Don't Let Him Know (23 page)

The gatekeeper paused. A flicker of uncertainty crept into his face. ‘You really know him?’ he said.

‘Yes, yes, very well.’ Romola, sensing her newfound advantage, stressed the ‘very’.

‘Lady, okay, okay.’ The gatekeeper threw up his hands. ‘I’ll ask someone.’

Romola felt a small sense of triumph creeping up her body, swelling in her breast. In the movie in her head, she was rapidly turning into the Queen of Jhansi leading her loyal citizens into battle against the British, her infant son strapped to her back.

‘Who shall I ask? The mistress or the son?’ The gatekeeper glowered at her. ‘Tell me, who should I say you are.’

And that was when all her bravado evaporated. The movie in her head screeched to a halt, the film flapping like a torn pennant while the spool spun round and round in empty circles.

She realized with a jolt that no one other than Leela far away in cold Connecticut knew anything about ‘them’. Even now in her head she put quotes around the ‘them’ as if it was a mysterious biological specimen that needed to be handled gingerly with forceps. And if Leela were to drop dead one day, she would have a hard time believing that any of this had ever happened, that it hadn’t all been a schoolgirl’s dream pressed between her memories like a forgotten flower from a party long ago.

The gatekeeper looked at her. ‘Lady,’ he said not unkindly. ‘You had best get out of here before you get hurt. This is not for high-society ladies like you.’

Romola just stood there staring at him. ‘Will you put this on his body for me?’ she said, finally opening her bag. She had wrapped the bel flowers around the frayed old red diary. She had imagined bending over his flower-bedecked body and tucking that diary in under him. Perhaps it would go up in flames when they cremated him, a handwritten list of his stardom. Or perhaps it would fall out as they prepared the body for the last rites. She had imagined headlines in the newspaper the next day: ‘Mysterious Diary of Secret Admirer Found at Subir Kumar’s Funeral’.

But the gatekeeper looked at the diary with disdain. ‘What’s this old book?’ he said.

Romola snatched it back and handed him just the flowers. ‘Put this on him.’

‘All that fuss for this?’ said the man taking the string of flowers from her. ‘You should see what it’s like inside – a goddamn flower shop.’

She said nothing, but as she turned to leave, the man stopped her.

‘What?’ he said ‘I don’t get a little money for tea and biscuits? I am going to have to bribe the house-servant you know.’ She shook her head and then pulled out some crumpled notes from her handbag.

‘That’s it?’ he said. But he snatched them from her before she could change her mind. ‘Go on now,’ he laughed. ‘Your precious flowers will get there, don’t you worry. You might even see them on TV tonight.’

His laughter was still ringing in her ears as she trudged her way back through the crowds – a small fish swimming upstream. Now all she wanted was to go home, step into the shower and forget this day ever happened. With just one sandal she found it hard to walk. In the end she just took it off and carried it with her, hoping she wouldn’t step on a rusty nail or a piece of glass. By the time she hailed a taxi, she realized her sari had dark dirty blotches, her hair had lost most of its pins, the soles of her feet were caked with black grime. The driver looked at her curiously but thankfully didn’t say anything.

She opened her handbag and retrieved her lace-trimmed handkerchief. It still smelled faintly of the flowers. She patted her face with it trying to blot out the humiliation and breathe in the last whiffs of the morning’s fresh fragrance. ‘It’s okay,’ she told herself. ‘It was still an adventure.’

The diary lay there in her bag amid a jumble of spare combs and receipts. She touched its plastic cover, stroking it gently. It was just as well she hadn’t let it go. She would have missed it. Perhaps when she was dead Amit would find it among her papers and remember that afternoon in the confectionery years ago. And he would realize, with a jolt of surprise, that his mother had had her own life crackling with desire and romance, like fireworks on dark Diwali nights; that she could have been an item in
Chhaya
’s gossip column – Subir Kumar and Romola Dutt.

She rolled the window down drinking in the slight breeze. The city shimmered in the afternoon heat. She felt if she stretched out her hand to touch it, it would just dissolve like sugar in her tea. Nothing was real any more, except the frightened beat of her wilting heart. But by the time she got home, she felt nauseous and could sense the beginning drumbeats of a headache.

