Once, in a Blue Moon...

There was more to this night than just the apparent rarity of its moon.

Guru Poornima, the Full Moon holiday dedicated to the celebration of your spiritual guide, just happened to coincide with Mohd Rafi's death anniversary. He was one of Ma and Uncle and India’s favourite Bollywood singers. I didn't have a guru to celebrate. I was just thankful for the breeze.

Guwahati had become unbearably hot and stuffy the last couple of nights. It was the kind of feverish heat, I was learning, that made you think crazy thoughts and dream crazy dreams. It felt like Mother Nature had suddenly decided to see how long she could hold her breath, leaving the rest of us who hadn't been warned to do the same to now suffocate in her mighty resolve. The curtains had gone still. Tired fans pushed stale air that went limp behind the mosquito nets.  

Maybe that's why the delicious breeze that floated into our room that Blue Moon morning felt like its own tiny miracle. In the kitchen, Ma smiled and confirmed my suspicion: "Hawa from God," she explained, pointing to the grey sky. The trees were swaying. The curtains were breathing. Mother Nature had relented and I was in no position to complain. One less thing to worry about.

I knew the night ahead had all the makings of a predictable Bollywood drama. I saw it as the coming together of all the disparate people, themes and gossip that had come to characterize this particular trip of mine. The estranged wife and her estranged lover. The birthday boy. The Harmonium Man, gig-less on account of the beloved president Abdul Kalam's death, granted a more intimate venue to pay homage to his guru. The young constable who had just lost his finger on the job. And all of us, of course. This seemingly random Blue Moon encounter made all the more prescient by the element of time. A house that would soon become a lot emptier than simple subtraction might suggest. I have no doubt Ma had been planning this for a little while, ignoring any objections from any and all sides. Everyone was going to show up. And if that wasn't enough, Puji was making biryani. 

For all its psychological healing, the God wind that filled up our room that morning failed to stir outright forgiveness. I didn't participate in the morning shopping or help Puji marinate the two-and-a-half kilos of chicken. But sometime between that and my shower, I decided to let it go. Must have been that line in Kartography - something Zafar or Uncle Ali had said about living a full life, free of judgment. With Puji, it always came down to patience. And whenever I felt my patience waning, I would think about Ma and what she would do. And what she might think if I lost my patience.

There were of course more practical considerations. Like Puji, I had also calculated that being busy cooking was probably the best place to be. Not that any of them would understand why I'd be in the kitchen. But Pankaj asked me anyway. He laughed dismissively and then segued into my travel plans. You see, he continued, I’m getting married in October and it would be amazing if you could be there. I half-heartedly explained that I had to go back, though possibly wifeless, because I had a life back home. Of course, he sympathized. Then maybe you could go home and come back? Lucky for me, this ridiculous exercise in reciprocal face saving was made all the more tolerable thanks to Ma’s secret stash of the Johnny Walker Black I had gotten her from Canadian Duty Free. By the time Puji and I had made the last of the chutneys, it was 10:30 and I was buzzing. And with that buzz came the reassuring feeling that I was in my own home and that all of this, however random, all made perfect sense. Just like it had at our wedding anniversary at the resort. And probably at my wedding before that. And probably at my Haldi and Puji’s bachelorette before that. Maybe it was the alcohol. Point is, by the time Puji and I had shared a much-deserved smoke in the washroom, I was already ready for anything. Ma and her huge heart had made this night possible and it would be impossible not to enjoy. 

We walked downstairs and into the party together. 

I sat down next to Aman Uncle as he sang one old Assamese love song on the harmonium while Hussain, sitting across from us with his left hand bandaged to the wrist, banged along on an upright table with his right hand. Uncle was sprawled out on the bed, smiling and silently mouthing the words while Ma was clapping along, blanketing Aman's tenor with her own falsetto. Mamoo Aunty and her friend with the perpetual guilty look on her face also watched from the bed, while Sagar and Didi sat on two chairs in front of them. Pankaj, who felt the need to place me into the heart of the action when we first walked in, was now greedily capturing everything on his phone. 

