They say that the groom is not allowed to set eyes upon the bride until the wedding is performed. It is a century old tradition, where, at the ‘shubho-drishti’, the priest removes the banana leaves and man and wife look upon each other for the first time, the love-light in their eyes. It is just like you to insist upon this tradition, for, underneath unconventional philosophies, you can be as old-fashioned as your grandmother.
I can imagine the blush upon your cheeks as the banana leaves are lifted. I know there is a dark patch on your shoulder that you are ashamed of, I know every curve of your body, and I know that, even today, you have used a fake Christian Dior perfume behind your ears, on your wrists, between your breasts. I wonder which one it is. Is it the exotic Midnight or is it the first one- the dark purple pot- which you bought from the corner shop in Park Street, which sells every well-known perfume at half price? You discovered it on a rainy day, when we had both sought refuge under the inadequate shelter of the blue plastic cover, hurriedly fixed by the street vendors. While you debated between Chanel and Dior, I looked at the water seeping into your dirty red shoes, through what was unmistakably a hole. It was the only part of you that I could look at without being dazzled. I never did imagine that beauty could exist in the form of unkempt hair and ill-fitting jeans. Yet, there you were.
The rain came down in torrents and you had Poison wrapped in a thin brown paper bag, an ignoble package indeed for such a great name. I ventured a smile as you carefully put it into the inner pocket of your bright orange backpack. “You know it’s probably fragrant water, right?” The shopkeeper eyed me nastily and you gave a low chuckle. “Of course I do. But as I think the big brands are simply cheating us out of hard-earned money for their fragrant water, I’d rather have this with the look-alike bottles.”
You never did buy the original. For years after that, you returned to the corner shop on Park Street and made friends with the shopkeeper’s son, who, when his father wasn’t at the stall, let you buy scents by Chanel at a further discount. You keep every bottle in the bottom drawer of your study table, which you have lined with protective tissue. In my turn, I didn’t throw away the torn, mouldy red shoes you left in the cab we shared as you leapt off on the curb, barefoot. When you called the next day, I never told you that I’d taken them home and dried them under a lamp before I put them amongst the prized white Puma sneakers- my single extravagance. I didn’t want to scare you away. I was already surprised that you had agreed to share a cab with a perfect stranger. I have adored rainy days since then.
I would debate everyday whether or not to call you. I didn’t want to harass you and yet I longed to hear your voice, that serious tone with only a hint of laughter in it that made it seem as if you were mocking everyone, mocking the world. Sometimes I mustered up the courage to send you a text message, about nothing in particular, and yet I waited, sweating, until you replied. A few words from you would brighten the gloomiest day. I felt like an adolescent all over again, like I did when I would skulk in the neighbourhood park, waiting to catch a glimpse of the exquisite girl who would keep watch on her five year old brother as he romped about. She had a perfect face, a stunning figure and was quite possibly a full decade older than me. Now you, with your imperfections and careless attitude seem so much more beautiful.
I still remember the day you called, a week before your birthday, to tell me that you were going to turn twenty and that you wanted me to be a part the celebrations at your house. I was too stunned to reply and it wasn’t until much later that I felt an indescribable joy. I stood for a long while under the street lamp in front of your house in Ballygunge, simply gazing up at the facade. I had no idea that you came from so affluent a family. My own commonness had never struck me before as it did when I looked over the low grey gate into the long driveway and garden beyond. I thought of the two-bedroom apartment I shared with my parents in Behala and it seemed hopelessly small. I watched at least a dozen of your friends sail up in chauffeur driven cars before I mustered up the courage to follow them in. The only thing that stopped me from turning back was the delight I imagined on your face when you unwrapped the J’adore on which I had spent four months’ painstakingly saved money. It wasn’t a cheap perfume. When I told you that, you tried hard but failed to hide the disappointment in your eyes. I didn’t know then that you were a bundle of contradictions, that you would spend thousands on an outfit from Marks & Spencer’s, but detested original perfumes. It took me months to understand you and only a few hours to fall in love with you.
