Nights Like This (4 page)

 

 

I did not leave forever but I did leave for the day. I put on some blue jeans and a short black kurta that my mother had sent me along with two boxes of sandalwood soap and a tin of incense. It was the first time I was wearing the kurta and I liked the way it felt, the cotton cool against my body. It billowed when I moved, a sliver of skin visible around my waist if I reached upwards. I slipped on a pair of black ankle socks and Nike sneakers, all black, soft, supple and low. And then I quietly left the apartment, Anjali on the couch pretending to watch TV as I left, some Bollywood movie that I knew was too old and too violent to actually hold her attention.

“Bye. I'll be home early,” I tried.

She nodded her head as if she were so engrossed in her movie that she barely understood me when I knew full well that she had heard and she would be waiting, martini in hand, for my return as dusk approached. I almost didn't leave. But then Poet's Walk caught my eye and uneasiness filled my entire body. I knew I had to see her again if only to buy another photograph. I closed the door quietly.

As I sat on the subway, I sensed sandalwood and Queen of the Night mingled with mogra as scents mingled and rose to me from the fabric of my kurta. I closed my eyes and thought of my mother, making pale brown paste and then anointing me at a temple amidst the sound of bells and chanting pundits. I could almost feel the petals of hyacinth beneath my feet and the cold marble underneath. I would return someday when I had nothing to lose.

“What do you have to lose now?”

Since I couldn't answer and I didn't know who asked the question and I knew it wasn't Tracy Chapman because I had forgotten my headphones on my nightstand, I opened my eyes and turned my thoughts to my squatting stranger. I imagined her in Central Park, blinded by the bright sun, holding her photos at an angle so as to deflect glare off the glass of the frame. I wondered how her touch would feel to my skin. I remembered rather abruptly the taste of Anjali's kisses, the feel of her caresses. I rested my head in my palms and closed my eyes.

What would I say to her? It wasn't as if I was going to walk up to her and propose we fuck. I wanted to get to know her. I wanted to ride in convertibles with her to faraway places. I wanted to make her laugh and to hold her when she cried. How I could want so much for and from someone whom I had just met while buying a photograph, I didn't know myself. But there I was taking a train to go see her with no idea what to say. And there I was, with every station heading uptown, leaving behind a beautiful woman who loved me so simply it made my whole world complicated. And the most simple and complicated fact of the whole matter was that I loved her too. When the tears threatened to come, I closed my eyes and focused only on a 5-by-7 black and white where the color of the sky was the same as my yearning dark eyes.

I held my breath as I exited the train, the smell of burnt rubber and hot metal erasing all traces of sandalwood and mogra and Queen of the Night. I wondered what her name was. I wondered how we had met and talked and never inquired about names. But what's in a name? A name is but a resting place for all orgasmic screams.

Except “Anjali” was more than that. It actually meant “an offering to the gods.” Sometimes, like now, I wondered if she deserved such a burdened name. But then my thoughts shifted as I walked to Central Park and I started thinking of a name I did not know yet and wondered what it would mean, what value it would hold.

She was not by the loudly whispering fountain. I walked around and around but she was nowhere. I sat on the fountain's edge and sighed. I looked towards Poet's Walk. I wanted to clear my senses of her. I walked down Poet's Walk and paused in awe at the pigeon shit-splattered statues of literary giants. I walked back and checked for her again. She was not there.

I realized then that even if I did find her, I wouldn't know what to say to her. Maybe, “I bought a photo yesterday and haven't stopped thinking about you ever since.” Maybe not. How would I talk to her? How would I ask for her? Did I want to ask for her? Maybe I was just having a semi-quarter life crisis and that's what this was all about. Maybe I was just intrigued. But my heart sank so fast upon not seeing her; my senses yearned so much to know her scent, her taste, her voice, her touch, and her reactions to my words that I knew I was fated to know her. I knew I was destined to love her. It made my heart somersault in my chest.

