“Listen, please, do you know where I’ll find the Intermediate timetable?” It was a male voice, speaking presumably to me, because there was no one else around. I whirled around startled out of my anger. A very modern fellow was standing there. “I’d like to know where I could find the timetable for Intermediate classes,” he repeated.
I said, “Go straight and turn right. You’ll find the notice boards.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said and turned away. He spoke in a public school accent of clipped aristocratic English style, I reflected. I resumed my pacing of the verandah. I had, however, stopped stamping on it. It was very hot that day, and I was rubbing my face with a hanky, and growing more and more flustered.
I felt angry again. This Shubha is a real nuisance, I thought. Why the hell can’t she turn up once at least on time, for a change? She had no regards for anyone’s time. It was over twenty minutes waiting now. I turned and walked slowly. That chap had come out from the gallery and was standing with his hands in pockets, facing me. It will be stupid to walk upto him and turn away from under his nose, I thought.
I began to study the notice board behind me. He came up and stood next to me, reading notices. It will be rude to go away abruptly, I thought. After two or three minutes, I went and stood behind the pillar in the portico, so hiding from his view. I looked at the gardens stretching on both sides of the vast drive from the gate to the portico. Really, even the trees looked flustered, I was thinking.
That fellow came up again. Came directly to me and said, “Are you in BA?”
“Yes,” I replied. What else could I say?
“Which year?”
“First,” I don’t know why I lied.
“Oh,” He paused and fingered his mustache. I noticed he was very good looking in a gentlemanly kind of way. Not awfully mod also, I thought. And well dressed in a masculine style. Or what I thought as masculine - black bell bottoms and light yellow check shirt, etc. I started going in but he began again, “This is the last period going on, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so,” I had stopped. He came and leaned against the pillar in front of me. Again putting his hands in his pockets, he asked casually, “What is your name?”
I was surprised and suspicious. “What does it matter?” I asked.
He smiled indulgently like a father. “Oh God,” he drawled, pronouncing it as “gawd”, “how girls suspect us poor creatures!”
I had to smile. He said enthusiastically, “Tell you what! I’ll tell you my name in return, if you tell me yours. And I’ll make it sound musical too,” he laughed.
I began to like him at once. His eyes were beautiful and laughed along with his lips. I laughed too. After some time he said, “Go on, tell me your name, little girl.”
I felt shy, strangely. It is not very usual with me. I told him my name was Meera, which it definitely is not. I felt very ashamed, telling lies twice in 15 minutes.
But he was thrilled. “Just as I thought!” he cried. “You look so... so... so, shall I say, old fashioned, that Meera is just right.”
I hung my head. He continued in the same boyish enthusiasm, “Now let me tell you mine.” And he produced a long nasal sound. I looked up in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you it was musical?” He laughed and his eyes sparkled.
“But I didn’t catch it,” I said.
“Girls are... oh, let it go. Didn’t you get it? In plain prose it is Rajeev, Rajeev Kumar.” After some time he added, “Rajvansh. What is yours?”
“Mathur,” I lied.
“Oh, how prettily you blush!” he went on, “Why do you blush a lot?”
“W..wh...what?” I said.
“Meera, you are nervous, aren’t you?” He was unmindful of the peon, who had come into the verandah, of the sun pouring into the portico madly, making it unbearably hot.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk such a lot. And I don’t blush, it is the heat,” I lied again. My ears were burning and I felt like running away. I was blushing like a beatroot and I knew it. As always I placed my left hand on my lips and bowed my head and dragged my bag on the ground.
He laughed aloud. I felt as if I would have liked to punch him and stop his laugh, but I couldn’t resist looking into his eyes. They were like twin glares of piercing understanding. I felt as if he had seen through my lies and would hate me. But he stopped giggling like a teenage boy and said, ”How old are you?” very softly, and my heart missed a beat.
“Seventeen,” came the prompt reply, this was the truth anyhow.
“You know, I thought you were fifteen or sixteen. I am twenty five. And I work in the navy.”
I wanted to tell him that he was nice and friendly, that he was wicked because he made me lie to him all the time, that I thought he didn’t look twenty five, but twenty seven, and that I wanted to know his designation in the navy.
But the bell went at the moment. Girls began to come out in groups, in couples and singly. We had both turned to watch them. Suddenly he saw someone and waved to her. He half turned and said, “OK!” and went off. I saw him walking off with an ultra modern girl in tight pants and what they called a hot shirt. I became very much alone in the crowd gathered in the portico. Girls were going home and back to their hostels. I felt lonely, betrayed. I felt hot tears springing up in my eyes and stinging them. I looked down and felt terribly miserable and insecure. Why does it always happen, God? I asked. I looked at my dress - I was badly behind the times - “old fashioned” as he had said - pajama, kurta and dupatta. Since a whole year I had lost touch with human feelings, but today he had revived them.
Shubha yelled behind my back, “hello, dipsy-dolly!” I felt like crying. I looked at her accusingly, “Why, why couldn’t you have come earlier?” I say. If only she had been punctual all this wouldn’t have happened.
Shubha said, “Oh I’m terribly sorry, darling. We were at the tailor’s and talking...Hi! Nina... so you see,... Oooh Billy, tell me...”
She had trailed off again. I resolved never to wait for her - only Amma insists on my coming back with her daily.
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