Random Expressions

A Story By Deepak Jeswal
Episode Two

I searched her tear-stained face for any sign of emotion that could link to my confession. But she had a far-away look in her eyes that stared at the red rose between us though I am sure she was not really seeing it.

“What an irony,” her whisper cut through the tense silence. “The one I thought loved me always told me that my friend was jealous of him but in reality it was the opposite. The man I cared for was jealous of the man who cared for me.”

Looking back, I have to admit her sentence hardly made sense to me at that time. I brushed it off with a quick wave and said, “Leave all this. Now just follow what I have to say.”

She looked up questioningly.

“Get an abortion. And start afresh with a new outlook to life, love and God. You are repentant, God will forgive you. Just simply get this thing out of the way. I know where you can get easy abortion done.” Well, I didn’t. But then I thought a year back I hadn’t seen Delhi University either. Somehow I had managed to cut through the tedious admission process. Finding a safe clinic couldn’t be tougher than that!

“But abortion is killing.”

Her jumbled morals startled me. Hadn’t she been ready a minute back to share a foolproof plan to murder a man? “Smita, I left bio in class tenth, but whatever I remember from it is that this thing in your tummy is just yet a group of cells there is as much life in it as there would be in an inflamed appendix. You wouldn’t keep that? So why keep this! Plus, think logically. You can’t possible give birth to it, can you?”

The point struck home. She gave a wan smile. And for once since I had entered her house that day I sat back relaxed, though at the back of my mind I was already searching for the Yellow Pages in my house to find a good, safe clinic to take her to.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“For inviting and not serving lunch? You better be sorry for that!” I laughed, and she joined me with that tinkle which I adored.

“I am really sorry for that. I’ll just set the table.” She got up to leave the room. Before she exited, she turned back, sighed and said, “I wish Ashish was as considerate as you.”

**********************************************

Vineeta Chawla wore her jeans below the navel, something shiny glittering around that - “Swarovski,” she informed huskily to anyone who asked, or even to those who didn’t. Her white top had a late start and an early finish. It was a new ensemble, and obviously she was proud enough to have it noticed by everyone. “Isn’t it awesome, isn t it wonderful?” Her closest coterie Sugandha and Saina were there, cooing, oohing and aahing about it. I wouldn’t have bothered about Saina, she was a nitwit and all she had to do was dye her hair blonde! It was Sugandha’s chamchagiri of Vineeta which perplexed me. She seemed intelligent, and I knew her family since they lived in the same area as I. Her father was a simple government officer and her mother an LIC agent. They wouldn’t ever approve of Vineeta’s society. Perhaps Sugandha was living a vicarious life through VIneeta with that odd behanji look, and thick spectacles to boot, Sugandha could audition for a sister’s role in any C-grade potboiler and win it hands down.

Normally, I wouldn’t have really expected Vineeta and her gang to be in the class at that hour, but then if she had something on her mind she would obviously be here to get a bigger audience.

“Hi, Dinesh, long time no see,” Vineeta waved at me.

Really, I didn’t miss her. But now she mentioned it I realized she hadn’t joined in after the summer breaks.

“Yeah, where have you been?” I said and immediately bit my tongue. Dammit, that was a clear trap which I had walked into.

“You don’t know?” I didn’t, but she would surely tell. “We were on a world tour oooh, it was so fun. Have you seen the Swiss Alps?” I hadn’t, except in Yash Chopra films. “You should see them.” Yeah, please sponsor me bitch! “They are the most beautiful sight ever. You will forget your Kasaulis and Manalis here it’s awesome, it’s wonderful!” Get a dictionary girl, and learn some more adjectives.

I smiled, and didn’t venture an answer, and as she went on I knew why she had bothered to enter the class in the first place.

I looked around at Vasu and Vishal standing near the window and laughing at my discomfort. The classroom, the last one in that corridor, was empty. Smita hadn’t arrived as yet. We took the same bus, as her home was on the same route as mine. But today she was missing. I had to go to the canteen where the public phone booth was, to call her.

By now, Vineeta had moved on to her US leg of the trip quite literally. “You know that’s where I bought these jeans. See, the legs fit so beautifully. These Indian companies are simply hopeless, I tell you.”

Sugandha and Saima let out another dutiful ooh . My politeness cup had brimmeth over, and I was about to scream, when the staff room peon barged in. Bless the man.

“Mr. Gupta is on leave, so no class today.”