‘Put my food aside,’ she told Bhola. ‘I need to take a bath and lie down for a bit before eating. You eat lunch.’ Standing in the shower, feeling the water cascading around her, enclosing her in a sheath of coolness, she finally felt her heart stop thudding. She closed her eyes and leaned against the bathroom wall. The tiles felt reassuringly cold and solid against her skin.

When she came out Bhola was waiting for her. ‘How do you want the rui done for dinner?’ he said.

Towelling her hair dry, Romola was tempted to snap, No fish, no meat. We are in mourning. Instead she said, ‘Do what you want.’ For a moment she wanted him to ask her where she had been and why she had come home limping, clutching one sandal. But it was as if she had never left the house at all, her escapade had sunk quietly to the bottom of the pool, leaving not even a ripple behind. If Bhola had noticed anything, he didn’t dare mention it. So she added, ‘Make it with tomatoes and a little yogurt. You know, the way your master likes it. Check to see if there is some yogurt in the refrigerator. And go easy on the oil. The doctor says it’s not good for his heart.’

‘How was your day?’ Avinash asked when he sat down to dinner that night. The television was on, its volume turned down low, the images flickering.

‘It was all right,’ she said. ‘Nothing special.’ As she served him a dollop of steaming rice, Avinash said, ‘Look, the news is starting. I am sure they will show something about your Subir Kumar.’

Romola served him a piece of fish, the gravy a rich orange-gold pool in his rice. Then she put the lid back on the pot.

‘Are you not eating any fish?’ asked Avinash. ‘What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?’

Romola looked at him surprised, even a little touched, that he had noticed. She saw tonight the wrinkles around his eyes. One day, she thought, he too would be dead. Maybe Amit would make it home in time from America. But there would be no milling crowds for him, no hysterical fans. She could see that scene clearly, as if she had already lived that life. There she was sitting alone at breakfast, measuring out tea for one with one slice of toast, no butter. She shook her head to dispel the vision and touched her wedding bangle lightly with her hand as if to tether herself to her real world. She wondered what he would have done if she had not come home tonight. Now as she looked at him she felt he would have noticed her absence, that in their imperfect, disjointed lives, they too had a rhythm that would have been disturbed. Avinash was still looking at her, an expression of mild concern on his face.

‘Are you upset about Subir Kumar? I heard they are going to show his films this weekend at Nandan,’ he said. ‘We could go together.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ her tone was gentle. ‘Here, why don’t you have another piece of fish? It’s your favourite curry. We made it just for you.’

X

Invitation to a Party

Avinash drove by the Subramaniam marriage hall every day on his way to work but he had never really paid it much attention. The squat nondescript greenish building with the neatly lettered Stick No Bills sign merged into the neighbourhood as if it had always been a part of it. On its left was a pharmacy, the red cross lit up in the evening like a fluorescent admonition. On its right was a clinic, its faded sign promising confidential treatment for all manner of sexual problems from India’s ‘most famous sexologist’. On nights when the marriage hall was rented out for weddings, Avinash wondered if the groom, bedecked in his pristine silk wedding clothes, felt a burst of reassurance upon glancing at the modest yellow board next to it, its red letters promising 100 per cent satisfaction and deliverance from incontinence, premature ejaculation and lack of virility.

One day, glancing through the newspaper as he drank his morning cup of tea, Avinash read an article about how the Internet had made it easier for gay Indians to come out. Looking up to see if his wife was watching, he carefully removed the page and folded it neatly into his briefcase. That very evening he joined an online group. He looked up the statistics. It said there were 437 other members on the list. He wondered who they were, whether any of them were middle-aged men like him, with greying hair and steel-rimmed glasses, with a wife at home and a son in America.

For six months he lurked on the Internet calling himself FunMan1234. Every day he would see messages pile up in his inbox but he never replied, never posted. He only checked his email at work and was always punctiliously careful to check the box that said ‘Do not remember this user’. He would see messages about parties and film nights scroll by, even a discussion group to talk about coming-out issues. Sometimes there would be a personal ad from a young man coming back to town from the US for the holidays, looking to meet other men. Once he had been almost tempted to reply but then as he started composing his message a colleague walked in and he hurriedly closed the browser window.

