Random Expressions

A Story By Deepak Jeswal
Episode Three

I am sure I will need to take another birth to fully comprehend the pain that Smita underwent on that rainy July afternoon. I don’t clearly recall for how long we sat in that claustrophobic room trying in vain to comfort her. She didn’t speak much, but the tears didn’t stop either. Her pretty face was smudged with the kohl streaming along with the tears. It was a Herculean task making her move from the room to the bus stop. Stripped off her dignity and having lost her peer acceptance, she eyed every stranger with dread and fear, and wondered as to how many really knew about her condition.

She took the next few days off.

As for Vineeta, her apology sounded so sincere that I had no reason to disbelieve her. It was a couple of days later, while walking towards Patel Chest Institute, to catch my bus home that I saw two very familiar figures. My blood and feet froze in their tracks. Ashish Sehgal and Vineeta Chawla were walking hand in hand towards a sleek white Maruti 1000 parked some distance away.

That evening, Vasu and I sat perched on the balcony of his bachelor’s pad, a few kilometers away from the college. The sun was setting behind the gray curtain of clouds, which it had failed to disperse for the past few days. Nature’s hand painted streaks of violet and orange in violently random strokes across Delhi s flat skyline. The air was moist and humid, though it wasn’t raining any longer. We sat, with two Kingfishers between us. My beer capacity was still in its nascent stage. And with the first bottle down, I could feel myself swim in haziness.

With Vasu, the friendship had been good and deep and our natural love for beer had sealed it further, and opened up many reserves that would have normally left potted in the college and canteen meetings.

“What should I do?” I asked Vasu finally, after we had beat around the bush for some while, till the time there was no bush left to thrash.

“You want me to state what you seem to have decided already?” he counter questioned.

Perhaps, yes!

Not getting any audible reply from me, he took a deep breath and said, “Dinesh, accept the child and her!”

This was exactly what I wanted to hear. I was relieved. Still, for sake of convincement I asked, “But will that be fair?”

“That,” he reasoned, “would be perfect.”

“And Ashish?”

“Leave him,” he said nonchalantly.

“You can’t do anything to him, can you?”

I was silent. His point was convincing. It made sense. But still, within me, I wanted to be sure I had all other doors closed before I countered Smita. So I decided to have a word with Ashish, even though I knew nothing would come off it. No, let me put it this way, even though I desperately wished that nothing would come off it!

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

Despite it being a natural act, there is something unnaturally exciting about sex and in college it makes for a great topic to discuss; and I suspect during those years, it is more talked about than actually done. In the still prudish nineties, a pregnant girl in a Delhi college was a colossal scandal. It towered over bus conversations, canteen small-talks and class room discussions; and it dwarfed all other polite pleasantries. Students found a wonderful alternative to begin conversations, other than the ubiquitous weather, politics and films!

To my horror I realized this the hard way, while traveling on the U-Special bus. A bunch of students, who could qualify as extras in films to dance behind the hero while he chased the leading lady but were under the mistaken belief they were the hero themselves, were standing precariously near the exit. I stood sandwiched somewhere behind, between two burly third year students, who looked like having watched too many Sunil Shetty films.

“Pata hai Kirorimal College mein kya chal raha hai?” one voice said.

“Kya? It’s such a rookha-sookha college. No hot babes there,” his friend remarked.

“Yeah, but it has heat other ways. Ek ladki pregnant hai wahan pe!”

“Don’t tell me”

“Sachi?”

“Ekdum. Hundred percent sahi news hai.”

“Tu jaanta hai usse?”

“Na, but I think science mein hai.”

Small relief! They had got the class wrong by a far margin.

“Kya jaldi thi usse dene mein,” laughed the second voice.

“Ha ha, kyun nahi. She should have come to us. Protection bhi de dete.”

“Waise, ab pata laga le kaun hai. Ek baar ho gaya, baar baar se kya sharam ?”

“Ha ha, Sahi kah raha hai. But be careful, maine suna hai she is the daughter of a politician. Kahiin baap teri na maar le baad mein.”

