Taboo

He looked up at the large clock on the wall. It was two minutes to four. With fluttering heart he buttoned up his white coat and pulled on his white gloves. It was that time of the day.

“Chal,” he said to his friend, who was still seated with his coat unbuttoned, sipping tea from a small earthen cup. The members will be giving their orders now.”

“It isn’t four yet,” yawned Mukesh, a fat, lazy fellow who rarely did any work. He avoided catching the eye of any member and grumbled if asked to fetch even a glass of water.

“Rich swines” he would swear under his breath. “Why must we serve them only because they’re financially superior?”

“It’s a job,” said Bahadur quietly, a tall thin man who had been serving at the Club for twenty years now. He had been promoted, two years ago, to Head Bearer. His cap was gold-rimmed; a symbol of his power. He could speak English almost as fluently as the stewards but was aware that he had reached the peak of his career. He knew that he would never be given the job of stewardship. Yet he took a quiet satisfaction in his work, serving swiftly and efficiently, bowing humbly when a ten rupee note was pressed into his palm. It would serve as pocket money for his son, buying for the boy a bar of chocolate or an ice-cream stick. “It’s a job,” he would tell Mukesh, his face impassive, betraying neither anger nor frustration at the latter’s lethargy and aversion to work. “It puts food on the table, a roof above your head and supports your wife and yourself. And it’s not uncomfortable. Would you rather be serving at a Dhaba?”

Mukesh would scowl and shuffle his feet.

“You can’t ever be them,” continued Bahadur, straightening his cap, feeling its gold rim with pride, “and they can never be us.” He waved his hand, indicating the well-dressed men, the pampered wives and the spoilt children sitting outside, rapping out orders to humble bearers dressed in white. “We each have our place in society.”

Mukesh would snort derisively, button up his coat and join Zahid outside, already at his post.

“Boy!” called one of the regulars.

Mukesh pointedly looked in the other direction and Zahid moved forward.

“Ek Nimbu Pani. Sweet.” (One Fresh Lime Water. Sweet.)

While the gentleman signed for his order on the little blue pad, Zahid looked around expectantly.

She was late today. It was a quarter past four. By the time he returned from the kitchen, she was already there, occupying her usual seat, nearest to the ice-cream parlour, the last table at the end of the balcony. His heart leapt and simultaneously he felt a pang of disappointment that he hadn’t seen her enter the verandah, crossing the badminton court with her light, tripping steps. He always saw her making for the last table, setting her tennis racquet down on the chair beside her, and sitting down with a sigh as she twisted her long, dark hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. He had missed that today. She sat now, her head bent intently over a book, waiting for a bearer to pass so that she could place her order. She was never rude or abrupt with them, somehow distancing herself even further by her graciousness. At four-thirty she would pick up her racquet and disappear behind the lawn, into the tennis court .She would emerge two hours later, her white T- shirt clinging to her willowy frame, soaked with perspiration. There would be dirt streaks down her face and yet she would look beautiful.

Zahid made his way towards her, uncomfortably aware that his his face had assumed an expression of forced composure and nonchalance. He came to a halt beside her, gazing at her bent head, taking in the lustre of her dark tresses before she looked up at him. He forced himself to remain impassive as her light eyes swept his face disinterestedly. Not for the first time did he wonder from where she had inherited those decidedly un-Indian eyes, which, to him, marred the perfection of her face, which he gathered she considered to be her best asset.

"Ek Fresh Orange Juice?” (One fresh orange juice) he asked with a half smile, saying what he knew was on the tip of her tongue, yet not wanting to appear too familiar.

Her face broke into a smile and she nodded. “Of course”.

“Anything else?”

“No. Nothing. Thank you.”

She returned to her book and he was forced to come to the painful realization once again that, to her, he was only a bearer. Mukesh, Bahadur, himself- they were all the same to her. They fetched her fresh orange juice at 4:00 pm and grilled ham sandwiches at seven-thirty.

