My legs are splayed up in the air, and my hair is tucked away beneath the cushion, threatening to scatter in rebellion, as I read, ‘The Pedagogy of the Oppressed.’
The doorbell rings, and I stay in my repose, partly out of reluctance since it is not my house, and partly because of sheer laziness. Savitri didi emerges out of the kitchen, her gait brimming with confidence that comes from routine. I pass her an awkward smile, submitting to her authority.
The door opens, and I, as a naturally curious person, rest half my eye in that direction. Savitri didi is unperturbed; she is used to seeing random orphans that my friend Tina fosters show up unannounced at all hours of the day. Arjun looks at me, slightly destabilised because he didn’t anticipate me being here, let alone stretched on a sofa across from him.
His eyes first narrow in measurement and then take on a practised congeniality.
“Oh, hi, I just came to drop off these prawns my mother got made,” he says, addressing me.
“Oh yeah, sure,” I say to him blankly, slowly registering his existence. I watch him quickly regain his social graces as he asks Savitri didi how she is doing. So typical, he couldn’t even let me have a minute of his composure. Savitri didi is also used to seeing a lot of incomplete stories between men and women, so she murmurs something incomprehensible about ‘bhaiya log’* and returns to the kitchen.
The full scene suddenly hits me. I’m thankful to my mom for buying me a new pair of shorts, but I am not wearing a bra. I have also not replied to his text announcing his arrival in India for the past two weeks. It's my turn to be frazzled, but it's not a big deal because I don’t have any hang-ups about looking composed. I get up, move my hair in front and clear my throat. I look him in the eyes and say, “Yeah, so.”
He laughs; he likes watching me lose control. I am convinced he thinks it boils down to the effect he has on people. As for me, I like letting go; I am more truthful in that regard.
I attempt to assume the role of a host, by way of the seniority of my existence in this house and ask if he wants something to drink. Sure, he says. He is annoying me already. What is sure? I decide not to ask and gesture him towards the kitchen. He starts tinkering with the prawns and negotiating with Savitri didi on how to store them. I lean on the door, already feeling unnecessary.
He looks at me and asks if I’d like a cup of coffee, and I say yes. I resign to the sofa. Sometimes, I am glad he takes control. He comes back with the cups and asks me what I have been up to. I smile.
“Nothing really, just wasting time, as you can see. How about you? How is your trip going?”
I see him settle down and relax. He narrates a string of incidents we both don’t really care about. We are two wild animals calculating who would make the first move, or if anyone would at all. This could end here, small talk, he leaves, we never see each other again. He will do it, I predict. He nurses quite an affinity for drama, or more accurately, enjoys creating it. Like a director. My life, on the other hand, happens to me, and I just sit in post-mortem later. I know he would much rather create a situation than have it thrust upon him, like today.
He leans in, locks his eyes with me and drawls lazily, “Why haven’t you met me yet?”
All kinds of practical and incredulous responses rush through my brain. Because you have a girlfriend? Why would I meet you? Why are you entitled to my time? Or I could just be dismissive and say something banal like I haven’t found the time. But there are very few people that you can talk about meaningful things to, meaninglessly. So I humour him.
“Why do you think?”
“You should have come out with us on Friday, it was a lot of fun,” he doesn’t take the bait. I resume my small talk and tell him what I had heard about their hangout.
He nods and sips, moving his elbow to rest on the sofa’s back frame. I fold my legs facing him, resting my back on the sofa’s arm.
“Seeing anyone interesting?” he asks me.
“Oh, you mean after you?” I can be quite unbridled if I am bored enough.
“I am sure not more interesting than me,” he teasingly retorts, getting into form.
“Don’t be too sure. Anyway, I always know how it’s going to end right at the beginning, so it’s pointless to date.”
“Really? And how would it end with us?”
“You mean if we ever started?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Haan, wahi batade,” he says in Hindi, splattering his voice with guttural giggles, discrediting the conversation.
I put my elbow on the sofa’s back frame too, and move my head to rest my head against my arm. I’d been waiting for this opportunity to demonstrate how intelligent and nonchalant I am.
