by Parvathi Jayamohan
[box]Two women who meet in Jaipur begin to understand each other through small conversations. Where does it go from there? Parvathi Jayamohan weaves a tale.[/box]Moori stood squinting at the sun. She had a pink cap on, her hands at its edge, shielding her further. Agreed, the view was spectacular, a pink palace in the middle of a lake, viewed from the top of a hill. But right now, all she could think of was dipping into a tub of ice. The sweat ran down her neck, between her thighs, from all places, pulling her T-shirt into all of her minimal curves. Under her cap, her hair was brewing sweat and dirt. They had reached the spot 15 minutes back, but the firangs were still gaping at the view and muttering exclamations. They could head back home and show off their tans. But she could not. A tan on her made her look green. She wished the guide would stop reinventing history and herd the firangs along. This is not what he wanted either, she guessed; lolling around infinitely in the sun, but months or perhaps, years of experience had prepared him mentally. Not physically though, for, he was a bigger mess than her; not only did he sweat and collect dust, he gave off the human odour, despised by all of mankind, well, most. She had seen some of the foreigners take a step or two back every time he raised his arms to display the view. She did not mind. Nobody who used public transportation in Delhi could afford to. They were all too familiar with men rubbing off their scent in buses and trains, come to think of it, in most streets too. She never took much notice of it unless she suspected that the man had malicious intent.
She looked across at another group of guided tourists and caught sight of a tall, (well, relatively tall, 5’5”, as opposed to her 4’11”) slim figure in dark orange shorts and a white shirt tucked in. Her black hair was pulled back and scrunched together in a careless manner and large green shades rested on her nose. She was personally, more in favour of smaller shades. But all the same, she was attractive, like the burning stub of a cigarette. The woman seemed to share her lack of admiration for the view. Maybe nobody found their own country as fascinating as other people did. Or maybe it was just the two of them. The woman bought a chilled bottle of water from a grubby looking vendor and was rubbing it against her neck. Back of the neck, then front. Yes, definitely attractive.
The woman caught Moori’s prolonged glance. She assumed her eyes held reproach behind the shades. But the woman smiled then and Moori was relieved and finally looked away. The woman was still looking at her when she turned again. She was fanning with the hand which wasn’t holding the bottle and sticking her tongue out like a thirsty dog. Moori smiled this time. The woman crossed over to her side.
There was no introduction. Once beside her, she jerked her head towards the right and said, “There is another palace or court or something of the sorts up ahead. Nice cool marble. Wanna walk on a little ahead?” Now she looked at her. Moori nodded. Her throat was too dry. She pictured them lying flat on the white marble, like kids in snow, flapping imaginary wings.
She borrowed the bottle of water and the woman introduced herself as Rita. She glugged down the water and paused to say, “Moori.” Her name was often analyzed, it sounded interesting, but it was just something people ate really or was it a fish? Rita did not analyze. She just repeated the name. Moori had known a girl named Rita in school. Class IV. She was stout, coarse, chatty and had long, straight bristles of hair all over her-sideburns and a little on the chin even. What people did to names!
“So what brings you here?”
“Work”, Moori said, with a straight face. The real answer, she didn’t know which-rest, adventure, escape, would seem like an invitation to pry into her soul and she did not want that. Especially not when she suspected she had none. Rita, on her part, laughed lightly and added “I am soul searching too.”
They rested with their backs against the marble. They had gone to the centre of the structure, (it seemed like a court) where the sun could not reach. The itch on her back was losing its battle. Both puffed with relief. Rita dangled her shades by the v of her shirt and took off Moori’s cap.
“Hey!” Moori shouted, both indignant and embarrassed. Of the few things she had mastered, one was putting people in their place when they crossed the line with her. Most stayed way off mark. “You were dying in there,” Rita put it so frankly, that she just said “ok.”
Then the question and answer session started. Rita was from Goa, her father stayed with her, she was close to him, he cooked, her mother died when she was young and was pretty. Did she smoke? No; currently single, plenty of trials and all errors, did odd jobs, served ice creams, drinks, taught in kindergarten, done a few jigs, taken photography lessons and worked in a petrol pump, never worried about money, pitied those who did, travelled about in India, not abroad, feared snakes, slept with lights on till 15, liked awkward people. Moori was from Calcutta, living in Delhi, parents were back home, had one elder sister who was married but separated and now living with a pet turtle, preferred bald men, could never get to growing nails, was working as an assistant editor for a newspaper, had a three-leaved clover tattoo on her left ankle, was it good luck?, preferred rum and cocktails, liked to visit places but hadn’t travelled about much, liked beaches more than hills, had had two boyfriends, the rock on her finger was from her ex-fiancé. The conversation slackened.
“Heartbroken?” Moori was getting used to the other’s directness and refusal to apply tact. Funnily enough, she was beginning to feel at ease with it. Charmed even.
“No more. Just lost.”
They sat around for a while longer, digesting all the information each had received, reflecting on what they had given away, what they shouldn’t have. Then Rita got up.
