An Ordinary Life

my first true love. But I will not deny that there was a haphazard series of crushes before and after her. For instance, I had begun to like a girl in our sarkari school. Apparently, she was what we called shaukeen, as in someone who is very fond of something; in her case, she seemed sensuously fond of music, pretty trinkets, etc., giving the impression of being easy to please and therefore, easy to get. Her name was Panna. So I used to sing to her a popular Hindi film song called ‘Heera ki tamanna hai ki Panna usse mil jaaye’. In the film, the superstar Dev Anand’s character, Heera, serenades the beautiful actress Zeenat Aman’s character called Panna. I’d pretend that I was Heera and she was my Panna, and she would giggle like crazy. To complete the act, I used to dress up in Dev Anand’s fashion staple: baggy pants, those loose pants which were extremely trendy at the time. I was about eight years old. Like most kids I was under his spell. Well until I was fifteen years old, I dressed like him and imitated his gait, the way he talked—as many of his nuances as possible.

* * *

While I was in what we called college, I began to like this Jat girl named Sushma who was a year senior to me. She was strong and fair, like a typical Jatni. With one thwack, she could send anyone sprawling on the ground. My buddy Mohsin, who was studying with me, was also crazy about her. But unlike me, Mohsin was very handsome and quite tall with a wonderful physique. Whatever he wore, he carried it with panache and looked amazing. We used to walk together everywhere.

It was a rather strange love triangle because while both of us were close friends and well aware of our feelings for her, we competed in unison for her attention. We used to wait by her house until she got out, then we would walk past her house together. When the school bell rang declaring it was time to go home, we would follow her home together. She knew we were following her but still she never even cast as much as a glance at us.

Then randomly, one fine day another common friend of ours called Naresh told me that Sushma used to mock me and sarcastically call me not by my name but as Chooha, meaning Mouse. He said I should give up.

It started raining one day and both Mohsin and I knew that she would run to the terrace of her house to salvage the clothes that were out on the clothes line. We kept looking at her through the drizzle, which was thickening by the minute. Suddenly, she turned and looked at us with the slightest smile. I knew she was smiling at Mohsin and not at me. But I hoped that maybe, just maybe, she might also begin liking me someday. Until one day she sent a message clearly asking me not to come at all.

Mohsin said that he was asking me for a favour because I was his closest friend and because he trusted me the most. He made me swear on our friendship and easily convinced me to write love letters to her on his behalf. He did not have a clear handwriting and was afraid that she might reject him because of it. I was not beautiful but my handwriting certainly was. But he had a hidden agenda that did not dawn on me until much, much later. What if somebody at Sushma’s house discovered the love letters? They could then trace it to the sender through the handwriting and he would be in massive trouble. So, if the letters were found, then Nawaz would get caught and thrashed. I cannot believe it that he had used me this way and the worst part was that I did not realize it.

Then Sushma graduated and left Budhana. Next, a doppelgänger of the doe-eyed film actress Rani Mukherjee became the object of our combined affection. Her name was Pratibha. This girl too fell for Mohsin. I cannot blame her. He was so good-looking! The love triangle repeated in the same order: Mohsin and Nawaz liked the girl, the girl liked Mohsin, while Nawaz’s love remained unrequited. Luckily this time around, I found this out early on.

‘Nawaz, you want to see magic?’ Mohsin said one day.

‘Yes, of course!’ I replied.

‘Follow me then,’ he said.

We walked into her mohalla. There was a narrow lane at the end of which was her house, which had a big window. Much to my curiosity, Mohsin was carrying a ruler. Then he tapped the ruler against the big window, thereby producing a sound. Pratibha appeared instantly as if a genie summoned by its master. Yes, it was magic!

She talked to him and they kissed. My already shrivelled heart shrank even more.

As with Sushma, I used to write letters to Pratibha for Mohsin. But this was different. You see, it was my fantasy too that I was living. I felt proud because I used to imagine Pratibha and me together. It felt amazing! All the letters were about how wonderful it felt to meet her, how wonderful it felt to hug her, how wonderful it felt to kiss her. When she wrote a reply, Mohsin would make me read it aloud. It was his sly, mean way to show me how cool he was and how many girls he could line up. As for me, I used to respond to her replies with a mixture of what he dictated and what was going on inside me. I’d write to her asking her things like:

‘I had worn perfume that day. Could you smell it?’

‘How did it feel to embrace me?’

‘What colours do you like?’

When she replied that the eggplant’s colour was her favourite on me (that is, Mohsin), my friend would wear a shirt of that colour. But so would I, still hoping that