A rather Long Short Story 8

Without betraying any kind of a reaction to her perception of my state of mind, I told her that I wasn’t lonely. However, I said I was glad for her compassion. Just then her brother was heard crying out her name loudly. “Emma, Emma, we are leaving if you don’t come soon.” I turned to look in his direction and found everyone else looking at us. 

She had to get up. She gave me a broad, effusive smile without any sign of embarrassment or apology and said, “Good, Charles introduced me to you. I am Emma and he is Charles, my younger brother.

At that very moment, Charles left his place at the other end of the room and leaving the elderly lady in a state of abandonment, came and joined his sister at our end. I braced myself up for an unexpected calamity as I saw him ready to pull the table-cloth over his head. “Do sit up straight in your chair, Charles.” She commanded as she sat down again. “Say hello to uncle…” and she looked at me with a question in her eyes. “ Pratap,” I said. “Pratap Sharma”. Charles of course was not expected to be impressed. He stuck out his tongue and looked up at the ceiling. Emma was a bit apologetic now and said, “Sorry, that’s his way of expressing boredom. Don’t take it seriously”.

However, the little guy had started taking an interest in me. He was in no hurry to make a move now. He put on an angelic face and gave me a nice little hand-shake. It was a welcome sign of warmth but there was no time for us to get to know each other better. Emma signaled in the direction of her aunt to indicate that she was coming and pulled Charles towards her in a hurry.

Charles wanted to make the best use of this fleeting moment of intimacy between him and me and before going away; he turned and asked me, “What did one wall say to another?” I looked at him in a surprise when he said to aid me in answering his question…”It’s a riddle.” I rolled up my eyes and said with a stumped expression, “I give up!” He pulled his sister in the direction of the table where his aunt was waiting for them and started running. Turning back towards me, he yelled out the answer, “Meet you at the corner!’                 

A Rather Long Short Story 7

She said, “I am practicing in the choir because that is all I can afford in my circumstances right now. Besides, vocal music does not make demands on your purse. My real passion is piano and guitar, but can’t afford.”

I looked at her carefully. She had placed her hands in front of her on the table and she was sitting in an upright position as if with her fingers on the keyboard of piano. She had long tapering fingers but the nails were bitten to the quick. Though there was no fidgetiness in her till then she became instantly self-conscious when she found me looking at her fingers. She immediately withdrew her hands and hid them in the pockets of her long skirt.

I offered her a piece of the cinnamon toast which she refused without an excuse. She seemed eager to talk but I could see her companions getting restless and impatient. The lady who accompanied her was making frantic signals for her to end the interaction with a stranger, but she was determined to talk. She moved her chair so as to block her companion out of view and asked me, “Are you interested in Western music?” I said, “I don’t understand the trends in music, neither in the west nor in India. I listen if it soothes my nerves”

“How did you find our singing? Was it soothing?”  She asked. I was at once struck by the fact that she said ‘our singing’, not ‘my singing’.  I realized that she was steeped in the spirit of the choir and had learnt to subdue her personality in the unified voice of the chorus. Perhaps that was the reason why she wanted to carve a niche for herself in piano or guitar. She answered the question in my mind rather surprisingly for me. She said, “Basically I am not cut out for team-work. I am at my best when I work alone.” There was very little time at her disposal and she did not know how best to use it. For a girl of her age she seemed rather grownup and sedate. But there was still some glint of silliness in her which showed when she asked impulsively, “Are you married?” I was tempted to say ‘no’ and watch her reaction. But by now I had begun to like her and refrained from playing games. I liked the spontaneous camaraderie she had begun to feel with me without any reason. I did not want to wreck it by giving a false answer to a question asked trustfully, whatever be its motive.  “Yes,” I said, “I am married.” The next thing I expected her to ask was: “How long?” But she again asked a question that was sillier still. She said,”Are you in love with your wife?”

I gave her a searching look. Perhaps she was brought up to believe that in India being in love with your spouse is not the demand of married life and that marriages survive without love. However, I thought it best to maintain silence. She did not seem to take my silence very seriously because the question she had asked did not carry weight; it was asked out of a casual interest, to set the ball rolling. But she immediately hastened to say, “Oh, sorry, I am afraid, I am being too personal.” I told her that I would bring it to her notice if she was so. She said, “Actually I am not very gregarious, you know?” She stopped and looked at me with a look which I thought rather presumptuous. I was amused to see that she was waiting to see if the word ‘gregarious’ was there in my vocabulary.

“One of my teachers is into ‘Zen,’ you know. I am learning the lesson of compassion from ‘Zen’. She says that one must feel the vibrations and respond positively. I think those who don’t speak that lingo call it being pro-active.” I started wondering what compassion and being positive or pro-active had to do with my being married or not. But I did not have to ask. She was quickly forthcoming with the explanation. She said, “You have a very sensitive face. I noticed that you looked lonely.”  This, if it were to come from any other woman who was a stranger, could have been construed as an innuendo. But I was gradually getting drawn into her world which had a strange fragrance about it.

                                                                                                                                

A Rather Long Short--story 6 continued and to be continued

“Oh, then you are a teetotaler I suppose,” she said. I watched her for a moment to detect a trace of sarcasm. There was nothing but the freshness of adolescence in her bearing. So I ruled out sarcasm.

