The girl across my table

Originally written in May 2013 but wasn’t published then for unknown reasons.

A few months back I needed a new set of passport photos for work. My office insisted on a particular photo-studio miles away from where I lived. So at 10 am on that Saturday morning, off I left donning a freshly laundered shirt and freshly washed hair whipped all the way back. An alien stared back at me from the mirror. But isn’t that the whole point of a passport photo?

It started raining as I hailed the auto. Not a thunder-storm but not a drizzle either. It was a quiet, steady rain, soothing when you are inside with a cup of tea, depressing when you are outside & trying to salvage your files. The air turned cold. My straight-jacketed arms were a tenuous shield against the flat fisted fury of the wind as my auto whipped past puddles of rain water.

After my lack of photogenicity was duly reaffirmed in a velvety room that reeked of falsehood and claustrophobia, I left the photo studio with an hour to burn before the photographs were due. The rain had slowed by then and I fancied a walk.

It was a nicer part of town. Despite the rain the roads were teeming with life. Restaurants were filled with happy people brunching with fruity cocktails. Exhausted shoppers lugging their bags and slurping colorful beverages. People shouting into cell-phones, couples in a scène d’amour under an umbrella, beggars huddling against the cold, a senior citizen with an irrepressible dog — urban India. I dropped a fiver to an old lady sitting under the metro line, hugging a cold pillar for imagined warmth.

My morning cereal long digested, my tummy grumbled for attention. The rains had picked up again and luckily I found a place that claimed to be inspired by the road-side dhabas of Amritsar. It was a good selling pitch on that inclement day. The insides didn’t resemble a lorry-joint; everything was sterile yellow with a yellow washing machine by the cashier. Probably a post-modern art thing I will never get. It was self-service and I joined the lengthy queue, full of wet umbrellas and dirty shoes. A few places ahead of me was a girl. Fully covered in a black shawl and huge sunglasses, she had very short hair and was as tall as me.

The service was excruciatingly slow, but eventually I faced the (distinctly non-Amritsari) cashier and ordered a vegetarian combo meal. Armed with a beeper I sought out an empty table, reluctant to intrude upon couples occupying tables meant for six — the blindness of love I suppose. I had to settle for an empty one by the window. Occasionally the rain would sweep inside, garnishing the food with acidic rain-water but at least it afforded a great view of the street below.

As I was aimlessly scrolling my Twitter feed, I saw the same girl sitting at the table across me. She had exchanged her shawl & sunglasses for a fat book. She was not uncommonly pretty, inured as we are to the constant bombardment of celebrities in every screen. But she was striking — a sense of surity, uncommon among people constantly thirsting for attention. She had a long, tapering nose; a thin lock of hair would occasionally escape her ear. She would draw it back only for it to break free again — waves crashing against the dike. She was out of this world! Such was her utter concentration in the book. I am no stranger to the time-warping powers of a good book, and as badly as I wanted her to look up and see me, I was loath to take her away from her state of enrapture.

A green sleeveless kurta and blue denims. A blue scarf was tied around her neck, a little bit of a pirate. Occasionally, she would glance at her watch, shiny black metal against burnished skin. Around her neck was a most unusual necklace, jagged jade (?) rocks strung together with gold nuggets in between. In that yellow hive pretending to be a dhaba, she was a carnival of colors.

Suddenly the siren on her table came to life, wailing for attention. Her spell broken, she was flustered, lost for a moment. I imagine the slightest tinge of color flooded into her face as she moved lazily to the service desk. A few minutes later, it was my beeper’s turn to blare — no doubt an authentic Dhaba tradition.

The food was mediocre. The rice was cold and straw-like. The parathas were tasteless, dripping with ghee. The rajma was at least hot but too salty. The potatoes were good, a little too dry. With mouthfuls, I surreptitiously looked up. She delicately balanced a spoon in one hand and the fat book in another. Occasionally she would scoop in a distracted mouthful.

I was fascinated by this scene. Every so often, I would grow conscious and hastily return to my food, but eventually my attention would go back to the girl and her book. The rains picked up as did the honking of scooters on the road. The sun slipped behind the inky clouds and a shroud of darkness fell upon the restaurant. Her lighting disrupted she looked up with annoyance. She glanced at me. I hurriedly looked down at my food, pretending it the most interesting food ever made . I furtively looked up to she her beckoning an employee to turn on the lights. Suddenly swivelled her face towards me and once again, I dived into my food. I did not look up again. I scooped up the last bit of rice and left the restaurant.

Do I wish I had made a move on her? Sure. Did I have the guts to do it? Nope. If she had approached me, would I have been able to string together a sentence or two? I hope so. At least I am left with a unique memory and a burning question, what book was she reading?

The Man in the middle seat

As soon as I sat down at my seat, I knew the man next to me had to die. Probably 6'4'' or 6'5'', he was a giant of a man, undoubtedly used to towering over the rest of us mortals all his life. 