I threw a nickel into the fountain and wished to ride in a convertible with her. I looked into the water as if her image would appear. It did not. I turned and walked towards the stairs so I could leave the park. But I didn't want to leave the park. I wanted to find my squatting stranger. I wanted to touch her lips with my finger, making silent the space around us. And then I wanted to kiss her. She would taste of honey, I decided. Chocolate and honey like the color of her eyes.

As I ascended the stairs I didn't know where I wanted to go. I took out my cell phone. I read the names in my phone book. Most of my friends were really Anjali's friends who, out of some obligation, had given me their numbers. Half of them had hit on me at some time or another and the rest were so boring I couldn't stand to even think of calling them at random. I wished sometimes that I had more friends that I had a best friend with whom I could talk openly about my life, my thoughts, and my heart. But I was remarkably aloof from people and I knew I didn't allow people to come close to me. How I had maintained love interests and relationships was sometimes a mystery to me but then I remembered that all those relationships had ended with me being accused of being distant, cold, sometimes unfeeling. All except Anjali. And even she, I knew, struggled with my distant ways, how I lost myself in myself for days on end, how sometimes, I refused to talk. I knew it was hurting us. But I didn't know any other way to be. I couldn't trust my own heart enough to allow anyone else to hold it let alone dive into it. Maybe my squatting stranger could change that. I didn't even know her and already I had hopes for her.

I pressed a button on top of my phone so that it brightened and a dim photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up for me. Anjali had sent me the photo while gallivanting in Paris last year. I had been here, in New York City, studying for MCATs, getting drunk and getting laid while she had been in Paris taking supervised tours of Notre Dame. These were the differences between us. And I wondered for the thousand and first time how we were ever going to work.

Anjali and I shared situations, not memories, I thought. We shared lust and chances. But it could be more, couldn't it? I sighed. It had to be more. Because she loved me. Because I loved her. I took out my phone again and called her.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it's me.”

“Hey.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to come to Central Park. We could get some sushi or go to a lounge somewhere later.”

“That sounds great but I made plans. You told me you were busy today.”

“I did but things changed.”

“I'm sorry, Jess. I made plans with Ish and I haven't seen her since Christmas. She's finally back in the city.”

Upon hearing Ish's name, a fire rose up inside of me. It's not that I disliked Ish…I hated Ish. I couldn't quite define why but I was overcome with loathing whenever I saw her kohl lined brown eyes, whenever I heard her deep, raspy voice, and even when Anjali merely mentioned her name. The funny thing was (and I would never admit this to anyone, most times not even to myself), I hated the way Ish looked at Anjali. I knew there was nothing there—Ish was with Kat and they had their own very dysfunctional relationship that had lasted, despite ups downs and in-betweens, for almost six and a half-years. But my heart fought me on this, told me otherwise. It wasn't a fair assessment but it was my assessment. If anyone made me protective of Anjali, it was Ish Mehra.

“Jess? You there? I said, ‘I'm sorry.'”

“Don't be sorry,” I snapped.

“Why are you so angry? You're always angry with me and I didn't do anything to you.”

“I'm sorry and you're right,” I said as Anjali's voice brought me back, sobered me of my anger just a bit.

“All right, well, I'll see you at home then. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah.”

I hung up. It wasn't that I wanted to spend the day with Anjali so much as I didn't want to be the one asking her and being told that she had things to do. Truth was I didn't want Ish to be around Anjali. How I could justify this sentiment I didn't know. I myself was sauntering, waiting for my nameless photographer. But Ish…the way she placed Anjali's hair behind her ear, how she whispered so damn close all the time, how she didn't kiss the air by Anjali's face when they met but actually kissed her cheek, a streak of Dior red inevitably visible on Anjali's skin long thereafter. My phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we can do dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you being like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like
that
?”

“I'm fine. I'm just a little tired with all this studying.”

“Really? That's really funny since you left your MCAT book and your journal on the table.”

“Please don't read the journal,” I said foolishly.

“That's what you're worried about? Seriously, Jess.”

She hung up.