This was the first time the group was having a party when Romola happened to be out of town. 9 p.m.–1 a.m., Subramaniam Wedding Hall, corner of Clarke Street and C.R. Das Avenue. Dinner, drinks and dancing. ‘Can anyone come? Do you need some kind of membership?’ he cautiously emailed someone named Khush69.

Khush69 replied within the hour. ‘Everyone is welcome, FunMan, though there is an admission charge of Rs 500. Hope to see you there.’

For days Avinash had not been able to think about much else. He wanted to ask Khush69 how many people went to these parties, what they wore, but felt too embarrassed to ask. He checked out the society page of the Sunday newspaper to see what the celebrities were wearing these days. At least half a dozen times a day he decided he couldn’t go through with it. Then he would wonder when there would be another party when Romola was away. It was as if the stars were aligning for once.

In the end it was his horoscope that did it for him. ‘A new friend will come into your life,’ it said. Avinash smiled as he read that, tracing the letters with his finger. It also told him to be careful about his health, and promised a trip abroad in the near future but he ignored the other predictions. Instead he took out his ‘special occasion’ navy-blue shirt that Amit had got him from San Francisco and sent it to the neighbourhood press-wallah to be ironed.

By 8 p.m. on Saturday night, he was dressed, freshly shaved and doused in his favourite (and sparingly used) Hugo Boss aftershave that Romola had bought him from the duty-free shop in Dubai a few years before. He wondered whether to tuck in his shirt or leave it out, then decided untucked was more casual. It also hid his paunch better. He trimmed his moustache, cleaned his glasses and had Bhola polish his shoes.

‘Are you going to a meeting, babu?’ Bhola asked.

‘Yes, don’t bother to cook dinner tonight,’ Avinash said.

The admission price included dinner and he thought that at least he’d get fed even if nothing else worked out. At the last minute, though, he forced himself to eat some leftover rice and dal before he left, just to settle his stomach.

He waited till it was almost ten because he was terrified he would be the first person to arrive. Then he had the taxi drop him off two blocks away. He half expected to see a big rainbow sign saying Gay Party in neon lights over the door. But it looked just as nondescript as ever, sandwiched demurely between the sexologist and the pharmacy. A few young men were loitering around the door smoking cigarettes, chatting. A man in a khaki uniform who looked like a doorman sat on a stool by the entrance. Avinash watched a young man in tight faded jeans saunter up to the door and confidently push it open. For one tantalizing moment he heard a blast of music like the flash of a secret world through a peephole, bringing back memories of a gay bar he had once gone to as a graduate student in America, and then the door swung shut. Taking a deep breath, Avinash pulled up his trousers, checked to make sure he hadn’t missed any loops on his belt, sucked in his belly and walked to the door, his heart pounding.

As soon as he walked in Avinash wanted to turn around and flee. The hall was sweltering, packed mostly with men. The disco ball twirling in the middle of the wedding hall painted everyone in shifting stripes of garish pink, blue and gold. The noise was deafening – the loud brassy Bollywood hits ricocheting off the walls. He could smell the dinner – the rich cloying smell of tikka masala and tandoori colliding uneasily with the sharp blasts of copiously applied aftershave and deodorant. Everyone seemed at least twenty years younger than him. He wondered with a lurch if some of Amit’s friends might be there. Would they recognize him?

He stood there clutching his dinner coupon, which included one cocktail or two beers or three soft drinks. Two young transvestites in spangled dresses sashayed past him, giggling as they gossiped and pointed at men they fancied. Avinash wondered if they had walked through the streets dressed like that.

He wiped his forehead. He was already sweating – the heat and his nervousness swirling uneasily in his stomach. He walked over to one of the air-conditioning vents and tried to catch the draught but it did not seem to be working. There was a long line at the bar. He kept glancing around, wondering what to do, regretting that he didn’t know what Khush69 looked like. He wished he had a cigarette he could light. It would at least give him something to do.