We let out a collective cheer. “That’s wonderful, that’s awesome,” said Vineeta, and I was ready to bang my head with the wall, but was again interrupted by her. “By the way, Dinesh I heard you topped last year’s final exam?”

That I had, and as modestly and nonchalantly as I could, I nodded.

“Ooooh, that’s wonderful, that’s awesome,” smiled Vineeta.

**************************************************

In my opinion there are very few things tougher than walking into a chemist shop and asking for a condom, with the staff there giving an all-knowing look it s sad that such a useful product doesn’t have an equally ostensible alternative usage. I am sure if it did, it would have aided in controlling our population to a great extent. Anyways, I found something more difficult than buying condoms and that was finding a gynecologist. For reasons of ease, I chose to meet a lady doctor after all, ladies are supposed to be more gentle and understanding. Perhaps, a bit high on the morality side, but I was ready to bear that.

So, with a handy Yellow Pages Directory, I short listed a few prospective ones. To say I was nervous is a gross understatement. Despite knowing that I was only on the phone, and could disconnect it any moment, I found a thick layer of perspiration on my forehead. The first call was a disaster. The receptionist wanted more details than I was ready to offer. And horridly, the line was not clear; she made me repeat everything.

“Can you just put me across to the doctor please!” I finally pleaded with her, and was almost in tears of relief when I heard her transferring the line. I was just about regaining my confidence when a stern voice burst in, Dr. Mukherjee here, “How can I help you?”

I was so terrified that I bleated, “Doctor, do you get pregnant?”

Even as the words leapt out of my lips, I could feel the phone burn against my ears and I dropped the receiver in embarrassment.

I decided to personally visit the next one. I felt a dialogue face to face would be easier, and more convincing. I chose a lady doctor by the name of Dr. Anjali Mehra, just because the name sounded soft and that she had her clinic in the southern side of the city, a criteria I was careful about farther the clinic, the better it was for Smita.

The clinic was a small rectangular room, with the receptionist’s corner on the far left side. A green curtain flew over an opening which led to the doctor’s cabin. An ungainly girl, enormous in size stood behind the desk. Her voice boomed in the small room. I have always felt that the receptionists and secretaries often act more snootily than their masters. This one was no different as she issued orders to the peon, and swept aside a demure patient to a corner seat. To my horror, she turned out to be a compounder as well and gave off a stern lecture on eating medicines on time as she handed it over to the woman who had just exited the doctor’s cabin.

The demure patient in the corner was next. The ogre bade her inside and looked at me. Once again, nervousness gripped me. Avoiding her gaze, I picked up the tattered ancient issue of Femina lying on the center table and flipped its pages. All this while, my mind was whirring. Concentrate, Dinesh. Concentrate on what you have to say. For good effect last night, I had prepared my opening lines to the doctor: “Doctor, A friend is pregnant and I would like to take your help in the abortion,” I rehearsed the lines repeatedly.

Yet, despite the mental rehearsal I was caught off guard when the huge monster blared out, “Go in, your turn mister.”

I entered a sparse room with a table, chair and an examining bed on the left side. The doctor, a smart middle-aged lady, wearing gargantuan black plastic spectacles, looked at me a trifle surprised to see a man alone, I guess.

“Yes, how can I help you?” she asked.

I felt my face redden and the blood gushing against my temple. A bead of perspiration ran down my sideburns onto the burning cheeks, and despite my best intentions, I blurted out, “I am pregnant and want your abortion!”

**********************************************

The rains in Delhi follow a strange cat-and-mouse game with the Met Department. When it says the monsoons are right around the corner, they will refuse to pour themselves. And just when the Met Department makes a solemn announcement about a drought situation, they will gleefully empty their hearts out. That early nineties summer was no different story. Had I been working in Met. Deptt. I would have died of a complex!

It was a wet Monday late July morning and like the past four days, it was raining heavily. Even though we were in the same bus, Smita and I couldn’t talk as a thick bunch of travelers separated us. On alighting, we exchanged pleasantries and I informed that I had finally managed to seek an appointment with a lady doctor.

“It’s becoming so difficult to hide it from mummy,” Smita said quietly. “I feel guilty all the time!”

As admitted earlier I am extremely bad when it comes to offering solace and comfort. Often I open my mouth, only to find my foot firmly placed in it. Hence, I kept quiet and murmured something to the effect that “sab theek ho jaayega” - a line straight off the last released Bollywood potboiler!

We entered the classroom, and immediately I wanted to rush out of it.

