The Performance

The problem with serendipity is that it never lasts forever, and when it fades at the last, that's when you get to see the silly, sly little shadows popping out from behind the curtains, from behind the drawers and cupboards, though you tell yourself that they were always there. I could never see them, earlier, Aakaash mused, sitting at the chair, his laptop open before him on the oak table.

Serendipity gave me my wife, and serendipity gave me my lover, and serendipity showed me myself. Awful thought, he whispered, half beneath his breath, resting back against the chair, wondering whether Shalini was asleep. A couple of trips to Delhi for the company, a couple of laughs, a couple of drinks, and somehow they had ended up in a cab speeding away from Connaught Place, kissing furiously in the backseat. The big broad Sikh driver had beamed at him, when he left a ten-rupee tip and then rushed up the stairs to her flat. That was how it all started, though it seemed funny now, to think of it as so story-bookish. To think of it all so contrived.

Aakaash sipped the brandy which had stood a silent observer beside the laptop. There were water rings on the oak table where he lifted the chilled glass from, and he idly moved his finger through the rings, marring them, mixing them, feeling the water mixed with tiny (dust?) particles crackling his skin, and he took another sip. The laptop was switched off, a uniform dull black glow. Shalini was somewhere in the flat, probably lying down, probably asleep.

He took the brandy and abandoned the oak, the laptop, and walked into the bedroom. She was sitting there, looking out the verandah to the quiet street outside. It was past eleven, GK's M-block was silent, the shops and their glitter had closed in for the night, and he could see that she had been crying. It all made him feel terribly weary, suddenly, and he would have wished she wasn't there, would have wished that he wouldn't have to go through this tonight. He had enough on his mind already, with Geeta -

The phone had rung, almost insistently, once, then twice, and Geeta's voice had called from the next room, "I'll get it!" (Was there a hint of anxiety there, on hindsight) but he had picked up the receiver the very same time she had. And he had heard them.

"I've missed you. I haven't seen you for so long - "

"Probir, I told you not to call at home. Everyone is here - Ma, Baba, Aakaash - "

"But they didn't answer, did they? And besides, I had to hear your voice."

"Now you're being silly, Probir."

Aakaash had stood there, impassive and silent till the conversation lasted. When he heard the click announcing that Geeta had replaced the receiver, he did the same. Probir Banerjee was his first cousin, his mother's sister's son, and he was a regular at the house. It seemed strange to stand there, listen to his wife and her lover, it seemed stranger to walk out to her then, hug her from behind and tell her that he had to leave for Delhi. It seemed strange not to mention it to her, not to shout or scream or rant or wonder why. That was the most important reason, the one he couldn't figure out, and that was the reason why he had done none of that screaming or raving or ranting. That was the question that had given him this headache, that even the quiet of a GK evening and the soothing burn of a brandy could not ease. Why. And not even Shalini, sitting there, on the edge of the bed, in her black negligee could answer. But he would have to ask her, in any case, and that seemed to make it worse.

"I met my parents for lunch today, Aakaash," she said, still not looking at him, and he knew what it was all about. This would not wait, it had waited earlier when he had brushed it under the carpet and she had seemed only too eager to do so herself, but it would not wait anymore. "You know what it was about…" she said, letting it hang in the air between them.

"Of course I do," he said, and sat on the bed behind her. His hands snaked up on either side of her, and rested on her shoulders, kneading them, feeling the tension she carried on her mantle, and she shook her head slowly from side to side, as if indicating, that this was not enough, it would not suffice anymore. And for some reason, he thought about walking along a beach.

"Did you tell them about us?" It would be a sandy beach, white sand, white surf, something as beautiful as Kovalam. Something as secluded as Gokarna, completely veiled from human habitation, separate, alone, where he could stand for hours in the surf, feel the lapping waters and imagine - what?

"Yes, I did." There was a choke in her voice, he could tell. She was going through hell because of this, because of him, and he felt guilty about it. This was not the way it was supposed to be, was it? It had all promised to be so easy, from that first time they had kissed scorchingly in the back of that cab from CP, and that first time that he had made love to her here on this bed, on these sheets - it seemed ages ago, and he felt old, but was it really that long ago, a part of him rebelled against memory.

"I don't know what to do, Aakaash. I don't know," her voice sounded strong and calm now, and he patted her shoulders, like a soft reward, a further appeasement, an inducement to tell him more. "I thought, at one point of time, I could handle this. I thought I could make this work. But I don't know about this anymore."

He nodded, even though she could not see him. She was still looking straight out through the verandah, at the night, where a lone mango tree burst out from the grassy yard, and its leaves peeked in through at her bedroom, like a thousand little prying eyes that demanded merriment and amusement. He wondered whether they were amused now, and a smile crinkle at the corners of his mouth for some reason. "I know," he breathed softly, and he wondered if he heard her.