I’m not sure exactly how much time had passed before the Bollywood songs took over, but I definitely know who got it started. The usual suspects came fast and furious from Didi’s laptops and suddenly, everyone was dancing. Aman Uncle ditched the harmonium and started to do his best ‘come over here’ routine, forcing Ma to burst into laughter and point his way. Hussain kept on drumming through the breaks in the Youtube feed. When Didi urged him to get up and dance, Ma scolded her, worried for his health. He grinned, slapped my back instead and reminded me to sip my whiskey. A boisterous Sagar did his best to keep up with Aman, singing along in pretty shabby Hindi. I danced with Puji and sang my usual gibberish lyrics for her ears only. Didi, armed with a wide assortment of moves that only a true connoisseur could know, danced up a perfect storm before serving up the next track. It wasn’t long before the Help got involved. Suresh and Poali were the first in, Munna followed and even Suraj entered sheepishly from next door. I joined them in a clutching circle dance and did my best to film the unfolding madness. In that brief half hour, I could honestly say that everything about the last two months simultaneously made sense and didn’t matter. Life in this extremely remote corner of the world, like so many other remote corners just like it, was what it was. And whatever could not be solved or resolved, could be laughed, drunk and danced away. 

Uncle, Aman and Hussain were the first to eat. I already knew the biryani was going to be a smash hit, but both guests went out of their way to convince Puji tonight's version was truly the stuff of Muslim dreams. Uncle just looked at Puji and said ‘Best!’ Now it was Puji, not Ma, who silently hovered over the dinner table, accepting compliments graciously and making sure that everyone had enough. Everyone ate and everyone left happy. 

And somewhere beneath the clouds, the Blue Moon watched while Mother Nature continued to exhale, satisfied. 

you gave me sanctuary in the pages of this book

On page 51 of Kafka's Letters to Milena, centered at the bottom of the page and scribbled in Smita's blue handwriting, are the words I was here.

This is the last page she read before she decided I needed to have this book. There was something about his writing that was very close to mine. A likeness in style and soul. From page one she had had it in her mind that one day I would write a book just like his. I was honoured but told her she should finish it first. I knew exactly how much her books meant to her. And at that point it had still felt like there was more than enough time.

But then I learned something else about Smita. For her, there was no greater gesture than giving someone your unfinished book. And for all the bitching she had done on books that had been lent out and never returned, I was especially touched and promised to read it first chance I got.

It was only late last night that she realized just how significant that last page was. The three of us had been sitting on the couch in her new apartment; a quiet house-warming of sorts. The place wasn't feeling so claustrophobic now. Only last week that same couch had been in J267, the two BHK the sisters had shared for the last four years. Things were moving fast now. Everything was changing, for all of us. Chapters were closing and new ones were waiting to be written. The sisters would be apart for the first time in nine years. The future loomed silently. We spoke of traveling then and I told them about one beautiful day in Rome nearly five years ago where I had left my father and wandered the streets alone. He had been too worried about having a destination to appreciate what was right there in front of him. Maybe he had been hurt when I told him I'd meet him back at the hotel. I felt a little guilty but it had to be done. Some things in life were better enjoyed alone.

When he left I found some perfect little square where people were just milling about enjoying their day. And I was snapping pics while some kindred stranger with her own camera eyed me from a distance. We kept tabs on each other and I hummed unwritten songs to myself. And every last Italian looked so beautiful then in the dying light. Men, women and children of all ages, shapes and sizes. So stylish and comfortable in their own skin. I fell in love with my people in that moment. And I promised myself I would end up back there someday.

When I finished the story Smita just looked at me and smiled. Something clicked, I felt. She didn't want to tell me what or why and said only that it had something to do with page 51 of that book. Something about a dream Kafka had described. She probably had it memorized and could have quoted it line for line. But she said nothing more. Except that I would see when I got there.