At four-thirty those boys arrived. In his mind they could only be “those boys” He watched jealously as the three of them bounded across the verandah, yelling and hollering as boys of eighteen will. One pulled her hair so that it came cascading down and he had once paused to watch this in the middle of serving a bad-tempered old gentleman tea, who had snapped at him and had told him to hurry up and get on with his work. He had apologized, flushing, and by the time he had finished, they were already racing towards the tennis court. He had watched until she had disappeared behind the canvas curtains separating the lawn from the court. He wondered if one of the boys was her lover. He thought that she often showed a marked preference for one of them, the tallest one with the unkempt hair. He saw her fall back with him sometimes or exit the club with him or accompany him for snacks, smiling at him in that special way that girls reserved only for the ones they liked. To him she was distant and polite, smiling only to seem kind. And for a minute that depressed him. Then he recalled Bahadur’s advice- “You can’t ever be them and they can never be us. We each have our place in society.”

Zahid wondered what it would have been like to have been born into a class that was served instead of one that served. He tried to imagine reclining in the white cane chairs in the verandah or in the lawn, snapping orders for samosas and tea, or polishing off bottles of imported beer in the bar while his wife played bridge; or more importantly, joining her for dinner, playing a match with her and letting her win while he watched her long slender legs sprint across the court after the ball.

“Here Boy! Stop daydreaming. Table One wants his tablecloth changed. There’s a tea stain on it. The children at Table Four are hankering for their club sandwiches. Quick now! ”

Zahid looked around for Mukesh, who, he was surprised to find, was delivering a plate of Masala Dosa to Table Six. He fetched a clean white tablecloth and replaced the soiled one. He went about his work, one eye on the clock, knowing that at six-thirty she would emerge from the court, stopping at the cooler for a glass of chilled water. He wanted to keep a glass of ice water ready for her but that would look too suspicious. Bahadur was very perceptive and once Mukesh got wind of his feelings he would let the entire staff know. He couldn’t bear to be teased about her.

A few minutes after six thirty he saw her making her way to the cooler with that tall fellow who had an arm casually around her shoulder. Zahid unconsciously clenched the napkins he was holding, forming creases on the crisp, starched surfaces. His eyes flashed with anger and jealousy and he wanted to strike that boy, slap his hand away, and though he tried not to think about it, replace that arm with his own. He set the tea tray down on Table 3 harder than he intended to and upset the sugar pot. He was rarely clumsy and the mishap brought him to his senses.

She would return to the verandah again at seven-thirty for grilled ham sandwiches. He knew she spent an hour cooling off in the swimming pool. He had little reason for leaving the verandah, which was his area of duty; but once he had been sent to the pool-side on an errand. He had seen her then, poised on the diving board, almost unrecognizable in the green bathing costume and her hair encased in a black rubber cap. He had watched fascinated as she let herself go and sailed like a bird into the water, going under with barely a splash and emerging gracefully at the centre of the pool.

He hadn’t been able to stay and watch her although he had longed to. He returned to the verandah to wait for an agonizing hour before she appeared, this time clad in jeans, her long wet hair loose down her back. She came determinedly towards him and his heart raced. He stopped removing the soiled glasses from the table beside the water cooler and froze until she halted in front of him. Was she going to accuse him of indecent conduct? Of unacceptable behaviour? Would she expose him in front of the entire staff and members?

“One plate of grilled ham sandwiches,” she said, holding out her perfectly manicured hand to sign for the order.

Relief and disappointment flooded him simultaneously. As she turned around to find an empty table, he saw some white lace fluttering down from the corner of her sports bag. He caught it in mid-air and was mesmerized by the silken softness of it and the feminine beauty it represented. He had never before held a brassiere in his hand. It was simple yet indescribably delicate. In a moment he slipped it into his innermost pocket. He slept with it under his pillow that night, as he would for many nights to come.

It wasn’t until years later, after he had taken a job elsewhere and married a hotel maid, that he could admit to the passion of his first love. His confidante was his young bride, who laughed fondly at his foolishness.