"Is there anything to us?" He could sense the hope in her voice, and the tension in the leaves, like an audience, on the perch of a climax in the movie, waiting, waiting, holding in their breath, wondering what would come, but knowing the answer already in their heart of hearts already -

"I don't know," he said, kissing her right shoulder tenderly. She took it calmly, not flinching, not shuddering, not hoping, just accepting, and he wondered again when on earth it had stopped being so easy. The audience was used to this - one climax postponed for awhile, while a diversion came on the scene.

Shalini traced a design on the sheet in front of her. Her knees hurt, from sitting on the bed in the same position for too long an interval, her shoulders were stronger now, her stomach was still contorted, and her hands were free on the silky satin bed sheet, as they roved, finger nail by finger nail, flicking and experimenting, and her brain was telling her things her father had told her earlier that day, while her heart was still hoping and wondering - "Will you leave your wife?"

The audience was all ears now. The tree rustled gently outside her bedroom.

**********

Geeta's birthday, and Geeta looked lovely. She had the classic Bengali large eyes, lined with kohl, and her nose was sharply wrought, her cheekbones receding upwards into a faint blush, her lips thinly set, her forehead crowned by a huge red circle she had painted on it. Aakaash smiled and kissed her cheeks, and whispered in her ear how beautiful she looked, and she coloured. He had pulled out all the stops for her - they had a corner table next to a tall French window that had a spectacular view of the city below them, the quartet played Happy Birthday for her, and she loved that, they had spoken of so many little things in the way new lovers did. It was almost as if the five years in between had never happened.

"So, how long have you and Probir been seeing each other?"

He had timed his arrow well, he saw, from the widening of her eyes, the slight incredulity in that little jerk of her head. She had been surprised about this, now, but did that mean that she had expected it all the same some time, he wondered in silent conflict within himself, but then brushed it away. This was his moment, he realized, the time when he would confront her, and tell her about everything - about herself.

Geeta looked down at the fluted glass she held in her hand, and looked up again, across the table, at him. It was an answer from her that he sought, and she decided that she was strong enough to give him one. Let him hate her, despise her, make a mockery of her. The twinkling lights in the city below seemed to want to say something to her, but she would deal with them later. They all had a place to wait, a turn to take, she decided, and hers had arrived. Should I smile? What would that mean? "A little over six months."

"Six months," he repeated, and let it hang in the air. Aakaash looked down at the white table cloth, finely crafted, silky smooth to the touch, and it reminded him of a satin bed sheet on a bed far away, in the apartment of a girl who was so far away now. It wasn't in Geeta to lie about it, she wouldn't have done so. She was strong, and who knew that better than he? She would tell him everything, and suddenly that thought was more frightening than anything he had contrived earlier.

To think of it all so contrived…

And before he had a chance to quell himself and ready himself, that question he had long laboured over made itself known. He looked out at the smiling city lights and he again thought about an expectant audience, and before he could stop himself from churning, he asked in a rapid intake of breath that seemed to come after an eternity - "Do you love him?"

I don't need to know! I don't want to know! God, I didn't want to ask that! Let her not answer - O, please, let her not answer. But Geeta did answer. Almost immediately. "No", she replied, not looking away from him.

He could sense the audience getting more restless. Somewhere inside the restaurant, the quartet was playing another tune at another table, there was applause from that quarter, and turbulence in this one. Geeta was looking down at the table cloth too, sometimes at the fluted glass that she had placed there, sometimes at him, at his own face, and he wondered idly whether she could see his dilemma, whether she could know that he was so close -

"You don't love him?" he repeated hollowly, not sure whether to give a loud whoop of joy or dissolve into hysterical sobs. His hands clenched the hand-rest of his chair tightly, and he begged the audience to quell their blood lust for a few seconds more. He would give them their lust, he would give them their blood, all he needed was time, he thought, all he needed was time, "Then, why?"

Aakaash rejoiced now to see her weakening. Her eyes were quivering, and yet they still hadn't declared defeat - magnificent! The lights below seemed to blink even more tempestuously, and he wondered whether he could hear any leaves rustling. He wondered whether her shoulders were tense now, whether there would be any good if anyone touched her now, helped her along, and yet, he did not want that salvation for her. It was his time, time for him to know why. He was clear that it was his time, as she answered softly, "Because, I wasn't… sure - "

"You weren't sure? Of what, may I ask?" Just the right amount of iron in your voice, Aakaash. The cuckolded husband. The angry, violent husband who's found out that his wife's been sleeping with another man behind his back. The right amount of sarcasm, anger and - most of all - betrayal. It's her error - she's the one who's been caught at it.

Finally, Geeta's eyes fell. She sat silent for awhile, even as he perfected that look of supreme condemnation on his face. The waiter came and placed the bill on the table. With a flourish, Aakaash signed the credit card slip, and the waiter took it away. He got ready to rise from his seat, determined to walk straight towards the car, letting her trail behind him.

And then she spoke. Distinctly. "I wasn't sure of you, Aakaash. I wasn't sure of where I stood with you - and even now, I'm not." And she got up and walked out of the door, leaving him in his chair, dazed.

From somewhere, somehow, he could hear thunderous applause in his ears.