I walk past Churchgate station, against the
human tide surging towards the trains. Lawyers, engineers, blue-collar workers,
newly minted MBAs on their first job. All united by the lifeline of this city,
by its local trains. Not the most elegant means of transport, but it's the
fastest way to get around the city and it's the only way to avoid the traffic
jams. Just as long as you don't mind having your nose jammed into the throat of
the man ahead. But I am not getting on the trains today.
I enter the small café and order a
cup of their extra-special chai. Then, I settle down to wait for him. I hope
Vishal really does show up this time. The last time, he said he'd come and
never did. But, I can be patient. Persistent too.
I order another cup of chai and
finish that too.
The light is fading outside.
Around me the tables fill up with early diners. The smell of food wafts through
the air and my stomach rumbles.
Where is he?
Another chai arrives. I let this
one cool. I am all chaied out. I don't touch this cup.
He arrives suddenly.
Vishal walks in, stops at the
entrance and looks around before spotting me. As he walks towards me, the
college girls at the other tables follow his progress. Crew-cut hair, a cut-off
T-shirt showing off the tattoo snaking up his arm, and jeans torn at the knees.
He looks down at me, dark eyes shadowed, before dropping down in the chair
opposite. Behind him, the headlights of the slow-moving traffic bounce off the
windows. The honking of the cars pours between us, filling the silence.
"Tea?" I ask, and
without waiting for an answer, I look around for the waiter, who materialises
at his elbow, placing a glass filled with the milky brown liquid.
"How—?" I ask, then shut
up.
This is his local café. His hostel
is just around the corner. He must eat all his meals here.
The waiter appears, placing a
plate of food in front of him.
"It's dinner time."
Vishal shrugs and is about to dig in. He pauses, asks, "Do you—?"
I'm already shaking my head.
"No. Mum's waiting for dinner."
The words are out before I can
stop myself. Damn. Fuck. As if the contrast in our situations isn't stark
enough, I had to go point that out, right?
Vishal doesn't say anything. He
digs into the food. Eats.
I swig the water from the glass,
wishing for something stronger. Still, it's good to see him eat. He has a
healthy appetite. He seems strong, vital. Alive. A rush of brotherly love
surges up, taking me by surprise. I look away. Tilting the glass of water, I
drain it off to the last drop. Before I can ask for a refill, the same waiter
appears and tops me up.
"Quick service," I
comment.
"They know me here,"
Vishal says, voice neutral. His plate wiped clean, he drains his own glass of
water and leans back with a sigh. "Why did you want to meet, Vikram?"
he asks.
I grasp my fingers around the
glass of water.
What does he see? A brother? An
enemy? The favoured son? I lean forward, steeple my palms together so they form
a pyramid on the table.
"Vishal, come home," I
say.
There's stunned surprise on his
face, then he bursts out laughing. A quick short burst—harsh. Loud enough for
people at the nearby tables to look up at us.
"Losing your touch, you are,
Bro. You sound like one of those newspaper ads for runaways." He makes a
rectangle of his hands, miming an ad. "All is forgiven. Come home."
"Forgive us, Vishal," I
say, keeping my breathing even. Calm. I pour my heart into the words. Can he
see that I mean it? I want to tell him how sorry I am. But I don't want to
sound like I am pleading. Though, of course, that is exactly what I am doing.
"It's too late, Vikram."
His voice is even, steady.
"It's not. It isn't," I
insist.
Our eyes clash. An uncertain look
flashes across his, making him look more like the teenager he still is, rather
than the grown-up, street-smart man he's pretending to be.
"It's not too late. Never too
late," I say.
"Look. Vik. Your mother
doesn't want me there. I was never a part of that home."
"She's not all that bad,
Vishal. It's just … you remind her of Dad's affairs, all those other women in
his life."
He doesn't seem surprised when I
refer to Dad's flings in the plural. It's not something we've ever spoken
about. But I know that he knows too.
"I know she didn't make you
very welcome. But she also didn't disown you, throw you out to starve, did
she?" I plead.
"Dad wouldn't have allowed
that," he says.
But his voice isn't very
convinced. He doesn't meet my gaze now, instead looking across to the crowd on
the next table. He pulls out his packet of cigarettes and lights one. The
waiter brings him an ashtray immediately. He doesn't offer me one and I don’t
ask either.
I press my point. "She did
give you a roof over your head all these years."
"Then, at the first
opportunity, moved me to a hostel." He says it without malice, blowing out
smoke. He looks at the cigarette.
"It's one of the finest
colleges in the city. A good hostel." I defend her.
"My point. Exactly." He
looks up and smiles a little. Just one side of his lips lift. It's not a happy
smile. Cynical. "Which is why I say, let it go. It's fine where I am. I've
found my place here. I never did belong at your home."
He gets to his feet and I follow
him.
"The bill?" I look
around for the waiter.
"It's on my tab."
Seeing the look on my face, he
smiles. This one reaches his eyes, lights up his face. He looks mischievous,
almost happy.
"I can pay for your chai,
Vik. It won't put me on the street."
Relieved, I follow him out of the
café onto the footpath. "Do you need anything else, Vishal?"
"Money, you mean?" He
says it without heat. "No. Dad's made sure my hostel is all paid for, till
I graduate. And I get a monthly allowance."
"He planned it all out,
didn't he?" So, Dad's thought this one all the way through.
"Maybe he had to,"
Vishal agrees.
"Did he know what was
coming?" I wonder aloud. He prepared for the worst, he did.
"I think he sensed …
something."
There it is, that look in his eyes
again. He knows something, Vishal does. Something he's not telling me. I ask
quickly, "What do you mean? Tell me."
A shutter falls over his eyes, his
features freeze. "I have to go, Vikram. People are waiting for me."
He turns to leave.
"Wait, Vishal." I stop
him, and when he looks over his shoulder, I ask, "Your mother. Where is
she?" All these years and I've never dared ask him about his mum.
There's something like puzzlement,
then wariness, on his face.
He frowns, then says, "She's
gone."
"What do you mean?" I
ask.
But he continues walking, not
replying. Hands deep in pockets, his shoulders hunched and his face thrust
forward so his chin almost touches his chest.
"Is she dead?" My voice
follows him, but he doesn't turn back.
Is she alive? Is that what he
meant?
It'll be a few more years before I
get the answers to my questions.
