Will She Be Mine (6 page)

He laughed. “Spread your antenna wider, RK. Just like select vegetables and fruits are grown with special care in countries like ours with the explicit purpose of exporting them to foreign countries, especially to the West, to earn money, families these days grow kids to send them abroad. The formula is simple. Be born in this nation, absorb her culture, have your roots here, but settle down abroad as soon as you get the chance and replant yourselves in new soil. I don’t know if it’s a kind of business, but these are the export quality
desis
I referred to.”

I chuckled at the description. “I'd never settle down abroad. In my opinion only third rate people do that.”

“Why?” he asked as if affronted.

“There are unspoken social undercurrents prevalent in the society there. They consider us invaders.”

“What do you mean?”

“From what I’ve heard, they don’t welcome the idea of colored people settling in their countries, despite their claims of being an equal opportunity employer and bla-bla.”

“But the day-to-day life there is much more systematic, cleaner ethically and comfortable. They don’t deny us any of that, though we’re outsiders.” He paused. “My sources of information are authentic.”

“As if mine aren’t. From what I know of social interactions there, one gradually becomes aware of their aloofness towards us, their condescending attitude and racial undertones,” I defended, but later assumed a more broadminded view. “In a way, it’s natural for them to feel frustrated. It’s a fact that we do take away their jobs. I might feel the same way if they came to our country and took away our jobs.”

“Not everyone’s like that.”

“There are exceptions everywhere, but I'd never settle down outside India.”

“Since neither you nor I have been there, you’re as right as me. Or as wrong.”

“Agreed. So let’s not bash our heads about life there.”

“Let’s drop the topic,” he agreed promptly.

“In my opinion, a few visits to the US for a few days at a time are fine, but no longer than that.”

“I agree,” was the prompt rejoinder. But he kept the discussion alive, wanting to have the last word. “Who'd want ABCDs anyway?”

I looked up with interest. “I suppose that’s another spin on being a
desi
?”

“You could call it that,” he replied enigmatically. “You know, RK, I think we should include some of these acronyms in our newsletter’s articles. This campus has a mixed community- the younger ones aspiring to go abroad to the US, while a few older ones returning to settle back here, for whatever reason- each disillusioned in his or her own way. The terminology might appeal to the readers.”

“What's ABCD, by the way?”

“I thought you knew. American Born Confused Desi.”

“Is someone from your family settled there, who’s confused?” I asked with a straight face. “Who told you all this?”

“Actually, I heard from someone in your family who’s settled there,” he replied smugly.

“But I don’t have anyone from my family settled there?”

“You haven’t kept track, that’s all,” he said coolly. “Check at home about uncles and aunties and forgotten cousins. Some of them will turn up there. All Indians have a thread in the US. Those who don’t yet, will have one day.”

I smiled. “Anyway, who told you about ABCDs?”

“Unlike you, I don’t rush home every other weekend. I spend my time collaborating with senior students whenever I get a chance. Some of them share their experiences,” he replied dreamily. “RK, in general I love human psychology and am usually keen to observe how people change habits, why they turn greedy, when they start treating their parents as babysitters, as use-and-throw objects.”

I was impressed. He managed to sound quite philosophical at times and definitely artistic in his thoughts. When I mentioned this, he shook his head.

“I’ve no artistic quality, but I do admire your skills. I like your musical tunes,” he complimented. “It’s a rare ability. I sometimes feel you're wasting your time studying engineering. You should have studied homeopathy or pursued music. Don’t you ever feel like that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What else could I do?”

“Why?”

“I guess I lack the drive to do things independently,” I admitted. “It’s not enough to have talent. Otherwise, I’d have been painting at an embassy long ago. One should be able to present one’s skills to the world convincingly, taking appropriate risks at the right time. Otherwise, you're absolutely right; who wants to study engineering? I always wanted to become a musician. It wasn’t a mere hobby like my other interests.”