Our faces must have been awfully grim to elicit those enquiring looks from everyone. The silence was so thick that even a blunt knife could have cut a neat slice through it. Smita set her bag down and smiled wanly at all. Her pale face made a few clamor around her fussing about the supposed ‘fever’ that she had. I hate to admit this, but I felt superior in that one freak moment. Here was I, who had the full inside information quite literally too on her ailment. And there were those poor souls giving free advice on various medicines available to ward off the proliferating viruses that come along with the rains.

“It’s awesome, it’s wonderful,” I caught Vineeta cooing, “Smita, you should try that. My mother took it and the fever vanished in a day.” I wasn’t really sure which elixir she was talking about, but definitely was confident that only Vineeta could describe a medicine as awesome and wonderful .

Since not much love flowed between Vineeta and Smita, I saw the latter with a plastic smile trying her best to be polite.

Vasu’s eye caught mine and he gestured me to meet outside the room. I was curious. I liked Vasu - short, fair and cleanshaven, he came across as decent and well behaved. He was a faithful ally in marking my proxies whenever I was in the mood to bunk. And also, and more importantly, we were kiddishly bound together by our common hatred against Vineeta!

Once outside, I enquired of his secret talk.

“What’s wrong with Smita,” his voice pounced on me, and I recoiled like a snake stepped on its tail.

“What’s wrong with her?” I snapped back. “Just fever, why?”

“Cut out the crap buddy,” he said irritably. “You know it pretty well. I know it. And you will be shocked to know, majority of the class knows it!” His voice increased like a rising crescendo at the end of a well orchestrated symphony though the only applause he got was a deafening silence.

“Err… I don’t get you, Vasu,” I finally found my tongue after several heavy seconds.

“She’s pregnant, no? And that…” he stopped mid-way.

“And what?” I asked, with a force on the last word.

“And that either you or Ashish is the father!”

I slapped him across the cheek. I think it was the false accusation, which made me do that. But on hindsight, I reckon it was more the regret that I wasn t the father that made me imprint a solid mark on Vasu’s fair cheeks.

He staggered before regaining control. I admit I was amazed at his reticence. On my part, had someone slapped me, I would have either slapped back, or perhaps walked away. But he only complained, “Hell, what’s wrong with you?”

His small face held the most lost-puppy look, and I hugged him, patting his head like one would do to a hapless dog that has been ridiculed. “I am sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to do that but this business is getting so out of hand that I lost control.”

He pulled apart, and rubbing his cheek eyed me nervously. “It’s ok. You have heavy hand.” And you have tough cheeks! My hand was still ringing with the slap that I had implanted on his face.

“Sorry,” I repeated.

“Ok. ok. But how will you stop this from spreading?” he asked. The mind, as I often say, is a curious museum of multifarious images filed randomly within the folds of innumerable gray cells. And like the google search of today, it can cough up some outlandish image at any trigger. As Vasu spoke, the only thing that came to my brain was the film about a forest fire that I had seen on Doordarshan a few days back, spreading and engulfing any tree that came its way. Sadly, I also realized that fire-fighting is not exactly my forte.

“That bitch Vineeta is already too happy to tell it to anyone who comes her way,” Vasu continued. “According to her, Smita deserved it!”

The fire was not just in the images now. It was burning within me, the wild flames gushing alongwith my blood in the charred veins. I ran inside the classroom, banging the door open. Everyone fell silent and looked at me. My memory fails me now, so I don’t recall what exactly I said. But in that terrible moment of frustration, and seeing Vineeta engaged in a supposedly sweet talk with Smita, I think I bluntly told her to call off the bluff.

She understood, because she looked at Smita guiltily, though no speech came out of her goddamn awesome and wonderful mouth!

Looking at Smita I said, “They all know about it.” My sore voice grated against the coarse silence.

She looked up at me- terror, vulnerability and shame mixed in those limpid pools of her wine-like eyes, ready to brim over any instant, the pupils rapidly moving to seek solace from their pain, her tender mouth ajar in disbelief, the color drained out from her rosy cheeks, and the body shivering like a lone leaf against a monstrous storm. She dropped her head, and I leaned forward to hold her. When her body touched mine, it was shaking uncontrollably, and I felt the warmth of her tears seeping through my thin cotton shirt, and soaking my soul with the immense grief that flowed from her eyes, uncontrolled and unbridled.

Vineeta walked towards me. I fired a million hatred darts from my stony eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered and walked out of the room.

To Be Continued

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 27th, 2007 at 2:30 pm and is filed under Fiction . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.