“How about we head back now, to the Elephant? Then we can meet for dinner and I can dig out more of what you are not willing to spill.”
Moori gave a wry, condescending smile. “Alright. An early dinner, say 6, no, 6: 30.”
Moori plunged exhausted into her bubble bath. She slipped in and out of reality. She thought of her old friends. She dreamt that one of them had died and she did not go for the funeral. But days after, she went to visit her corpse, but the funeral was still going on, it was crowded and she would have to risk people noticing if she tried to head back. So she entered the room that had the corpse. Her other friends were there, looking at her accusingly. They all looked sort of green. But the dead one was standing around too. Lying on the ground was Rita. A white sheet over her, nose plugged with cotton, eyes shut, but the mouth a little open, as if she was still trying to breathe, without letting others know.
She slid upwards in her bath, gasping and out of breath. For a minute, she sat there collecting herself, then got out, toweled herself and walked out naked towards the mirror. She sat in front of it, legs folded like a yogi, but her back slouching. She picked up the perfume beside the mirror table. She opened it and took the scent deep into her. It was mild and flowery. It was a gift from her sister. Her sister had confused the scent for something fruity, and had asked her why she chose this! It had annoyed her at the time, more than the gratefulness she felt towards her for buying it. It was 4:30. Her first instinct was to wear something chic and she was quite tempted to go hunting at one of the shops, right outside the hotel, but decided against it. She would settle for the pleated skirt, heels and well set hair.
At 6:30, the sun was still out, but not as harsh. She sat on the hotel verandah, beside an iron table, painted white. Her elbow was resting on it and the palm supported the hollow which was supposed to be her cheek. Her legs were crossed and she flapped her right chappal. She had decided against the heels too. But she was aware of her attractiveness, the glances spared in her direction. And though attention generally made her nervous, she felt assured with her wrist smelling of flowers.
Rita arrived, looking fresh in a pink kurta, white pajamas and black oshos. They both had an appetite, so they energetically discussed what they should order, and that was all. Once the food came they both ate it with what seemed like silent reverence.
Orders were placed for rum and coke, then Rita started sniffing the air, “What is that scent…” she trailed off as she looked around the verandah. Moori offered her wrist, holding it out, with a twinkle in her eye.
Rita sniffed warily, “This smells familiar. At least, I think it does. We have it back home. I can’t quite place its name. It lasts only a day or two and is strongest in the evenings. White, or rather ivory.”
“Oh yeah, I think I know the one you are talking about. We had it too. There is this story around it in Mahabharata. My mother had told me when I was young. It was Draupadi and Bheem, i think; he was one of her five husbands. They were walking through the forests. Then all of a sudden, she got this lovely scent and insisted that Bheem go get it for her, the flower. And though he found the whole thing rather tiresome and whimsical on her part, he went to get it for her.” She felt good after narrating it, Rita, mustn’t have known, she was sure.
“Are you whimsical too?” Rita asked.
She didn’t know. Was she? Would she have asked her fiancé to go chasing flowers when they were trying to make their way through a forest? That’s ridiculous. But she sat pondering, rolling the ice in her drink, round and round.
“I wasn’t the one who asked for a big rock. A ring, yes. It’s the done thing after all.”
But she had called him cheap and it was soon after that that he had made a grand gesture of his apparent generosity.
“But I had to leave all the same,” Moori added after the pause.
And he had followed it up with another gesture of generosity, he let her keep the ring. Why did she do it? Why did he? She twisted her ring, round and round.
They took their drinks and strolled around the hotel lawns.
“When are you heading back?” Moori asked, remembering there was no tour plan charted out for Friday, if Rita was free they could hang out.
“I am not sure. You?”
“Delhi again from Monday.”
“You should break free from the crowd, go check out the city yourself, you know?”
“I would get lost on my own. So I will stick with the guide.” Moori’s indirect request for company, as far as she was concerned, got rejected. She felt peevish.
“But you should.”
“But why?” she was looking at her now, a little annoyed.
“Because I think we both know that the only life worth living is…is that of an explorer. Chartered territories are stuff for reading not doing.”
They stood there, looking at each other, Moori taking stock of this woman. She didn’t know whether she should splash some rum on her face or vehemently nod her head in agreement. “Well, everything sounds right from your mouth.”
“At least a couple of drinks down,” Rita added cheerfully. “And on that note, you wanna grab a few more drinks, head back, put on some music and do some silly dancing?”
Moori woke up the next morning with what was clearly a hangover. Rita wasn’t there and she couldn’t have expected it either; she wouldn’t have stayed on herself if she had been the one to wake up first, Moori told herself.
She looked around all the same, beside the pillows, under the bedside alarm, amongst the clothes thrown aside carelessly, for a note or a hint. Nothing but. She sat back. Her eyes hurt, so she blew hot air into her palms, and pressed them against her eyes. The music, she realized, was still playing in loops; a man sang, in a voice that seemed to look around lazily, happily for trouble…just a lil’ bit of danger…our lil’ secret…. cos no one will ever know, that this was happening….so tell me why you listen, when nobody’s talkin..