I stood staring at my phone. It wasn't so much that I had lied to Anjali. It was more that she had let me know that she had caught me. I debated calling her back. I decided I had nothing to say.

I scrolled through my phone again. I stopped at the Ts and scrolled more slowly until I read “Tiffany.” My thumb hovered over the send button. Send…don't send…send. I pressed the button and held my breath.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it's me,” I said.

“Jess?”

“Yeah.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Would you want to meet up for a drink?”

“When?”

“Er…now. If you can't, it's cool.” I said.

“Anything specific you want to talk about?”

“No.”

Silence.

I envisioned her tossing her blonde hair to the side, biting her lip in apprehension and making what seemed like the biggest decision of her life.

“Sure…where?”

“I'm at Central Park.”

“That's doable. I'm actually just five minutes away.”

“All right. I'm going to wait for you at the fountain we used to go to.”

“Some things never change, Jess. I'll see you soon.”

“All right.”

I went back to the fountain and sat cross-legged on the pavement, watching the movements of the water. I listened for the musician who had played “Pachelbel's Canon” the night before but even he was not there. Neither was the Spiderman kite. And I didn't have Tracy Chapman in my pocket. In the course of a day, everything had changed. Even me, I thought.

But it wasn't me who had changed; life did. I was the same Jess that had come to the fountain when Tiffany and I were in a blissful relationship and then again when she had cheated on me. I was the Jess that took time off work to come ponder flowing water. And now, again, I was here pondering the fate of my life. And for all my pondering, I decided that I did love Anjali and I hated Ish Mehra.

Why then had I deflected Anjali's unspoken proposal? I didn't fully understand. Why I had called Tiffany of all people I didn't understand either. And then there was the nameless photographer I had decided was the fate of my life. What was I doing?

I rose from the ground and walked circles around the fountain. My phone rang.

“Jess?”

“Tiffany?”

“I'm here.”

 

 

 

We were halfway through our second round when Tiffany asked the question.

“What's going on with the novel?”

“I don't work on it much,” I said.

I shied away from her gaze, believing that if she looked in my eyes, she could see through me.

She sat in silence as did I, the murmur of voices around us a welcome distraction.

“Why aren't you writing?”

“I don't know.”

Tiffany sighed. “I think you know Jess. Hell, even I know.”

“Then why the fuck did you ask?”

“I thought you might want to talk about it.”

“I don't,” I said.

“What are you so scared of?”

“I said I don't want to talk about it.”

“Then why did you call me?”

“You're full of questions, aren't you? I called you because I wanted to see you.”

Tiffany tilted her head back and bit her lip. She laughed slightly.

“That is such bullshit, Jess Banerjee. Anytime you've called me it's been because something was not right with you.”

Her blue eyes accused me. She wasn't wrong.

I smiled.

“Let it go,” I said.

“No, I want to know.”

“I was fucking bored. I called you because I was bored, all right?”

“At least you're honest.”

I sipped my Sauvignon Blanc.

“You still wear your cat's eye,” she said.

“I do.”

“You still play with it when you're uncomfortable.”

I stopped my fingers.

“Jess, there are many small things that speak of our past without us having to tell the story of the past.”

“What?”

“I will always know you like most people never will.”

“All right,” I said, “I'll give you that.”

“How's Anjali?”

She sipped her wine.

“Okay.”

“Where's your mind?”

“Here.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

“I won't.”

Tiffany leaned forward and placed a hand over mine.

“Jess, why do we even meet? Neither of us seems to enjoy it. You're still bitter about what happened.”

“You cheated on me.”

“I fell in love with someone else. It's not the same thing.”

“Seriously, Tiff? Seriously?”

“Can you ever let it go?”

“No.”

“Then why are we here? What do you want from me if all you give me is hostility?”

“I don't know.”

“Then who knows?”

She placed her wine glass down hard enough to make the table shake.

“Either get past what happened or else don't see me.”

“Those are my two choices, Tiff?”

“Basically, yes.”

“All right.”

I placed some cash on the table and rose from my seat. She placed her hand over mine.