“I love creativity in any form,” he said with unabashed admiration. “Unfortunately, I don't have any special abilities. But I love music.” He looked at me seriously, “RK, if you ever get half a chance in life to sell your music for a living, grab it and just don’t look back. I'm sure you'll not feel disappointed.”

It was a big compliment from a peer. Was my music really that good? It didn’t sound like he was kidding or pulling my leg. He really loved everything Indian, from
desi
food and
desi
clothes, to old style Indian singers like Sehgal, old monuments and traditions.

“Give me a moment, I’m going to the loo,” he said suddenly. “Will be back in a moment.”

“Wait, I’ll come along,” I called after him.

After relieving ourselves, as we stood at the washbasin to wash our hands, he pointed to another tube of toothpaste that someone had forgotten there.

“Your turn,” he offered generously. “Remember, these instances are becoming too frequent in F-mid,” he said in an undertone, referring to our hostel wing in hall 1 which was for third and fourth year students. “We must avoid further temptations in the future lest we become the prime suspects.”

I gave a crooked smile as I followed his finger to the tube. Without word, he took a step out of the restroom to watch the dormitory, while I made sure there was no one inside the shower cabins.

We winked at each other as I uncapped the tube of toothpaste and squeezed it generously all over the big mirror, before placing it back carefully on the washbasin just as I’d found it. With a satisfied laugh we headed back to my room to continue our discussion.

Inside my room he stopped dramatically at the mirror nailed to the wall with a small platform at its base to hold the comb, shaving kit, tooth brush and other such items.

“Where’s your toothpaste?” he asked innocently, scrutinizing the small platform.

I craned my neck over his shoulder to check for myself. Indeed, my tube of toothpaste was missing. I bent down to check the floor beneath, and then looked up as he giggled.

“What’s the matter?” I asked suspiciously.

He pointed a thumb in the direction of the restroom, breaking into a full blown laughter. “Didn’t you recognize your tube when you squeezed it so happily, dude?”

I got up and aimed a punch at him which he dodged.

“Don’t try the same stunt with my paste,” he warned, tears of laughter streaming down his eyes. “You already had your turn when you crashed my bicycle under the pile in hall 2 last year.”

I sighed and raised my hands. Life in F-wing of hall 1 was the best of my four years at MSIT Kanpur.

As our years of graduate study meandered to an end, I was surprised, and felt a little betrayed, when PS promptly gunned for a scholarship to the US upon graduation.

Most of my other friends too turned out to be more practical and grounded in reality than me. The various scholarships to the US colleges they obtained at graduation went to prove my point. They saw life as it was, while I meandered my way through heartbreaks, misguided spirituality and confused goals.

After four years of rigorous study, when I graduated from MSIT with a marketing job in a company specializing in information technology, I gathered courage for the first time to spell out my years of yearning and proposed to Shalini. My heart was in my mouth as I expressed my desire with a lot of hope. Would she marry me? She was still grappling with her college and promptly said 'no'.

I felt shattered and surprised. Our years of friendliness and bonding meant nothing to her! With just another year of college remaining she was certainly not as young anymore to not have thought of matrimony. Didn’t she have adult desires or were her adult feelings meant for somebody else?

I sank into an abyss. She had rejected me so casually. There was no point living without her. I felt betrayed and abandoned. My best friend had gone to the US for higher studies, while the person I wanted as my partner for life didn’t want me. Life would be unlivable after this. I dug out the song I’d penned in high school about the future of our love and sadly read the lyrics to myself.

I have loved you, More than I could show,

Whether awake or asleep, Wherever I go,

I think of you, and only, only you...

You make up my dreams, and my heartbeats,

Every moment I think of only you...

Never did I feel, till I saw you again

What Love could mean, Or Joy and Pain...

I added a few more lines and tried to infuse my numb mind with some hope. But there was none. I could die pining for her, but before that I had to be sure why she said no and whether she meant it permanently. I had to know her heart. Was there no hope for me? Something to live for?