Now I had a proper destination. If not in life, than at least in the pages of this book. Maybe there was no better gift than that.

one day, even the ocean will go still and silent

"Robbie. Feels like you've been living here forever, ya."

Like I had become part of the furniture, I joked back. Smita had been repeating that line since day one. I knew she always meant it in the best possible way. But then I'm not sure what triggered the thought on this night. It had unfolded like any other. The three of us would have our midnight meal together, without fail. Some nights we'd watch Arnab Goswami grill some pigheaded official on The Newshour, other times we'd just sit on the couch and discuss books I should read, share family stories or laugh giddily about how much weight the three of us had gained since I came to Bombay. It was a good thing too, we'd agree, over green tea. We had all found some kind of happy routine together, temporary as it would be. But on this night Smita couldn't imagine how it would feel when Puji and I would no longer be there. 

In many ways Smita had become the adopted older sister I never had. Forget that I was actually the eldest. She was far more responsible and mature than I would ever be. But we still had a lot in common. We had both just come out of very long-term relationships. We both looked to avoid unnecessary drama in our lives and called things out exactly as we saw them. So I can't say I was surprised we got along so well. I just never thought I'd have an opportunity to get to know her as well as I had. There had been several times where we got to speak about our pasts, one on one, while Puji was either sleeping or doing her own thing. I always spoke to her as honestly as possible. I never made myself out to be the good guy. And what I had written in that letter to her still stood. This is why we never felt like strangers. 

But on this one particular night she wanted to hear the story of how Puji and I met. She was, after all, a storyteller at heart. It's not as if she didn't know most of it already. But then Puji had managed to keep many of those early months secret from her - possibly because the two of them had been fighting so much at the time. And while she had never really approved of any of her sister's choices, with me there had been little protest. Just be careful. That was all Smita had said. Maybe it was a feeling. Despite her realistic streak, Smita still believed all things happened for a reason.

It felt like ages since I had told this story. I had forgotten how beautiful a story it was. And the fact that I had come to know Puji in a completely different way didn't diminish that one bit. 

I filled in as many blanks as I could, especially about Amy. She was an important part of the story. And with her birthday looming she had been on my mind a lot. I still worried for her happiness. I had put her through hell, even when trying my best to be honest. I had lied to her. I had fallen off the map emotionally and pulled the rug out from under a life we had been building up for so many years. And then I had given her no choice but to move on. I knew she would too. Maybe she already was. It was hurting less to think so. I felt free to speak about all this in front of Smita. I felt free. It was a feeling more powerful than any guilt or homesickness. All I felt that night was intense love for all concerned.

Puji and I shared storytelling duties and quietly smiled at each other every now and then. It might have been the nicest conversation the three of us had had together.

I think Puji and I had needed to hear the story as much as her sister had. Maybe we had lost track of just how incredible ours was. Smita smoked, listened and asked many questions. Was she comparing my story to her own? I knew she understood that somewhere along the line I had fallen out of love with Amy. Maybe the two of us had grown too comfortable together. And us being best friends had just made it all the more heart wrenching to say goodbye. I thought these were the kind of things only people who had lived through long-term relationships could truly understand. But then that was only half of the story. Smita also had to know that the only reason things had worked out between Puji and I was because we both wanted it to. God or fate alone would not have been enough. 

She told me how the Buddhists believed that any person incapable of learning from their mistakes in one life would be destined to repeat them in the next life. Those who harmed you would reappear in different forms. Even from a non-religious angle this made perfect sense to me. He who doesn't learn from history is doomed to repeat it. I knew in my heart that Smita would heal as she needed to. Just as Amy would. And as for Puji and I, these moments made our own insecurities seem inconsequential. It was exactly the kind of night we all needed to have. And I hoped there would be many more like this before we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

the ass behind all those assumptions

We hadn't noticed the security guard coming our way. And then even if we had, it would have been hard to understand what made us so interesting.  

