“That’s the age of the body, Ms. Bhatt!” he says, and a strange sensation runs through my core as he calls me that. There are goosebumps all over my arms.
“We have ourselves an old soul here,” I say. “In that case, the generation gap wouldn’t matter. My movie collection starts with at least the 1980s.”
“I have seen a lot of the ’80s and ’90s movies as well,” Raag adds.
“Yes, it would have hurt my feelings if you didn’t.”
“I see…”
“You know, I really like the movie industry,” I say, for the first time out loud. For some reason, my parents won’t approve of my expressing my admiration for the movie world, so I’ve wisely kept my thoughts to myself. However, I don’t think Raag would mind. He seems to be an open-minded person.
“Because…you like to watch movies?” Raag presses, and I let out a laugh.
“No!” I say. “I like that it’s a world of its own, full of emotions, drama, and romance. A world beyond all man-made boundaries and barriers of caste, religion, or political views. Movies are accepting of people from all places, all castes, all religions, all body types, all complexions. Once you are a part of it, you are part of that world. You break out of the boundaries that men created to separate us. It’s as if only one thing binds all people from different backgrounds—a movie.”
“That’s an interesting take on it. I must say I agree with you.” Raag sounds impressed.
“I have a good guess on your favorite color, though,” I announce enthusiastically.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Black.”
He chuckles. “That’s the right guess. I don’t really care for colors in general. So, black comes in handy.”
“I like colors. I wouldn’t consider myself a fashionista like my friend Anju, but in general, I wear decent colorful clothes.” I pause, then add, “Most of the time…” Of course, there are a few days where I wear crazy outfits. “I guess our mundane interests don’t match.”
“Sometimes our differences give an opportunity to explore new things.”
“Fair point well made, Mr. Purohit!” My cheeks flame was I call him by his surname. Oops! I got carried away. I’m not sure if it was the ease and comfort that is slowly growing between us or some otherworldly connection, but I talk as if I have known Raag for a long time. It feels like I could chat with him for hours, and still not get bored. His voice is like a magnet that attracts my senses.
“So? What else would you like to know?” His question pulls me out of my peaceful delight.
“Do you drink?”
“No.”
“Really?” I sound bewildered.
“Is it that hard to believe?”
“No, I have heard that people start drinking after going abroad,” I explain.
“You say it as if it’s a bad thing,” he teases.
“I’ve never had it, so how do I know?”
“You have never had a drink?”
“Me? Ha! Um…should I repeat what my father would do if he found out?” I ask teasingly, and he laughs. “Besides, we are not legally allowed to drink or sell alcohol in Gujarat.”
“Okay, but would you drink if you could?”
“Maybe,” I say with a smirk.
“Okay…I don’t smoke,” Raag offers.
“I didn’t ask!”
“I figured your next question would be that.”
“All right…so, you do not drink and do not smoke. Do you eat non-veg?” he asks, referring to vegetarianism.
“No…”
“Okay,” I reply simply.
“Does that disappoint you?” he asks, sounding confused.
“Slowly, you are drifting towards being unreal,” I murmur.
“If it makes you happy, I do eat eggs.”
“Hah!” I squeal. “I knew no one can be that perfect!” I say, and he laughs.
“But you are!” he says, and I am taken aback.
“What?” The question slips out of my mouth before I could further meditate on his answer. Did he just call me perfect?
“You don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t eat non-veg foods. Not even eggs! Didn’t you mean that one would be perfect if all those criteria matched?” he says, leaving me baffled. My spirit crashes. For a second, I thought he meant it when he said I am perfect.
Silly me!
“Oh…I…um…” I stutter.
Coming to my rescue, he changes the subject. “What else would you like to know?”
“I don’t know; I’m not sure. I didn’t think about this night and this conversation. I don’t know where it leads. Can we talk one or two more times?” I ask. “I mean, I know we won’t get too many chances to talk, but before we decide on an agreement for the whole marriage thing, it would be nice to get to know more about each other,” I suggest. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course! It’s good to know that you would like to talk more and not say no right away.”
I smile, aimlessly staring in the dimly lit room. Then I find the courage from deep down in my gut and say, “I did have a different plan before this call, but I do…um…like you.” I frown, tap my fist on my forehead, slump down in my bed, and stupidly look at the brown fan as if it would suggest the right words to correct my statement. I add, “I mean, I liked talking with you.”
Of course, I like him too.
I feel helpless. How can I resist liking a man so simple, honest, and thoughtful? Plus, he is sensitive for women’s rights and feelings. I always had this substantial doubt about the fundamentals behind arranged marriage—how can a ten- to fifteen-minute conversation be sufficient in determining whether to spend the rest of your life with someone? However, my hour-long conversation with this simplistic man has shaken the pillars of that doubt.
“So, I will call around the same time tomorrow. Yeah?” Raag says, bringing me out of my reverie.
“Well…you can—” Before I can finish my statement, I hear three beeps, and the phone line goes dead.
No!
The lifeless green Nokia stares at me as I sigh of disappointment. I must have ignored the earlier notice of a drained battery. I was going to tell him to call me in the morning since tomorrow is Sunday, and I have the whole day to listen to him talk.
Anxiously, I sit up, set the dead phone on the computer table, and walk out of the room onto the balcony for some fresh air.
After taking a few agitated strolls back and forth, I stare at the stars in confusion.
The dynamics of my universe have changed. Rejecting an NRI—Non-Resident Indian—and moving forward with my rather complicated life was the goal. But this one call from the opposite end of the planet has shattered the well-organized constellation of my life.
I see Uncle Chaddha sleeping on his balcony swing. One day I might throw a teeny-tiny rock at him just for the fun of it.
I sigh and return to the bedroom. I take a deep, steadying breath and collapse on my tiny bed as Raag’s words repeat in my head.
“Maiyoo!” It’s my mother, Kaveri Bhatt. She calls me by the loveliest nickname that’s reserved for special occasions.