Mumbai (photo: indianexpress.com)
“I don’t think this is going to work anymore.”
My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten any lunch today. Again. The smells emanating from the back of the little restaurant was enough to make me want to order off the menu. But I knew that this conversation wasn’t going to last that long, and I definitely wasn’t going to wait around afterwards. I ignore the delicious aromas and revert my attention back to Rakesh. He’s still speaking.
“…and it just doesn’t seem right anymore,” he finishes. I have no idea what he’s been saying, but I understand the gist of it. He wants to break up.
“Okay Rakesh. That’s fine with me. I’m sure our families will come to some sort of understanding,” I say, in English. Rakesh hates when I talk to him in English. His face always takes on a look like he’s smelt something rancid. He doesn’t like someone to be better at something than him. That’s why he always opts to speak to me in Hindi. And just to irk him, I always do the opposite. My English is quite good. It has to be because my job depends on it. The university where I teach English has a very strict policy against speaking Hindi in class. This has resulted in me becoming so used to the language, I tend to speak it even when I’m not in class.
Right on cue, Rakesh’s face takes on the look. “That’s what I just said, Neha,” he says with a frown. He’s annoyed. This is probably because he’d expected some tears or even a tantrum, and he hadn’t got one. He was never going to get one. The truth is, I’m actually kind of relieved that he’s doing this. Rakesh and I just never really fit. He resented the fact that I worked so hard and earned so much, and I resented the fact that his idea of a perfect woman was his mother. And I was nothing like his mother.
If I had met Rakesh on my own, I would never have thought to date him. His father and my father were once work colleagues, and realising that they both had unmarried children, they had instigated what they hoped would be a lasting union. Unfortunately, it was never meant to be. Rakesh is staring at me now, waiting for me to say something. I look at my glass of water instead, and shrug my shoulders. I don’t have anything to say. He wakes up from his chair and throws some money down on the table, then with another searing look at me, he stalks out of the restaurant.
Exiting the restaurant, I inhale a huge breathe of humid air. It’s the summer season in Mumbai and the heat is unbearable. I suddenly realise that I think this thought almost every time we have a heatwave in this city. And yet I still live here. Sighing, I head down the street to catch the afternoon bus home. Home. The very thought of going home today is enough to make me nauseous. Going home today meant having to tell my parents that Rakesh and I were finished, and having to listen to them as they put all the blame on me.
The line for the bus seems endlessly long today, so I decide to head to the park down the street. At least I could be alone with my thoughts for a little while. I walk to the fountain in the middle of the little park and stand, staring at the statue of a cow in the water.
“Did you know that the cow is considered a sacred, holy mother?” says a voice behind me.
I turn around. It’s a man. He’s tall, and white. Very, very white. It’s always strange to see a foreigner amongst us. He sounds British. He has dark, short-cropped hair and deep brown eyes. He’s wearing a green button down shirt over black slacks. He’s very handsome. I feel my cheeks colour.
“You do realise that you’re giving a lesson in religion to an Indian person, don’t you?” I respond, rolling my eyes.
“Yes. I’m sorry. That was the only thing I could think of on short notice,” he says, laughing shyly.
“I’m actually surprised you know that. About the cow, I mean.”
“Oh yes. I may not be Indian. But I’ve been here for a while. I learnt a lot.”
“That’s interesting. I’m Neha, by the way,” I say, with an outstretched hand.
He shakes my hand slowly. “I’m Phillip Monroe,” he says, still holding on to my hand.
I release my hand from his soft grip and look around. I notice a small cart, selling tea and coffee, and since my stomach is still offering faint grumbles, I turn to my new acquaintance, “Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, gesturing towards the cart.
“That would be lovely,” he says with a smile.
I buy two cups of tea from the vendor and walk over to the bench where Phillip is now sitting.
“Thank you. Do you often buy tea for strange men in parks, Neha?”
“Only homeless ones.” I respond with a grin. He laughs, just as I’d hoped.
“Your English is spectacular, by the way. I barely detect an accent at all.”
I blush. “So what’s your story Phillip? Why India?” I ask him.