I could hear the Viking blood coursing through veins that irrationally popped out of layers of old tattooed ink. Red serpents and black vines writhed passionately with one another in a bloodless conflict, coming closer at one moment and pulling back the next when the man would move his arms or flex his biceps. His white tee shirt, a little too tight for my comfort, declared in a bold font Make Beer, Not War, and yet despite its pacifist message it appeared to be a perennial state of Total Warfare with the layers of rippling muscles on his chest and back. If I sat back and edged to the side, I could feel his heat and it made me quiver a little. He was completely bald; despite the air-conditioning a thin layer of sweat was lodged on his scalp and made it shine and glisten. I had to focus intensely to curb the urge to stand up and kiss it clean. I pushed the pin harder into my thigh to push back these unclean thoughts, reciting my mantra over and over again. I am Pure. I am Pure. A small drop of blood appeared on my new khaki trousers. He was a Lion among men, belonging on tourney grounds battling for glory – not in the cramped middle seat of row 19 in Basic Economy. I am arrested by an image of him giving the winning rose to me. I am dressed in the finest red velvet gown and I can feel the jealousy of all the other girls on me. The jealousy brings me back to the present and I push harder on the pin to keep away the dirty thoughts. I am Pure. I am Pure. 

Around us was unfolding the packaged and rehearsed dance that is performed thousands of times every day all over the world. An intricate performance of the same dull people, the same crowded seating, the same stale air, the same duels between pudgy fingers and minuscule overhead air vents, the same stewardesses peddling tiny plastic cups of water and shoveling giant heaps of disgust, and the same captain's mumbled reassurances. One stewardess caught my eye, her beauty a gravitational pull that yanked my attention away. Her Asian heritage overflowed like a river past Monsoon and she carried herself like a prized fighter. She was helping a pitiful old man stow away his luggage. She lightly bent down and swung the box into the air, neatly placing it in an empty bin. At that moment the bag left the floor, a tiniest grunt escaped her prim self and rattled its way onto me. I was struck mute by it. I wanted to wash her feet and rest my tired head on them. Even if she spat on me, I wouldn't let go.  She walked over and asked me, "Would you like some water, sir?" I shake my head, sweat gently pouring down my upper lip. She too should die, she shouldn't need to suffer the impudence of my presence, but I know I cannot kill both at the same time. I would have to choose. 

To the man's right sat a pre-teen boy swinging his bony leg back-and-forth in the aisle. All his attention was reserved for the iPhone in his hands that chirped and beeped with the sound of a game. His eyes betrayed a tiredness reserved for the youngest. The kid was clearly the man's spawn. He was still young but I could see the same broad-shoulders, the same regal bearing, the same lean muscle that sinewed under his shirt. Like our flight, his hormones would soon lift off too, transporting him to that reserved club of the beautiful. I wanted to hate him as I hated his father, but not now, not yet. His father tried grabbing his iPhone which the kid resisted with great gusto. They soon began wrestling, throwing small jabs and shoves at each other in between peals of laugher. It was clearly an old game. The people around us seemed mildly alarmed at this unexpected violence, but soon cooed softly at this display of familial affections. Only I felt the bruises of every misplaced shove and jab, a slap of pleasure every time. 

The flight was in the air now. Meals had been provided and dispensed. Sleepy heads started nodding off around us. I couldn't risk sleep lest the dirty thoughts encircle me in my sleep as they so often do – there are no pins in sleep and no amount of flagellation when awake could wash off the sins of the asleep. The man and child began talking about their layover in Beijing for the next flight. Anticipation began growing in me. I had a layover in Beijing too, two hours would be more than enough for the deed itself the trick was in delaying the body's discovery until I was out of the scene. It would have to be the bathroom – I wasn't keen on repeating myself, but the wet blood in my pants would testify that these were desperate circumstances. Yes, it would have to be the bathroom. I had the syringes and the prescription vial of insulin. The act began unfolding calmly in my mind's eye. It was only during the planning that I didn't need to be vigilant with the pin. A crowded Saturday in the airport. Crowds swarming at every terminal. I will follow the man into the bathroom which too is buzzing with passengers. I will stand next to him resisting the urge to peek. I pee a little into my left hand. When he turns around, I too will turn and clumsily attempt to overtake him, only to stumble on him. The left hand smearing urine all over his arm while the right swiftly jabs the syringe into his hip. As he rushes to wash off the ignominy of another man's urine all over him, I apologize profusely and walk out. In ten minutes, the man collapses in his boarding area. I wish I could witness the collapse but I know not to ask too much of life. Unlike my younger days, I no longer deny the violence of my being but neither do I ask too much of it. Only when the act is complete can I let go of the pin – the pain is the only thing keeping me Pure. 

The planning calmed me a bit. Thankfully the beautiful stewardess too has retired to her hidden seat and I feel my discomfort waning. The man and his kid get up to visit the loo, I grab the opportunity to retrieve my backpack from the overhead bin. I probe inside for my travel-sized copy of The Invisible Man. My fingers land on the smooth surface of my compass – a gift from the Master Felipe. How wonderful is the compass? It claims to point to the North, but it really points to the Past. It is a scratched and handled hunk of metal, every cut a past journey. The dial claimed we were traveling West. That was odd. Were we being re-routed due to a storm? The skies didn't seem rough. I flung the compass back inside and sighted my book finally. I settled in under the blanket as the man returned. Focussing intensely on the book, I managed to read a few pages before drowsiness took over. I snuck my boarding pass into the book as a marker and placed it into the flight pocket. As sleep finally washed over me, through closing eyes one end of my boarding pass came into brief focus – the flight number printed in large black bettering that said MH370.