“Well, if you ever asked me out, it’d obviously be out of some selfish urge, like not having someone to talk to.”
“Obviously,” he repeats humorously.
“And I’d have said yes out of curiosity,” I try to rush through, but he interrupts me. “Oh, you would?”
I already want to deny and stop this. I hate him. “For this specific thought experimentation, yes,” I counter compulsively.
“Go on,” he goads me. “What would happen next?”
“We would have a lot of interesting conversations. For a while. About random things,” I pause. He doesn’t say anything.
I continue,“Externally, you’d be convinced of my singularity and would narrate your love to anyone who’d be willing to listen. Internally, though, you’d be thinking about how my fingers are too short, or why I’d wear strapped slippers to a formal dinner.”
“You’ve short fingers? Show!” He raises his eyebrows in mock concern. I roll my eyes, “I’m perfect.”
I turn to the front and stretch my neck, taking a deep breath. It dawns on me that I don’t actually know how it would end, because I don’t actually know anything about the stranger sitting beside me. He likes to go to jazz gigs over the weekend with his brother. What does a penchant for jazz signify? An inclination to break rules? An acceptable and mandated genre to like for a person from a certain background? Does he listen to rap, maybe secretly? The more attempts I make to dissect, the more blatant the lack of information becomes. I suffuse this lack with an arsenal of assumptions. Depending on my mood towards him, the assumptions lean positive or negative.
Clarity finds you in the worst times. Why did I think this discussion would be a representation of self-assuredness? It is rather a corny performance. I actually need to get up and leave.
“I am quite enjoying your performance,” he cuts in. His eyes wander towards the kitchen, distracted.
Performance? He really knows me, I think. I feel myself soften. Knows what? A pretty common word in the English dictionary? He probably means performance as in rating my ability, while I think I am being performative.
I gather my hands beside me to get up, but he stops me, “How does it end?”
I abruptly tattle, “And then we would both desire something more from the other, you’d know what, but I wouldn’t. You’d obviously try to extract more vulnerability out of me, but I wouldn’t comply. You see, I’ll see through your false vulnerability through your concocted stories, so I’d never feel safe. You’d get frustrated after a while.”
“You’ll see through me, would you?” He stretches his hand so it is almost touching my elbow, but he takes care not to touch me. I remain still, debating whether moving effortlessly would convey greater indifference.
“No?” I challenge.
“I’m not that bad, you know. It’s all in your head.” “Well, it is all in my head,” I emphasise.
“And then?”
“And then, you’d start telling people how I am not really showing up in the relationship and how I refuse to listen to you. The less I would believe in your stories, the more you would need to punish me. I’d obviously not retaliate, and you’d get even more frustrated.”
“You know I am not that bad, right?” he says seriously.
I take a deep breath. Turn towards the wall. “You’d obviously believe in your stories. You have to say something to your conscience as well. For plausible deniability.”
He starts fiddling with the objects around him. Pauses and says, “Let’s hear more of what you think about me”
I don’t say anything, so he moves an inch closer. “I mean it, I am not taking it seriously. Let’s hear it.”
I smile and move my neck. “Well, you’d obviously know I am an angel so hurting me would irritate your subconscious. I think you’d distance yourself.”
“What about you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know what hit me from start to finish.” “And what if I don’t leave you. What if I keep you around?” “Then we’d both be miserable.”
He turns playful. “You mean like now?”
I smile and narrow my eyes, “Another one of your stories. You are not miserable.” “And what would you know?” his voice drops.
“Anyway, none of this would have happened, you know better.”
He switches on his charm and smiles at me, “And do I?” “Go, go meet Tina,” I flail my hands, pointing to her room.
Savitri didi enters to clear the cups, unmistakably curious. She asks him if he will stay for lunch. He answers that he will if he feels like it.
He continues sitting. It’s all very annoying.
,
*men people
*Yeah, just tell that.
About the Author: Tanvi is a lawyer and a theatre practitioner who lives in New Delhi. Her work has previously been published in The Hemlock, The Quint and FairObserver.
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