“Why not India? So much culture. So many stories,” he replies, looking at me. “Just by looking at you, I can tell you have a story.”
“Well, doesn’t everyone?”
“Yes. That’s true. So tell me, Neha. Tell me all about your past. The journey you’ve travelled to get here.” he says, settling into the bench.
I find his queries inappropriate. Why would I give away personal information to a man who I’d only just met? And yet, as inappropriate as I find his questions and him for asking them, I find this man strangely comforting. I find this whole situation strangely comforting. So taking his lead, I settle myself into the bench too, and begin telling this man my story.
I talk openly and he listens intently. I tell him how I was born into a traditional Indian family, and how being born a girl was insignificant. I’d been taught that our main purpose was to get married and bear children as fast as we could. Young women also have a particular sell by date, meaning that the older we get, the less likely we are to be married off. Given the fact that I was already 27, my chances were becoming slim. I tell him how I’ve always wanted to be a writer, an author, someone with a voice. But instead of a writer, I’d become a teacher because according to my father, I needed a job that would provide money to help my husband and his household. So I’d gotten a job that earned me money, and then that had become an issue in itself.
According to my mother, no man wanted a wife who earned more money than him. I tell him how everything I’d ever learnt in my life was somehow something to benefit my future husband and his family. I tell him all this and when I’m done, I look over and see tears in his eyes.
The next day, after my classes, I walk to the little park again. As we’d left the park yesterday evening, Phillip had told me that he comes here every afternoon. I hadn’t said that I would meet him, I actually hadn’t had any plans on seeing him again. But after we talked so personally, I couldn’t just leave things that way. After all, he knew so much about me and I knew very little about him. I enter the park and scope out the area. He’s not here yet. I walk to the tea cart and buy two cups of tea from the vendor, then go and sit on the same bench from yesterday.
I quickly pull out my compact from my handbag and check my hair and face. I’m not that bad looking. I have long black hair that I wear up most of the time because of the heat, olive skin and hazel eyes. I have decent features too, I guess. A straight nose and, not too big ears. The only thing I hate is that I’m really short. Maybe that’s why no one wants to marry me. I sigh, and put the compact away.
A part of me knows that I’m crazy to be here, waiting for a man who I’d met in a chance encounter. But he had told me he would be here. Wasn’t I to take that as an invitation? I look up from my cup of tea and nearly drop it in surprise. Phillip is standing in front of me. I hadn’t even heard any footsteps approach.
“Fancy meeting you here. Again.” he says, grinning as he sits down on the bench. He’s wearing the same outfit from yesterday. Perhaps it’s his work uniform.
My feel warmth rise to cheeks. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. He looks as handsome as he did yesterday.
“Hello.” I say, dumbly.
“I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid I’d scared you away with my questions yesterday,” he replies.
“Oh no. I actually feel like I should apologise to you. I didn’t mean to off-load on you like that. I’d had a bad day.” I say, quickly, glancing at his face. He’s smiling.
“You want to tell me about this bad day?” he asks.
“No. You don’t need to listen to any more of my drama!” I say, hurriedly.
“No go on, tell me. I’d love to listen. Besides, I owe you for the tea,” he says with a laugh. I laugh too. I like talking to him. I like the way his very manner makes me want to reveal every bit of information to him. I like the way he listens without judgement on his face. So even though I know I’d just apologised for being too candid, I begin telling him all about my day yesterday.
I start with Rakesh. I tell Phillip how bad we were for each other, but had still tried to make it happen for three long months. How he had ended our relationship. And how I had felt so relieved. Then I tell him what had happened when I’d gone home after seeing him yesterday, and broken the news to my parents. My father had gone off the wall, bellowing that this had been my last chance at a good marital home. My mother, on the other hand, had been quiet. But her silence was much worse than my father’s loud anger. Her silence accompanied her looks. Resentment. Pity. Disappointment. Derision. Those looks had buried me. When I’m done I look over at Phillip, hoping I hadn’t made him want to cry again. He’s staring off into the distance, looking thoughtful.
“I see the problem,” he says finally.