That was another factual error. I don’t know why the Chinese are blamed for their whispers, but I am convinced that the Indians are no less. As I embarrassingly heard the conversation, I understood that facts were hugely distorted and since we all love spices, a large measure was added to it. Over the next two days, I came to know that the scandal in college was a very hot topic. Whenever I heard it, I wanted to scream that she was raped, and she was innocent and pure. But I guess, no one would have understood. Date rape meant the girl called for it! But then, I can’t really blame the boys, because had this happened in some far off college, to some unknown girl, I am sure I would have partook in such lewd conversations with the same degree of interest and enthusiasm. Boys will be boys, after all! And we aren’t really conditioned to understand a girl’s feelings.

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

Vishal Kathuria was another close confidante in my class. He spoke less, listened more and was generally a person with a happy disposition with a mysterious Buddha-like smile ever on his lips settled permanently below a thick bush of moustache. He was tall, dark though not necessarily very handsome. Yet, his appeal lay in an earthiness that kept the girls wondering if he would make a suitable boyfriend material. He didn t come from a very rich background, which made him pretty grounded and more likeable. He was one of those kind souls who was friend to all, and didn’t crystallize himself to any one group or gang . He had his own dreams, though I don t think he was anywhere near fulfilling them, or making any efforts to reach there. For me, he was a trusted bank vault any number of secrets could be stored there, and only a handful specialized people could open him up. Thankfully, I was one such specialized person.

Vishal and I had met on the first day of college. Since we stayed on the same side of town, our bus route was common. We were both freshers ragged by rowdy seniors in the bus itself. Mercifully, it was only to raunchily sing the then super hit double-entendre laden number Choli ke peechhe kya hai . Vishal has a coarse voice which rivaled Ila Arun s hefty intonations of the original number. I don t think I was half as effective as the other singer, but I plugged in enough sexiness to ensure that the seniors were pretty amused and let us off soon. This friendly duet began our friendship.

That day, he came up to me, a bit flushed and excited. We were in front of the in-house theater, next to the science wing, overlooking the path that led to the canteen. “You know why Smita is off for the past few days?” Quite likely, Mr.Zen had got the news pretty late, and was quite animated to share it with someone. Sorry, he chose the wrong person. I had had enough of the conversation in the bus that morning. Before I could reply, he was brimming to give the information on his own. “You know she used to go on all those dates with…”

“…Ashish Sehgal, and that she is carrying his baby,” I interjected, angrily. “And that she has been thrown out of her house, which in reality is not true.”

He had the grace to turn white.

“Also that it is the second month, and that she is getting the damn thing aborted at Khanna’s clinic in Greater Kailash,” I added for good measure.

He blinked like a kid whose toy has just been snatched away, and who is summoning up all the energy and tears to give a loud bawl.

“So you know about it?” he said, dejected.

“Of course I know about it. The whole college knows about it. The whole university knows about it. So who told you all this? Vineeta?”

“Vineeta?” he blinked hard again, genuinely confused. “Why her?”

“Because now the fool is going around with Ashish!” I paused to catch his reaction. “To end up in Smita’s state,” I added bitterly, as an afterthought.

“Vineeta going around with Ashish?” asked Vishal, in disbelief. “you must be crazy! She hates him!”

“Yeah, pretty weird hatred that makes her hold his hand lovingly,” I said sarcastically.

“Abbe, tujhe galti lagi hogi.”

“Oh come on Vishal. I was just a few meters away. My eyesight is not so bad that I wouldn’t recognize Vineeta and Ashish together!”

He wasn’t convinced, which made me very curious. Knowing that he would probably have more dope from the ‘other camp’ , “I pressed on, But tujhe aisa kyun lag raha that she hates Ashish?”

The direct questioning put Vishal off a bit. Flustered he said, “I just overheard her talk with Sunaina this morning. She was saying that he hesitated, that you are wrongly blaming her and saying that she had spread the news about Smita to everyone.”

“Which is a fact!” I interrupted emphatically.

“Arre yaar, poori baat toh sun le,” Vishal said irritably.

“Ok, ok carry on.”

“She was saying that she felt bad that you had felt that she was the one going and spreading this news. She was feeling pity for Smita.”

“Sab bakwaas hai!” I broke in again, boiling mad.

