The Borivili bound fast local was speeding past stations and I stood in the corner I had been pushed to, and thereby allotted, when I had boarded the train at Mumbai Central. As usual, I was peeping across shoulders trying to read messages others sent and received even as the FM station sent me more static than music through the earphones. Half the fun of travelling in Mumbai locals (and there is no other half – it’s not that much fun after all) is the shameless eavesdropping one can indulge in. Conversations between women about mothers-in-law, husbands, hussies, make-up tips, cooking tips, problematic boyfriends—how greedily my ears are used to lapping up the details, making me a part of so many unknown lives, loves, hates. Today, a group of giggling college girls, who were getting on other passengers’ nerves with the volume of their giggles, grabbed my attention. The bunch of kids was mostly teasing one of their group, a smart and pretty young thing, about her boyfriend’s philandering ways. She seemed unfazed and declared her complete trust in him, with a pertinacity typical of ones who are very young, and perhaps a bit naive. I had such a friend once, when I was as young and she was as young as well as naive.
She was also pretty and smart, my friend, whom I shall for this tale name, Sharmistha. We were in the first year of college and I have to admit that it was often with a touch of envy that I would look at my friend as she effortlessly juggled studies, college festivals, college union activities, unwanted attention, teaching kids to earn a bit of extra money and even a bit of social work. Sharmistha was well-liked and an achiever. If she participated in a debate, she would win a top prize. If she wrote a letter to an editor, it would get printed, and she would have spent only five minutes in dashing it off. On the other hand, I would spend an hour carefully weighing my words, and the editor would not print my letter. A lot of us have had such friends, hidden in the shade of whose penumbra we exist, sometimes exulting in their good fortune and sometimes almost wishing them ill. My friend Sharmistha’s perfect life got more perfect as cupid struck. He was handsome, from a wealthy family, had excellent career prospects, and above all, seemed besotted with my friend.
We were all happy for Sharmistha for she seemed really happy. But after a while, I confess I was getting sick of hearing about Mr Perfect, as were the others. How he would open the car door for her, and how he declared undying love, gave her meaningful gifts… how he took her to an expensive restaurant on Valentine’s Day, how he wrote poetry for her… You can’t really blame us, we had to listen to the maudlin poems! We were quite happy when we heard from some sources that Mr Perfect was actually an irredeemable flirt. Like good friends, we warned Sharmistha, and she most irritatingly chose to ignore our warnings. We ‘friends’ dug up more dirt but Sharmistha had an unshakeable faith. One day, perhaps just for the heck of it, I declared to Sharmistha that I could call up Mr Perfect and get him to agree to come out with me on a blind date. ‘Just like this’, I snapped my fingers to illustrate how easily. A furious Sharmistha told me to prove it. I was regretting my challenge but was not going to show anyone how chicken I was.
Sharmistha came along with me to the PCO booth there were no cell phones yet and gave me her beau’s home number. Mr Perfect himself answered, in his perfectly clipped accent. My legs almost gave way and my voice wavered, which must have been effective in making me sound like a lovesick teenager as I told him how much I admired him. He was pleasant, tried to make me feel at ease, and eventually asked me out. We set a time and place I had to continue the playacting till the end but the look on Sharmistha’s face was already making me wish that none of this had happened. I could see the tears that she was trying to fight off.
“The bastard,” was all she said after I hung up.
“It’s okay,” I tried telling her stupidly, “I think he was just kidding along.”
“The bastard,” she repeated softly.
We took a long walk thereafter, on my suggestion, as I was dreading the thought of going back to the hostel and meeting the rest of the gang. They would pounce on her, laughing, teasing… hurting… they did just as I had feared when we eventually went back to the hostel. I tried protecting Sharmistha but she would have none of it and told the friends all about the phone call. No one noticed for a while how much effort it took her to say it all casually. Eventually, the banter ended and everyone was quiet. The realisation of what had happened actually sank in and all of us looked solemn.
“God, did someone die here!” Sharmistha exclaimed, and walked out shrugging.
Sharmistha never fell in love again and when she married, she made sure that she was making a ‘good match’. Before her marriage she’d once thanked me.
“Imagine how foolish I was! To believe in love!”
“Sharmistha, I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. He was a lie.”
“You’ll love again. This time it will be the right guy.”
I see her face as it was many years ago, hardened beneath the apparent placidness. I wish I hadn’t broken the illusion. Life does it in any case. There was no need to speed up the process.
The laughter interrupts my thoughts. The young ones are still mercilessly teasing their friend but she is handling it well. Maybe her boyfriend will turn out different. A lot of love stories do have happy ending….
- Irene Dhar Malik
