Couples

I spend a great deal of time staring at my face in the mirror. I prod a cheek, pull an eyelid. I am searching for a trace, a hint of beauty. The merest suggestion will do. I secretly harbor a hope, that under hours of diligent and intense scrutiny, my face will transform. Beauty will bloom.
It never happens.
In the next room, my grandmother watches TV from her bed. Her wrinkled, arthritic hands clutch the TV remote, as she restlessly changes channels. She's watching the evening news. She presses a button - pop music begins to blare. Then, a hindi movie.
She was beautiful once, charismatic and lively too. Now, though, her face is a ruin, her cheeks droop, her skin is mottled. But she clings on to the illusion of glamour. Despite the fact that she is bed-ridden, she has carefully applied lipstick and kajol. But no one comes to see her.
I envy her. I envy the fact that she was once beautiful. Glamorous. Chiffon saris and had hair piled up in bufoon bun. She wore gold eyeshadow and sunglasses. Pearls around her neck. Sleeveless, daring blouses.
She calls out for me now. I help her to her feet, propel her into the bathroom. Her kaftan is faded, there are holes near the hem. I should darn them. But I don't. She finishes, washes her hands, and then spends a few minutes by the mirror, patting her sparse hair in place. There is not much hair left, but she still dyes it black. The roots are white, though.

A man lives next door. He is handsome. The cut of his hair speaks of expensive barbers, his manicured hands tell me that this is a man who cares, fanatically, about personal grooming. When he moves, his stride is quick. He is restless. He spends his days in board room meetings, and his nights hob-nobbing with the wealthy and influential in expensive clubs and restaurants.
I don't go to such places. Our lives are poles apart. He is energetic, a man of the world, handsome, clever, polished. I have the myopic, spectacle-ridden gaze of a reader, the careless, clumsy gestures of a dreamer. I am not of this world, I build castles in the air, I live in daydreams and illusions. I am a writer. Time passes slow and lazy for me. I do not use every moment. There are moments that pile, everyday, unused. Moments spent dreaming, gazing at the sky, staring at my hands, staring at my face.
It is evening. I pass him on the road. He lives in the house next to ours. He is stepping out of his car. He doesn't notice me, even though I brush past him. he never sees me.
I pray that he looks up and sees me. He looks up. But not at me. There's another girl, walking down the street. She is beautiful. Not really, as I scrutinize her closely. But she has a sort of prettiness -a conventional kind of look. Straight hair, slim frame, an expensive leather handbag, high-heels. Beauty out of bottles. She greets him, they know each other. They exchange pleasantries. I pretend I have a stone in my shoe and stop to remove it. I hear their conversation. Nothing profound. Boring. Stock-market talk, office gossip. I waste time and brain space. I put on my shoe and leave.
The phone rings. I pick it up - a friend, a party at a bar. I agree. I dress up and go. At the bar, I order a drink. My friend has a table - full of people like us. Dreamers, designers, writers - people who create things. Who don't know much about stock markets. But can talk about theatre and art. People with long hair, clunky jewellery, khadi kurtas. Sometimes it is boring to meet only people like yourself. Sometimes it too much.
A man at the bar strikes a conversation with me as I wait for my drink. I realize despite the glasses and the myopic gaze, he is attracted to me. I stare at my own reflection in the polished surface of the bar as he drones on. He is in IT. There's a faint american drawl to his voice. I ask discreet questions, figure that he has never been there. The drawl is a pretence, designed to impress me. I take my drink and head back to the table.
The rest of the night is fun. At some point we dance. There are more drinks. My memory is blurred, it's as if I'm squinting. At some point I look at the bar. I get a shock. He is there. Here, I mean. Why here? This is a cheap bar. For those of us at the lower end of the food chain. A glamorous woman, in a slinky black number, by his side. She is out of place here, amongst the khadi-kurtas of the arty-types, and the buttoned down shirts of call centers employees and engineers. Her arm rests intimately on his, as she whispers in his ear. He smiles.
What do I feel? A sudden rush of disappointment and anger. Why anger? I don't have right to feel angry. I down another drink. I feel sick. My head swims, my stomach rushes up through my throat. My legs start to shake. My friends are concerned. I drink a glass of water, shake them off. I have drunk too much. My stomach tosses. I head for the bathroom.
I have entered the wrong bathroom.The Men's. He is there, by the sink, wiping his face. He turns as I enter. I am ashamed. I step backwards to leave. I mumble an apology. But I stop. He is looking at me. He sees me for the first time.
Something sparks inside of me. Courage fills me. I lock the bathroom door and turn to him. The silence is tense, pregnant. I reach for him, press my lips against his. He pulls my skirt up, fumbles with my underwear, loosens his own trousers. I push him back against the wall. He rams into me. It is over in a few minutes.
We are sweating. He smells of whisky. I peel myself off him. He gasps. I pull my skirt down, and walk into a toilet stall. He waits for a few minutes. I hear the tap running. He wipes his hands on tissue paper. He leaves.
I get out of the stall. I pat my hair in place and leave. I get out of the club, the air full of music, alcohol and laughter. I head home. It is cool outside. My head clears.
A moment of madness. Impulse. Strangers in a bar. I suddenly realize that there was no condom. I make a note in my diary to get checked, in a week. Best to be careful.
At home, my grandmother is still awake. I brush my teeth and kiss her. She pats my cheek. I love her. I love her so much. She falls asleep.
A week later the glamorous woman moves into his house. I pass him on the street, as he helps her move boxes inside. He doesn't notice me. His eyes fall over me, not seeing me. I'm a little surprised. I wonder if she knows about the moment in the bathroom. She kisses him. I look at him sharply. He still doesn't see me.
Something inside me breaks. I feel it must make a sound. I wonder how many bathrooms figure in his life - whether it is an addiction, a lifestyle. For me it is once and I do my penance. But for him, it isn't even a memory. I wonder if they will love each other. I do not love him, but I still feel pain. It is like a hole cut inside me, the sides bleeding and raw.
Later, it is dark. I watch them from my window. They are both laughing. My head hurts. But I still watch. She leans against him, he wraps a hand around her waist. They are bright and shining. Beautiful, perfect. I see the pattern of their lives. Glittering parties. A big wedding, fancy cars. A child. He will have affairs. They will divorce, after a few years. She will marry again. They leave, in a shiny black car.
My grandmother and I watch a late-night movie. It is a comedy. We both laugh. She laughs so much, she begins to cough. I pat her back, give her a glass of water. She leans back, tired, closes her eyes. I leave. In the balcony, I cry. I do not know what I will do when she goes. She will die, someday. Who will I share my life with then? We are happy together, both of us cripples. She is physically ill - while I am emotionally handicapped. She is the one who said that, who coined that phrase. A spiritual illness, a blackness that torments me and my heart wastes away.
A horn blares. A gate opens, a car door bangs, the neighbors are back home. My grandmother wakes up, with the noise. I look at her. I am scared of losing her. My heart will shatter, the blackness will swallow me. She smiles at me, lifts an eyebrow, makes a face. We laugh. She knows much. She is an intelligent woman. We are so different, but we understand each other. That is what love is.