“Arre, phir beech mein bola? Let me at least complete na? Where was I? Yeah, that she was feeling bad about Smita and wanted to cut off Ashish’s balls for the cowardly act he has done.”

“Hypocrite!” I exclaimed.

“Uff, you wont let me complete will you?” he asked exasperated.

“Well, the fact is that she herself was questioning that who could have spread the rumors of Smita’s pregnancy in the class.”

“Woh usne khud ne, aur kis ne?” I burst in again, unable to control my rage.

“Woh aisa kyun karegi?” counter questioned Vishal.

“Because she doesn’t like Smita, and always wanted to downsize her. That’s why!”

“That’s what you think!”

“That’s what the whole world thinks!” I retorted.

“Nahi yaar, I am not convinced,” Vishal said, and he didn’t look convinced either. His lips were pursed, and thoughtfully he said, “Smita and Vineeta might have had differences but I don’t think either can do this to each other. I mean, chhote mote jhagde huein hai, that’s all. This enmity thing is bigger in your mind than in reality. Aise toh, Vasu aur Smita ke beech bhi locha hua tha, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t friends any longer. It’s just that two girls often seclude themselves after some silly cat-fight.” I was silent. After a grand dramatic pause, he concluded, “Your personal prejudice against Vineeta is the cause of your suspicion.”

This was the final blow; it hit where it hurt the most my conscience. I hated Vishal for putting words to a thought that I didn’t want to admit. I knew he was right. I looked out of the window. The rain had begun again. Everything was blanketed in a steady stream of the downpour. My mind was racing like a machine gone awry Smita, Ashish, the pregnancy, Vineeta all mixed together in the continual tip-tap that fell on the lawn.

“Hey Dinesh, Profesor Krishan Arora looking for you,” a classmate called up from behind. I turned and nodded acknowledgement. “He’s waiting in the tutorial room,” the class mate said and vanished.

“Chal Vishal. Let me see what he wants. Probably, something to do with the tutorial classes I had applied for. Milta hun, don’t go away.”

Vishal nodded. “I will see you in canteen”

The tutorial room was on the other side of the college, in the main wing. I passed groups of students carelessly whiling their time below the foyer, shaded from the rain; through the long corridor, that overlooked two small rectangular lawns beyond which the class rooms were lined, one after the other - Economics, English, BA Pass, and so on.

I reached the tutorial room, and politely knocked the door. “May I come in?” I asked - a sentence that always brought back uncomfortable from my early school years, when in my tiny child voice I had squeaked to my English teacher, “Can I go to the toilet?” to which she had replied, “Yes you can, but you may not.”

“Yes, come in,” came the reply from inside the room.

I entered the quiet room cautiously. Prof. Krishan Arora was one of the most loved lecturers- and also the most charming one. He was impossibly tall at 6′3″ , with a lean physique that ended in a very thoughtful face. The peppered beard added weight to his persona. And those eyes could pierce and probe at their own will. No doubt, he was an idol for all more so, for the girls who made sure that they never missed his romantic poetry class. For us boys, he was another rival to contend, plus we always found him a bit overbearing. Perhaps, he was after all, a ladies man!

The room was rectangular, with chairs arranged around its periphery on three sides. It wasn t a regular classroom. And hence the centre was left empty, with just one table, below the gigantic black-board. Prof. Arora sat on the chair, deeply engrossed in reading some book titled English for Science Students.

“Come come Dinesh,” he said, and pointed to the chair in front of the table.

I sat down on its edge, nervously. God knows where all my cockiness evaporated at the mere sight of Prof. Arora.

“Dinesh,” he started. “I have called you for a very important and sensitive matter, which I feel I should discuss with you. I hope you understand?”

I nodded, but in reality I didn’t. Before entering the room, I had sanguinely hoped that he would ask me to join his more vibrant tutorial group, so that I could get rid of the awful teacher that I was assigned to. But as I heard him, I realized that such a routine matter didn’t warrant a somber expression. Still, since he had fallen silent, I piped in, “I guess it is about my tutorial application?”

“Well, that we will see later on,” he smiled. “But at the moment,” he continued, stroking his peppered beard broodingly, “I want to talk about Smita.”