I never returned to your house after your twentieth birthday and you never asked me to either. I never quite fit in with your crowd. Your sophisticated friends must have ragged me after I was gone and your mother, impeccably dressed in a blue silk sari and a string of grey pearls, could not keep the condescension out of her eyes. The biriyani she had had delivered from the famous Muslim kabab joint in Park Circus was delicious, but I revelled in the fact that my mother had always entertained guests with a banquet she took all morning to prepare.
We didn’t see each other for weeks after that and we barely exchanged a single text- message. I was afraid that I’d lost you forever, that you had seen for yourself the wide gulf between us, that your mother had convinced you that I was a misfit in your social circle. Then, almost six weeks later, while I was at Lake Market, buying fresh vegetables for lunch, you called. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed you until I heard your laughing voice over the phone. You wanted to watch the new James Bond movie. Not a word of explanation for your disappearance. You had the world at your beck and call. Your arrogance annoyed me as much as it exhilarated me. I met you outside the mall. You thrust a brown paper bag into my hands. Jovan Musk for Men. There was a look of apology in your eyes which you couldn’t put into words; and suddenly I realized that I didn’t need to hear that apology.
I smiled at you. “Is this from....?”
"...our shop”, you said.
Our shop. We belonged.
And I threw myself into the invigorating journey of getting to know you. With each discovery I felt myself falling deeper into an inexorable web of intense emotion. The hours I spent without you seemed almost intolerable. Every snatchet of conversation remains with me....your tirade against male chauvinism, your dislike for lip gloss, your weakness for copper jewellery.
Every inconsequential quirk made me smile. Your habit of wearing striped socks with everything, all the time, in any season. Having every meal with Tabasco sauce, even fish curry. The high that the smell of petrol gave you. Saving chocolate wrappers in a glass jar.
Do you remember how I stole my neighbour’s bike from the garage one afternoon and took you out on a spin? You put your arms around me and held me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. We stopped at a dhaba which sold excellent chicken rolls. We ordered our rolls and roared away after they delivered it, without paying. You felt horribly guilty after that.
It was the first time you showed any evidence of having a conscience.
You started lying to your mother whenever you came to meet me. We would sneak off to movies instead of going to college. You took me to a posh club in the city and signed truffle pastries for us under your father’s membership number. I didn’t let you do that again. There is something so elitist about those institutions and you fit in so perfectly with that set. It was the side of you I liked to pretend didn’t exist. I preferred the other side- the one that wrote funny limericks, the one that cracked dirty jokes, the one that wore cheap perfume.
I applied for a scholarship to Brown University to study Economics. You couldn’t hide the gloom in your eyes when I told you that I’d be leaving in a month, that it would be at least five years until I came back to the country, since my parents could not afford the plane fare back and forth. We were sitting on the broad ledge of the terrace in my block of apartments, looking down at the world from eleven storeys above. You hugged me harder than you’ve ever hugged me before. I felt an intensity from you which I never had detected. I wished then, that I could take it all back, remain in the city, attend university with my friends. I wanted to hold you like that forever, your curls tickling my chin, your shell necklace against my chest, unshed tears in your eyes. I kissed you for the first time that day. And I remember every sensation. I remember the smell of Poison behind your ears, I remember the feel of your lips on my throat, I remember every exquisite touch, and I remember lying on the terrace floor beside you after it was all over, our naked bodies covered with nothing but a light rug, looking up at the stars in the twilight sky.
I never asked you to wait for me although I have always waited for you. And here I am now to witness the love-light in your eyes as the priest lifts the banana leaves. Your mother seems to be satisfied with her son-in-law, who has taken over his father’s successful business, who plays tennis at the club on weekends and who is taking her only daughter to Paris for the honeymoon. The diamond ring on your finger dazzles in the light. It is not from me. It is not my hand you hold as you go seven times around the fire. The only thing I have given you on this auspicious day is a small bottle from the corner shop on Park Street. It has been thrown ignobly amongst the large colourful packages in your room. I step outside for a breath of fresh air. The only thing that fills my nostrils is the fragrance of cheap perfume, and I can only hope that you have found the happiness which you gave me so many years ago.
Comments