She saw through my doubt and while I was fumbling for an answer, she said, “There is nothing wrong in being a teetotaler. Your culture forbids you to drink perhaps.” I was not sure whether to tell her that I was not exactly averse to drinking, but I thought it best to let her continue with the impression she had formed; I am more at ease with myself and others when an acquaintance begins with an impression and not with an opinion.

I asked her if she would care to join me. “For a very little while,” she said. I got up and drew a chair for her, the one opposite me. I hurried back to my chair. I wanted to hold the thread of conversation but was not sure how to. I finally decided to let her take the lead and sat there facing her quietly, as if for a judgment.

“You were there at the choir-practice; I saw you,” she said plainly, without any coquetry. I was impressed by the poise which to my mind was rather remarkable for her age. I admitted I was there and that I was quite impressed by her singing. She nodded and said, “I know.” She was not excited over the compliment. There seemed to be a slight shadow of wistfulness in her eyes. She kept looking out at the rain outside and then in a slight whisper, as if talking to herself said, “Choir-singing is not my end really; it’s just a stop-over. I want to be a professional singer.” Though she showed no eagerness for a response from me, I ventured to say just in order to prolong the opportunity of being with her, though I regretted the moment I said it, “Oh, I would have thought that you were made out to be a nun.”     

She flashed a glance at me which I felt to be a look of disapproval, if not exactly of anger. “Oh, really? And what made you think so?” she asked with a determination to retaliate what she perceived to be an insinuation at her plain looks. Though that certainly was not what I had in mind, it gave me a secret pleasure to see her annoyed. But it was too fragile a moment to be wasted in silly overtures. I hastened to clarify, “I mean, you sang with such devoutness; it was heavenly.” Again a half-smile lit up her face and as if with a glint of comprehension in her eyes she said, “Really? Don’t expect me to believe that. I wasn’t quite born yesterday, you know?”

I silenced the voice in me that urged me to say, “ That was really the truth!”  

A Rather Long Short Story 5

For the next few moments I remained engrossed in my thoughts which did not have any specific object to feed upon. I was thinking of the letter my wife had written to me sometime back and which had reached me on the previous day. It was a long list of grievances about my mother. She wanted me to write to my mother on her behalf. I brushed aside all those concerns for a while, and started enjoying the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the window-sill. I had to finish my coffee and get ready to go. I could not prolong my stay indefinitely long. Before making up my mind to get up, I looked at her and found her looking at me with a certain curiosity. I returned her glance with a seemingly non-chalant look, balancing the act between trying not to offend and trying not to look rudely indifferent either. In that brief moment of awareness, she gave me a faintly visible, qualified little smile. It was oddly radiant as certain unexpected, half-revealed smiles are. I smiled back, less radiantly, taking care that my smile did not carry any unwelcome signs that may cause a misunderstanding. But I was overwhelmed, to be sure.

The next thing I knew was that she was out of her seat and having covered the distance in a few steps she was now standing by my table.

I got up from my seat and requested her to be seated and be comfortable. She bowed slightly and sat down facing me. “Are you from Asia?” She asked after she had made sure with a slight observation that I was a good guy. “I am from India.” I replied.  

A Rather Long Short Story 4

For a fraction of a moment she took notice of me and I felt out of the place occupying the seat in the front row. Perhaps she understood my embarrassment and graciously looked away. The moment the singing stopped the choir children became impatient to get away from the scrutiny and criticism of the coach and the audience, though to my tired nerves their performance was more than what I could rate. Their coach was in no mind to let them slip out so soon. She began to give her lengthy opinion on how some children can’t remain still and composed while rehearsing. That was the time I realized that my presence in the front row was going to invite the hostility of the children and the censure of their teacher. The hymn was definitely over and I did not want the coach’s dissonant voice to break the spell the children’s singing had cast upon me. I got up hastily and left the hall.

Outside on the street the things were far more difficult than when I had stepped inside the hall. It was raining harder. I put on my raincoat and crossed the street and found refuge in a coffee-shop. It was my first visit to that shop and while I was looking for the coat-stand around, the matronly looking owner of the shop gave me a look as if she would have preferred a customer with a drier appearance. Not to give her offence, I took as much care as I could to see that my dripping raincoat made as little mess as possible.

As I sat down at my table with my tray of coffee and cinnamon toast I saw the young lady at the choir entering in and taking off her coat. I noticed that she was not alone. She was accompanied by an elderly looking lady and a little impish-looking guy who was probably her younger brother. They occupied a table not far away from me and fortunately I was able to get an unobstructed view of the entire party. The boy was about five and was in no mood to obey anyone. He started looking around with curiosity to discover some vulnerable target at which he could direct his mischief. Before giving him an opportunity to decide that I could be his potential target, I hastily put on my patent “keep away at safe distance or I know how to tackle brats like you” kind of look. Luckily, they had not noticed yet me watching them.

As they settled down at their table, the boy set about annoying his companions very methodically, giving me an instant insight into the kind of tricks he had mastered rather well. He started rocking in his chair in the most irritating manner, acting as if he was going to pull down the table with the table-cloth and all. The elderly lady advised him once or twice to sit straight but it was only when his sister admonished him in a stern voice that he stuck the small of his back to the chair, but in the meanwhile he dropped the napkin on the floor, picked it up neatly and spread it over his head and sat balancing it dexterously. She did not go to the counter to get their tea. It was brought to them by the waitress.

While they were in the process of pouring tea into their cups, she noticed me suddenly and gave me the same indifferent look with which she had regarded me at the choir-practice.