“Let me ask you one question before you walk out.”

“What's that?”

“How are you so righteous with me when you cheat on Anjali all the time? Have you ever been faithful yourself?”

I slowly sat back down.

“I was faithful to you,” I said softly.

I felt my heart constrict as if it wasn't four years ago, but four minutes, that I had walked in and found her betraying me, and our lives. I knew that if I closed my eyes, they would be moist, ready to spill my disap-pointment, my confusion, my defeat. So I kept my eyes open, wide open, as if I were indignant instead of hurting, as if there weren't a myriad of questions still burning bright within me, after four years, even after Anjali.

Tiffany tossed back her hair.

“Now don't tell me our relationship turned you from good to evil.”

I cleared my throat, drank some wine.

“I don't think it's a matter of not being able to be faithful. It's just whom you're with. With you, it came easy. With Anjali, it doesn't. And I don't cheat on her really. Our relationship just changes and we have these moments where we're not exclusive or we're trying to be something different. It isn't like it was with you and me. With us, there were rules and boundaries etched in stone. With her and me it's always fluid, always changing just when it seems like things are a certain way.”

I sipped my drink and thought of my squatting stranger. Could I tell Tiffany?

“It's cheating, Jess because you know, and I know, that that woman is not going out to screw anyone else whether your relationship is open or exclusive or whatever else. Anjali doesn't just love you, Jess. She worships you.”

“I realize that now,” I said.

And I did, especially after the night we had shared, the proposal, the consummation, once again of our relationship. But when you find your name written on someone's heart, scribbled onto the parchment of her soul, the weight of such beauty is sometimes overwhelming. And although I yearned for such affection, it scared me. To mean that much to someone, to be her every dream, her desire, her deity was something I was quite sure I didn't deserve. But love isn't about deserving. Love is a haphazard thing that blows like the wind this way and that and then, having found a nook to nestle in, quiets down and beats in a heart full of haphazard hope.

“So stop fucking with her. Or let her go.”

“I love her,” I said, “But…”

“But?”

I wanted to tell Tiffany about my squatting stranger but I felt foolish. I didn't even know her name. And what would I say anyway? I saw a girl in the park, bought a photograph and now I want to see her again. And what would come of such a dialogue? The more I replayed it in my mind, the more foolish the words felt, the more my heart cowered. So I kept quiet about my squatting photographer.

“I could be faithful again, even after you,” I said.

“But just not to Anjali?”

“I don't know,” I said as I sipped again, “I just don't know. Sometimes I love her so much I can't imagine someone else. Sometimes I feel trapped and think there has to be someone out there for me. I don't know what I feel.”

“Maybe if you knew, you'd be a lot happier.”

“It's complicated.”

She said nothing.

“Now what are you thinking?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Seriously?”

“Just thinking how complicated relationships are. Wondering if there's an easy one out there.”

“Well you have it simple, don't you?”

She laughed.

“Am I missing something?” I asked.

“If you only knew, Jess.”

I would never tell her but secretly, I wanted her relationship to fail, wanted retribution. I wanted her to miss me, to long for me, to want me because I wanted her to feel the same hurt that I felt when I caught her in our bed with another woman. Not even an attractive woman at that. I always waited for her to tell me that she had made a mistake. She never did.

“I have to go, Tiff.”

“Why? I talk about my relationship and suddenly you have to go?”

“Not something I want to discuss. For obvious reasons.”

“Okay, I mean I can't stop you. But just remember this conversation. What is it that you want? What are you doing to achieve it?”

I laughed.

“You sound like one of those inspirational speakers.”

“When everything boomerangs back your way, all the good and bad of it all, you'll understand.”

“Did it boomerang for you?”

She sighed. Her eyes were resigned.

“One last toast,” she said softly.

She raised her glass.

“To you, Jasbir Banerjee.”

“Thanks.” I said as I raised my glass to her and then swallowed the rest of my wine in a gulp. Then I got up and quietly, amid thoughts of faithfulness and Anjali, left to find my squatting stranger.