"Khala wants you to get up, we have guests." She shrugged and walked away. I decided to lay there like a rock contemplating how much my life sucked. The monsoons had arrived but the heat had not slightly decreased. It was nonstop, the very air laden with wetness, the humidity keeping clothes just slightly damp at all times, sticking to a person. Somehow it sapped strength, lulled a person into a sort of semi-consciousness. Therefore it wasn't surprising when right after lunch I had retired to read but had managed to fall into a restless sleep to the sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the window, roof. It was still going strong as I stared up at the ceiling fan.
A flash of his face, it was a jolt. I closed my eyes. A memory captured in my minds-eye, the sound very familiar and similar, the environment different. PT, me, his apartment, cuddled on the sofa watching the History Channel. Nothing special but special nonetheless. A tear rolled down the side of my closed eyes into the hair line. I swiped at it but the motion was sluggish.
"You're still not up?" My mother came barreling in to the room, her voice harsh. I wanted to say 'what gave it away, me still lying down?' but figured that I didn't care enough anyhow.
She rambled on about how an old family friend was there, my father’s college buddy with his wife and son, they wanted to meet me to wish me well even though they had seen me a few days back during the engagement party. I didn’t care, I had no interest in meeting anyone ever again but I couldn’t say that to her. So I tuned her out, not bothering to look into the mirror to see if I looked even somewhat presentable. Again, the caring had long since abandoned me.
I followed her into the cavernous family room, a smile plastered upon my lips by then. If I was going to sacrifice my life for them, why not play the part as I was doing it? The men stood as we approached, they were of equal height and the female, I presumed who was the wife/mother, to the standing gents remained sitting. I greeted them and sat down next to my father.
The conversation flowed around me, mostly by the two elder males who were laughing about whatever it is that they found funny while the women sat together talking about something that I wasn’t interested in tuning into. The son sat across the room quietly. I didn’t look up, didn’t try to start a conversation, hell he may as well not have been there. I wasn’t sweating any bullets over the fact that I was being unsocial either but nothing in my life ever went smoothly, I should have known this. And even as I was feeling a bit of relief that no one was in the least interested in talking to me, I was roused from my thoughts to the suggestion from my dad that I should take whats-his-name (the son) to the roof. I wanted to ask Papa why would I do that, we were just fine where we were but I again would not say/ask what I wanted to.
Nodding, I followed the same path I had a few weeks before to the roof. I assumed the guy was following me, if he wasn’t I’m sure I would have heard some sort of commotion. Neither of us said a word until we reached the open expanse of the roof and I belatedly remembered it was raining.
Damn. Okay well we could hang out in the small shed I figured, so that’s where I sprinted to hoping that he wasn’t too dense not to accompany me. The space was unoccupied, dilapidated and full of gardening equipment which the old man who took care of the flowers on the roof would come and stash his equipment every day before he hobbled home. He was actually a very nice person who I had various conversations with and surprisingly enough he was more than open to talking. His name was, not surprising at all, Rahem Chacha (I called him Chacha out of respect even though he was nowhere near being related to my father). He was very poor and his physique spoke of a person who had worked hard his whole existence. During one discussion Rahem Chacha had told me the only thing in his life he had wanted was to have his two sons well educated so that they would not end up living the life he had and he had accomplished this. They both were presently employed although I couldn’t remember where and they were also both married. Chacha lived with the elder boy and spoke about his grandchildren at length. I had asked him why he still worked then and he told me that he had stopped for a while but the feeling of uselessness had been far too strong and therefore a ‘part-time’ job of sorts had him applying for the present profession.
Of all the people I had thus met, all the people who had tried to impress me (it had something to do with the fact that I was born and brought up in the States) and amongst all the people who I had conversations with, he was the person who I knew I would remember with fondness once I had gone home. I liked the way he slowly and carefully produced each word that he uttered, enunciating carefully, possibly slowing down because my own diction of the same language was so very inadequate. He would try to speak in broken English with me but insist upon knowing the correct way at the same time. Each afternoon I would show up at the roof and as he slowly, lovingly worked, I would sit there next to him and pepper him with questions about his existence
That day of course he wasn’t there. The rain sounded louder here thanks to the tin that covered the shed. I wished I didn’t have this stranger with me. What the hell was there to talk about anyhow? I heard him enter behind me and moved as far away from him as I could but saying nothing. May be if he felt as if he was intruding upon me, then he would leave?
When would I learn?
“This is bordering on deja vu, don’t you think?” His voice wafted to me over the din of the rain. Something about it, faintly familiar, had me turning around. And there he was the guy from the party where I had first met my fiancée. A guy I hadn’t ever even figured I would see again.
“Oh, it’s you.” I said my voice flat. When would things once again bring me any sort of surprise, shock?
“So you’ve finally looked at me, and I can see you’re overwhelmed.” He said rather drolly.
“Yes, you’re right.” I said, and then asked with a tilt to my head, “what are you doing here?”
“Remember, my dad, your dad, friends, reunion…all that?” I did a mental, oh yea, but nodded in response. “I guess this is where we make polite conversation.”
I grimaced. “Must we?”
“No,” he said and I sighed in relief. To be honest, he looked sort of relieved himself. I couldn’t blame him.
With no words spoken between us, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to me. We smoked in companionable silence and I fleetingly wondered if my future husband would be as ‘cool’ about my smoking as this guy was but then again who knew? It wasn’t as if I really knew my intended all that well. This should have been alarming to me but the whole ‘I don’t give a damn’ attitude was clearly taking over every aspect of my existent.
After a while, and 2 cigs in I finally said “I don’t think I caught your name.”
“It’s J____,” a very common desi name indeed.
Again more silence, this was fine by me. Eventually we had to go back down when one of the servants came to inform us that our parents requested the presence of our joyous company. Mentally preparing myself, I was walking off when J stopped me. I turned to see him extending to me what looked like a business card. Taking it, I looked at it, then flipped it over. It was his phone number. I looked up at him askance.
“You seem like you may eventually need someone to talk to so I figured I’d give you my number. I may not be able to give you great advice but I can listen.” He shrugged and strode away.
Well, I thought, that’s nice of him. Not a chance in hell am I going to call though.
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