the water rained down on their bodies, he held her closer. She felt a slight awkwardness when his aroused sex pushed against her.

Unlike earlier instances, when she had been with men who were interested in her body, she felt a strange ease. She did not feel the usual hatred for the male body. She did not find it revolting.

The scent of his perspiration was appealing. Was it musk? Arak? Tobacco? It made her want to move closer to him. Passion flamed through her when he rubbed his lips over hers. She felt like a cloth in the sun, water evaporating from every pore, leaving behind the cool spirit.

“These are so soft,” he whispered, fondling her breasts. He moved his face to them, and worked his way to her lust. She closed her eyes.

“You have such shapely hips,” he said. She smiled. She knew it and was glad he had noticed it. She could feel her thighs shiver hysterically from excitement.

In bed, they sought each other more. He appeared to be impatient with her slight resistance. Why didn’t he assert himself more?

Then, unexpectedly for her, he urged his tongue through her slightly parted lips. She felt awkward and recoiled. She turned away from him. This was madness. It was wrong for them to plunge into sex on their first meeting. But this might be her only chance to experience intimacy with him.

He seemed to have read her mind. Stretching his hands, he caressed her sculpted back. He moved closer, kissed her neck and brushed his lips along her spine. She struggled in vain to hide her excitement to the exploits of his tongue along her hips.

She grabbed his hands, held them, as if to stop their search. She remained still for a while without turning over to face him, as if she wanted him to go no further. Then, surprising even herself, she turned over. She looked into his eyes pleadingly. She held him tight, basking in the yearning on Siddharth’s face.

He was, by now, a part of her. She relished his presence in her body. As they moved together, it felt as if a deeper part of her was rising into the rest of her: emerging as a newfound self.

There was something special about their lovemaking. She had not merely led him into her lusting body. Their union held something more, something special. She was experiencing him like an ascetic would the divine. She worshipped him. But why?

Afterwards, she raised her head to kiss him, to feel his mouth again on hers. His eyes were closed, his breathing deeper. He ought to be a part of her body, not just be near her. She snuggled into the warmth of his chest.

Anjali felt sure about him. He was her man.

He drifted into sleep, his arms around her. She closed her eyes to thoughts.

.

8
    

CHAPTER

Nostalgia

I
t’s cruel, Anjali thought as she paced back and forth outside the house. The joyful chirping of the birds that flew about in the colony failed to ease her restlessness.

A day after he was gone, she could not come to terms with the reality that their relationship had matured to a physical level.

Was it right to have given in to desire? Why not, when she had felt sure while they were together? But why did it all have to end so abruptly?

Swapna had panicked when she told her about Siddharth’s intended visit. “Don’t meet him outside the office, OK?” Anjali had burst out laughing when she said that.

“Please Anjali, at least make sure you meet him in a public place,” she had pleaded. Swapna had seen how desperately she was drawn to Siddharth and wanted to protect her from him, Anjali knew.

Swapna went livid when she reluctantly confided their tryst a while ago. “I had warned you, stupid. Why didn’t you listen?” she had yelled. Anjali could imagine the expression on Swapna’s face on the other end of the phone.

Swapna had been partner in her adventures during their school days, whether it was cracking the mystery of the old watchman and his cats or discovering the secret of the bleeding women.

They were in class five when they attempted to unravel the mystery of the aged man and his felines. The boarders had returned from the mid-term vacation, some sobbing and clinging to their mothers.

There was news. The watchman who had lived at the far end of the music hall had died the previous night.

Anjali had nudged Swapna during the prayer meeting and whispered her concern, “What will become of his cats?”

The old man had four or five cats and a bunch of kittens for company. He had, otherwise, a lonely life in the corner of the music hall, which was modified into a tiny living quarter they called shed.

The hall was where the junior students gathered for their music lessons. The children sang her favourite, “Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh, over the fields we go, laughing all the way…” and other songs. It was fun singing ‘Jingle Bells’, imagining herself on a sleigh dashing through the snow, picturing the snowfall she had seen in the
Soviet Union
magazines her father used to bring home. She loved reading them during vacations.

The music hall turned into a dining room for day scholars during lunch break.

The music class was a disgusting experience when it was after lunch break. The hall smelled of all kinds of food: rice, curry, chutney, buttermilk, and dry bird droppings left by crows that pecked on the food. They lay scattered all over the place, emanating a revolting odour. The droppings resembled abstract paintings on the floor, right where the children had to sit for their music lessons.

The watchman locked the main gate of the school compound in the evening and opened it early in the morning when the priest came in to conduct mass at the chapel.

The girls occasionally strayed into the area to snoop. The flowing white beard and moustache, the long hair, sharp nose, thin lips, and piercing look made the otherwise shabbily dressed watchman an enigmatic subject for her. There was something cryptic about his life. A secret life, she had supposed.

“This man was handsome when young.” Swapna had looked at her disapprovingly when Anjali made that observation years ago. Swapna did not trust her judgment on looks, even then.

The watchman had caught Anjali’s fancy. He spoke to no one, not even to the children. He whispered, but only to his cats. He did not cook. They used to send him food from the boarding kitchen, which he shared with his cats. An
ayah
brought food to his room thrice a day. She, too, was treated with indifference.

Before the old man’s death, Anjali had proposed an investigation into his secret life. Swapna was willing to join the mission. So was Sujala, another classmate. What followed was a shocking find.

A Sunday afternoon was fixed for the expedition, the free play hour after lunch. They had snuck out of the boarding area, passed through the parlour unnoticed, and crept to the music hall next to the main gate of the school. One after another, like ants in a row, the three girls reached the old man’s quarter.

He sat mumbling something to one of the cats while forcing another struggling animal to stay between his thighs.

He looked very savage at that moment. The old man was naked, except for a crumpled
dhoti
around his waist. Mouth agape, he huffed. He was up to something disgusting, his hand shoved into his groin and other vulgar gestures had suggested. But exactly what he was trying to do, Anjali learned only many years later.

“Oh God,” hissed Swapna, “Eek…what’s he doing?”

The watchman turned his head towards the door. The girls held hands, sweaty and shaken.

“Run,” said Sujala and fled the scene, Swapna and Anjali close on her heels.

“I hate him,” Anjali hissed. The other girls looked back as they ran, still perplexed.

The watchman had reminded Anjali of Sugadan uncle, another man she loathed.