I nearly stumbled from my chair. Ok, this was a dream, and I would end any moment with my mother waking me up.But no, this wasn’t ending so soon, as I heard Prof. Arora’s next question, “Is she really pregnant?”

No, this is all a silly rumor, I felt like saying. But I did the mistake of looking up into his eyes. Like two sharp laser beams, they gorged into me, and with a dry mouth I mumbled an affirmative.

“Don’t worry,” he tried to assuage, “Relax, please,” he added. I would have but only if his eyes allowed me to do so. “I am the only one to know of it, at least I think so.”

You think wrongly, for all you know the whole world knows it. But nothing escaped my lips. Blankly, I sat there mute.

“Ashish Sehgal is my nephew - my sister’s son, I think you know that?” he went on. Another unexpected blow of course, I knew no such thing. How was I to know of Ashish’s relatives in the faculty? Smita hadn’t told me either. And I wondered if she herself was aware of this. “I don’t want his name unnecessarily dragged in this sordid matter. He paused, trying to gain some reaction from my vacant face. I am sad to see that he is getting unnecessarily dragged in this unwanted controversy.” At this, I raised a questioning eyebrow. “Aah, I see that you also seem to believe that he is the culprit.” My eyebrow drooped in disgust. Still, I kept quiet. “I have seen that you and Smita are good friends, so I thought I should first have a word with you. I want her to keep Ashish out of this.”

I nodded, trying desperately to find some meaningful words to say. At last, I said, “But he is the well, he is… I mean, he is the…”

“I don’t think so. He belongs to a very good family. His father is a reputed businessman. And often gives huge donations to the college trust.”

So, there it was family honor cake topped with the monetary cherry, all baked and ready to smother poor Smita’s chance of defense. But I wasn’t going to let this to happen. I took a deep breath, and collecting as much courage as I could, I said, “That’s ok sir. But Ashish is in the wrong. And he should own up to Smita at least. The poor girl is devastated. By the way, she is also from a very good family!” Perhaps, better than Ashish’s, I felt like adding, but discretion tied my tongue.

“I fully understand,” Prof. Arora said, in an even tone that belied any iota of understanding or sympathy. “I have no doubts. And I am sure she is in a bad shape. And that is the reason I didn’t want to talk to her directly, and called you for it. You are a mature boy and will definitely understand that some things are best swept beneath the carpet.”

“In any case, I don t think you have to fear Smita. She wouldn’t say anything. But the tongues are wagging already. Your fear lies somewhere else.”

Prof. Arora stared for a long time, and emphasizing each word, he said, “Since you are the closest to Smita, I want to make sure my fear doesn’t lie in you.” If ever any veiled threat comes up for any award ceremony, I would surely pass on this as an honorable contender.

“I love Smita,” I said, throwing off fear out of the window. I didn’t want to fear a man who was weak enough to give threats. “And I will marry her. Don’t you worry, sir. Ashish doesn’t know what he is losing on. And I don’t think Smita even cares about Ashish any longer! He can go to the nearest available hell.”

I left the room, dizzy, confused, shocked and hurt. My ears burnt in rage and uneasiness. My eyes smarted with sorrow for Smita. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening around me, or as to why I was suddenly the nucleus to a whirling atomic blizzard. I didn’t go to the canteen. I needed to sort my thoughts. I moved away, from the tutorial room, on the opposite side, towards a side exit leading towards the college hostel. A neatly landscaped lawn was to my right hand side, across which was the college boundary wall, with a small gate in-between. Trees lined the wall, and a group of students stood there enjoying the monsoon. I eyed them with envy; they didn’t have the worries that had besot me in the past few days. I stepped into the rain, and looked heavenward, seeking answers from the rain that fell from the gods above. The reply was a steady drum of the rains. I turned my gaze again towards the gate, from where a couple was entering, shielded by a common umbrella, bearing huge red polka dots on its shiny wet surface. Their umbrella tipped a little upward, and I caught their faces. Vineeta and Ashish- holding each other tightly beneath the small umbrella.

Only one question rang continuously in my ears - who do I believe? My eyes or Vishal’s ears?!

To Be Continued

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This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 28th, 2007 at 5:30 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.