I busied myself composing a tune for the lyrics I had written. It was a way to keep myself occupied. Otherwise, life held no meaning without her. My composition would fulfill my need for her, and bring out the pathos of my lacerated heart, articulating feelings she refused to listen or understand. Maybe the song would impress her and encourage her to think about me more seriously.

The melody I composed for the lyrics started looking nicer with each passing day and I recorded it into our tape recorder. Beyond that there was little for me to do at the present. I made up my mind to learn music composition and arrangement in the future, and arrange a musical band around my melodies to make them sound spontaneous and rhythmic. If I could become half as popular as R. D. Burman, she might reconsider my proposal.

Somehow, my parents didn't share my enthusiasm of embarking upon a new career in music, after grinding through four years of engineering. I explained that the campus job offer I’d landed was in the field of marketing,
not
engineering, so anyway my engineering education of four years would lack application. They ignored my rationale and waywardness without actively objecting. That's something I shall always remember about them. They encouraged me when they could, but did not create an issue or stop me if they disagreed.

Considering their lack of encouragement to let me consider a formal course in music, I felt I needed to generate greater spontaneity in my musical rhythms and beats on my own, more than the automatic accompaniment presets of my small synthesizer keyboard allowed. I wanted to compose arrangements that listeners wouldn’t laugh at.

However, life was presently a burden. It was difficult to persist with my passion for music composition in the aftermath of Shalini’s rejection. There would be enough opportunities later in life if I lived, to become a proficient musician if I still wanted.

For the time being I took to spirituality to get away from the sorrow of her rejection and started chanting God's names on
tulsi
beads that I started carrying around in a bead-bag slung about my neck. I ignored the queer looks I got from neighbors and relatives. Some snickered behind my back, some in front, but their snide comments were insufficient to penetrate my numb gloom. I chucked the marketing job offer that had come my way in the college campus recruitment. My parents were heartbroken but faced it boldly.

I visited nearby holy places, but couldn't intrinsically enjoy the serene atmosphere there. My morose, lovelorn mind was elsewhere. I had a suspicion I was a sham in spirituality, regularly daydreaming of miracles that would unite me with Shalini in the future. With this clandestine purpose in mind I tried chanting God's names.

After I entered the spiritual fold and hobnobbed with likeminded folks in pilgrimage places, I came across well versed academicians, educationists, businessman and people from literally all walks of life, compelled or convinced by their experiences to pursue spiritual tidings. There were some others who’d been conned by crafty monks to part with their money in the name of religion. There were all kinds who visited holy places. I wondered how many would persevere on the path they’d undertaken. How many were sincere seekers? And how many shams like me? How many had carried their material ambitions into the spiritual seclusion of these pilgrimage places out of sheer frustration, as I’d done?

After spending some time practicing spirituality at such places, I returned home to keep a furtive watch on her. I’d sometimes stealthily borrow my father's old, secondhand car to drop her to college. Father’s office was close by and he usually walked down. In any case, his earnings were not so handsome as to pay for the cost of gas for driving even the short distance to office on a daily basis.

Alongside studying for her graduation in economics, Shalini was also preparing for KIM entrance exam to study MBA at one of the Kuber Institutes of Management and enrolled in a local training institute for the purpose. The summer would decide her fate, whether she got selected to an MBA course following her graduation or dropped the idea altogether to settle down- hopefully with me.

"Alright!" I said with exasperation as I drove her one evening to the training institute she’d enrolled in, to prepare for the KIM entrance exam. The heavy office traffic outside was in my favor. It allowed me to drive slowly, giving me sufficient time to resolve matters of the heart with her. "You refused my proposal once.”

“What do you mean by
once
?” she asked, apparently taken aback. “Isn't once enough?”

But I wasn’t to be deterred so easily. “One day you'll marry someone- won't you?”

She regarded me silently, without replying. We had stopped at a traffic light and I was in no hurry to start.