Maybe I had already become immune to all the glares we attracted from the second we left the house. Maybe I was more concerned about looking down to avoid dog shit. Maybe I couldn't care less. It's not like I didn't know what people were thinking. Puji had provided the inner monologue to all those stares: she a woman of loose morals at best, a white man's prostitute at worst. Everything from holding hands to kissing in public attracted such thoughts. We joked about such things. Neither of us cared too much anyhow. Her stepping out of the house in shorts or a summer dress or smoking a cigarette would be met with equally silent disapproval. Even in a modern city like Bombay, this was something she faced daily on the train, on the street and wherever else prying eyes would roam. There was no pleasing ignorance. 

But on this otherwise perfect day Ignorance was hovering right over us and urging us to kindly get the fuck out. We had crossed some invisible line. I must have been absentmindedly snapping pictures of vultures in the sky when he got word from the incensed park members. Apparently there was a problem with me tanning without a shirt. The conversation took place in Hindi so I was not privy to detail, tone or reasoning. We were asked to leave. End of story.

I wasn't mad at first. It was bound to happen. I would have preferred it not have happened at one of the few spots I could call my own in the city. Some decent runs under the scorching Bombay sun had ended nicely in this same little park by the water. The one with the nice breeze. And no one had complained when I was going through some Yoga poses quietly to myself, topless, facing the sun. No security guard had visited. Then I was just a silly white boy at best. People anyway expected such things from foreigners. It's the same reason the Bollywood industry hired Eastern European girls to do the really sexy dirty work in those elaborate dance sequences. Put an Indian girl in that same dance and eyebrows would be raised. In the same way I became something else with her next to me. What exactly that was I wasn't sure. 

As we gathered up our stuff I scanned the park for any guilty faces. Who had made the complaint? A couple of young girls who had been smiling and pointing at us every now and then continued to do so. Probably not them. Maybe it was the man who had been hungrily and shamelessly staring Puji down from the second we arrived. Or was it the group of older ladies sitting around chatting. The security guard was obviously not going to reveal his sources. Still, I wanted a better explanation as to what exactly I had done wrong. So Puji asked him when we reached the gate. Sitting back lazily in his chair, the headphones firmly back in his ears. He was apparently in no mood for debate and only raring for a fight. Forget it, she told me. The conversation was going nowhere.

I have been told Indians are amongst the least confrontational people around. Disapproval, annoyance and anger were rarely if ever voiced loudly or directly. These feelings lived mostly in silent sighs and dirty stares and whispered from one ear to another. And in this case handed off to some security guarded, a young man who very likely stared down women he saw on the street and then went home and watched those same highly suggestive Bollywood films and toothpaste commercials he apparently had such moral issue with. And suddenly it bothered me that our little Saturday picnic in the park had somehow become everybody's business. And we would never really know who that 'everyone' was. Whoever disapproved would never have had the guts to come tell us themselves. So I was forced to assume. Chances are it had been a woman. Most men would have been more than happy to put their own moral outrage aside and stare at Puji for some time. Like that. So then it must have been those women. And what was the probability that any to all of these women lived under repressive husbands? Fairly high. And what were the chances that any of those husbands had raised their hands on them. Fairly high. And maybe each had their own daughters who would someday be innocently sitting in a park with their boyfriends and come under the hateful glance of disapproving men and their wives. 

And maybe those glances would become something much, much worse. 

It seemed to happen every day in India. Rape. Acid attacks. Murders. The evening news was full of acts of violence against women. Even the aayahs could tell you a couple of personal stories that would make you want to take a drive and strangle their husbands.  Funny how religion, cast and patriarchal norms all served to make watchmen of their female subjects; allowing them to decide not only what is best for their own children but what is best for everyone else's children as well. And that thought made me a little sick. Because I would never want to think that any of these women deserved what they had coming to them. Because it was ultimately women like Puji and Smita that had to bear the brunt of such intrusive ignorance. 

I thought everyone should be allowed to live their life the way they saw fit. What a simple and naive thought that was. Just like a simple day at the park.