“Yes, I do too. I’m a terminal disappointment to everyone.”
“Oh no, Neha. Not at all. On the contrary, the only person you’re disappointing is yourself!” he says with fervour.
“I don’t understand.”
“You care so much about making others happy. About their disappointment in you. About what’s best for your parents. But tell me, do you ever care about you?”
“Of course I do,” I say with a frown, as I sip my tepid tea.
“Wrong. You don’t. I may not have met your parents, but as far as I can tell, they’re quite toxic people. It seems to me as if they don’t care about your happiness at all. All that matters to them, is that you’re married. Doesn’t matter to who, just as long as you are.”
“This is India, Phillip! That’s how parents show that they care,” I reply angrily.
“That may be true. But love shouldn’t have to be shown that way,” he says quietly.
I wake up from the bench quickly. I feel attacked. He has no right to say those things to me about my parents. “I’m leaving.” I say, walking away quickly.
“Just think about it, Neha. You’ll be happier when you finally do,” he calls from behind me softly.
I walk fast. Angrily. I feel so stupid for going back to that park today. For going back to see him. I feel like a fool for thinking he was listening to me without judgement. I reach the bus terminal, and see that the line is annoyingly long today as well. I have no choice, as well as nothing else to do, so I join the end of the line and wait. As the minutes go by, I feel the sense of dread and worry settle in my stomach. The dread, I understand why. I dread going home. Home to my resentful parents, who see nothing but failure in their daughter.
But as for the worry, I’m struggling to understand the existence of it. The bus arrives and I snap out of my tedious thoughts. I see a little girl at the front of the line. She’s holding on to her mother’s hand tightly even though her mother is trying to put her onto the bus. She doesn’t want to go without her mother. Eventually, the mother gives up, laughs and picks up the child. She kisses her face endearingly and they both board the bus together.
I feel my stomach flip. I suddenly realise what my worry is. It’s worry that Philipp was right. In the one glance that I’d had of the relationship between the little girl and her mother, I’d seen every moment that I’d never had with my own parents. Phillip was right! I know now what I have to do. I know now that my happiness should be my only concern. I will always love my parents, but it was time to do something for myself. I needed to quit teaching. I needed to start writing. I needed to leave this city that I hated. I needed to be away from my poisonous parents. I needed to let Phillip know! I break away from the line and head back in the direction of the park.
The park is empty when I get there. Even the tea vendor is getting ready to leave, packing up his cart neatly. Maybe he knows which way Phillip went.
“Excuse me? Have you seen the man I was sitting on that bench with earlier?” I ask the vendor, gesturing in the direction of the bench. He gives me a strange look and shakes his head quickly.
“I don’t know anything, madam.” he says in Hindi. He sounds a little afraid.
“Are you sure? He’s difficult to miss. He’s not Indian like us. He’s very fair-skinned. Please? I just want to know if you saw which direction he went in. I need to find him. It’s very important,” I say imploringly.
“Madam, I have seen you for the past two days. You have come to my cart and purchased two cups of tea on both days. I have seen you take your cups and sit on that bench on both days. I have also seen you talk to yourself as you drink your tea on both days. I am a man who keeps to himself, so I did not think it was any of my business.” he says politely.
“What! That can’t be true. Are you saying that I’ve been talking to no one?” I say, laughing.
“No, madam. Perhaps it was a ghost,” he says calmly, as if that were a viable explanation. He gives me a final nod and then wheels his cart away. I stand in the middle of the deserted park and stare incredulously at his retreating back. I was too old to believe in ghosts, but I did believe a woman should not be alone in an empty park. I turn to leave. On my way out, I walk past the bench where I’d sat with Phillip. On the side of the seat hung a little wooden plaque. I must not have noticed it before. I stop and lean in to read what’s written on it. My whole body petrifies and my heart nose-dives towards my stomach as my brain registers the words on the plaque:
“IN MEMORY OF CPT PHILLIP MONROE, BRITISH NAVAL ARMY. BORN 1970 – DIED 1999”
The post The little park in Mumbai appeared first on LitNet.