Every evening a host of middle class men and women, like Angai,
working in various IT companies located in and around the area where she
worked would flock this spot and board one of the many large auto
rickshaws, or “tempoo” as they were called, that would stand in queues
waiting hungrily to ferry as many passengers as they possibly can. Woe
would betide the driver who dared to fill his tempo out of turn.
Her
day had not been particularly productive. The team for which Angai was
working had yet again been thrown off-course because of the last minute
changes in the product requested by the client when the release was only
a day away. Angai foresaw another round of writing tedious code and
squabbling over test cases with the testing team. She grimaced as she
boarded the shared-auto rickshaw at the mere thought of all the
rigmarole that was to ensue the next day.
Angai plugged
her earphones and fished out her cell-phone from her handbag as soon as
she managed to squeeze herself between two of her fellow passengers.
18:30
Mon 15 September
Flashed her cell-phone.
It
had been exactly one year, she was reminded, since the whole Harshil
incident (a disaster rather) had played out. The scars were still fresh
in her memory. The entire episode ran through her mind in a split
second. It was nothing short of rape: emotional rape if something of
that sort exists. The lack of closure on that front had only deepened
her wounds. And the next second the anxiety of the imminent work
pressure glided in and clouded her mind. She broke into a smile. ”How
pacy life has become; it does not even give you enough time to grieve
over one concern to heart’s content and throws in another,” she thought.
A
swift click on the screen of the phone and some of her favourite music
started playing. The auto rickshaw would not move until it gets
completely loaded. It could still accommodate two more persons, though
there was room enough for only one. Angai closed her eyes trying to
concentrate on the lyrics of the songs that played in her ears as the
driver hollered on to invite the last two passengers.
“Mayur Vihar, Bank Kalonee, Jagatpura, Bus adda....Mayur Vihar, Bank Kalonee...”
Her musical meditation was disrupted by a jerk given by the tempoo as its engine roared, signalling departure.
“Finally,” she sighed.
Her
eyes searched for the two new faces to whom the departure could be
credited as though to mentally thank them for it. The first one sat
right opposite to her on the wooden plank that was fitted between the
main seating space and the driver’s cabin so as to accommodate more
passengers. She was a girl of about nineteen, or so Angai guessed. She
wore a pretty nose ring and was perhaps returning home from college.
Angai’s gaze shifted to the gentleman on this girl’s right, who was the
last of the passengers to sit in the tempoo.
Angai
was surprised to see this last entry, and quite pleasantly so. He was a
young man easily in his early twenties. ‘Delicious’ was the first word
that popped in her head as she surveyed this gentleman, and she bit her
tongue, ashamed at the impertinence of her language.
She
could not be blamed entirely. The man was gorgeous indeed. He was a
lighter shade of caramel, and had big almond-shaped eyes located
strategically underneath his thick yet shapely brows. His face was the
right mix of square and oval: A broad forehead and conspicuous
cheekbones. The lower half of his face was etched by five o'clock
shadow. He was dressed in plain and formal attire. The sleeves of his
pale blue shirt visibly had a tough time trying to contain the bulge of
his biceps. The arms were shapely and robust. A fine gold chain gleamed
on his neck as it peeped through the space the first two undone buttons
of his shirt had left uncovered. She would have inferred that this was a
deliberate manoeuvre to tempt the likes of her, had it not been for his
stern expressions.
His facial expressions were the most
striking. He wore a pensive look. In fact he looked slightly miffed at
something. Every now and then he would knit his eyebrows and gaze at
some distant visual. There was an air of restlessness and condescension
about him. He was brooding on some problem, Angai conjectured.
Nevertheless his expressions only augmented his appeal.
She
sat there dazzled by his beauty. How therapeutic it was. It made her
forget all her anxieties and allowed her to appreciate this fine
specimen of male physiognomy and anatomy. There was something so
extra-ordinary about him that it made her giddy. And this had not
happened for quite a long time. This beauty was potent and she was
virtually high on it. It’s one thing to see attractive people on
bill-boards and TV screens; it’s a totally different thing to observe
beauty at close quarters, and that too at unexpected time and place. In
the former there is an element of incredibility accorded by the virtual
distance that subsists between the observer and the object of
appreciation; in the latter, however, the close proximity heightens this
sense of incredibility. How ironic, she observed as she reflected upon
the aforesaid thought.
She was genuinely happy. Yes, there
was a sense of inadequacy she felt when she compared herself to him,
but she acted wisely and did not allow it to mar the joy of those
opportune moments. “What if he gets down way before I do? I can despair later,” she thought and smiled yet again.
The
game of furtive glances had commenced. Cautious not to look idiotic,
she did not allow a single chance to steal a glance at this
honey-complexioned co-passenger pass. However, despite of all her
caution, he had sensed that he was being sensed. And now in those few
seconds when Angai would not look at him (pretending to be unaware of
and indifferent to his presence), he would run his restless eyes on
Angai trying to figure out what exactly was going on. His expression
would not change though. She giggled in her head.
Was the
man in fact as splendid as Angai had perceived him? One can’t say. Angai
did ask of herself the same question, and she concluded that she did
not care. To Angai’s gaze he was like a canvass upon which she was
sketching the man himself with the hues of her imagination and desires,
and was deriving the same pleasure that an artist does in so doing.
She
felt proud of herself in that moment as she did not burden herself with
the obligation of imagining a future with him. She was appreciating his
beauty as objectively as she could, which was quite unlike of her. She
did not care to know his name, his profession, and other such mundane
details. For her all his existence and identity was concentrated in
those very fleeting moments that were passing between them and could end
anytime soon. Reality was usually ugly and burdensome. The image that
she had conjured of him was purely hers and she was content with it;
reality could not taint it.
The only thing that could have
blemished this mental portrait that Angai had painted was a voice that
would not do justice to so fine a specimen. But even that apprehension
was redressed as the man commanded the driver to halt the auto at the
next crossing in a husky baritone. Angai beamed as he walked away after
getting down. What she felt for this man at that juncture was not lust,
not adulation, and far from love. It was pure gratitude: the gratitude
for lifting her spirits and giving her a reason to smile made her want
to get off the auto rickshaw and hug this young man.
Soon
his face would fade away from her memory, but she knew that memory of
this apparently puerile incident would stay with her for quite some
time. She wanted to commit it to paper before it evaporates, but she
believes that the only language she’s good with is Java script. And thus
she phoned me as soon as she reached home, narrating the entire
incident and urging me pen it down for her. I am glad for multiple
reasons: I am glad for she was glad. She said she kept grinning
throughout the way back home, and even greeted her neighbours in the
elevator with warmth. I am glad she trusted me to be her confidant and
entrusted me with the responsibility of narrating this experience of
hers. I hope I’ve done at least some, if not complete, justice to it.
