Fake

yawn. yawn. yawn. yawnnnnnnnnnnnn.

ouch.

stuck jaws. hurt jaws. sore jaws.

*******

now this is some garden. prim and proper. spoilt with blooms. fancy couple seats. swings with lots of creaks. kiddie benches, rusting away to glory. noisy koels. infact mean-looking squirrels. and a real monstrosity of a water patch. sick looking lilies in there gasping for life...

ok. bad temper, kabir. moods gone in for a royal swing. one hard grip over the heart coming up sir. what now.

radar check. one two three four...

caught it. the gallery. the woman. HIS woman infact.

mine. mine. mine. look here. turn around. come on, tune in.

ha.

*******

wee smiles. whoa smiles. watt smiles. ummmm smiles. half smiles. (better leave out sexy smiles. saves getting bashed by her) toothy ones. gummy baby smiles. sunny smiles. fake smiles...

some folks smile easy. for others it is a chore.

point is, smiles cannot be cultivated. one is either born with it, else, you just fake it. and when confronted by a mirror, the fake ones fall off...

like meera’s.

fakest one seen so far. a wideninig of lips. a show of pearly, even teeth. dark lips... should tell her about those cigarettes...

here. watch her turn in my direction and give a fake one to me. that is a show one. one that tells everybody, i am ok, he is ok, we are ok. an ok smile.

and i have to fake it back.

**********

kabir tried to ignore his sore jawline.

fake smiling always hurt his jaws. gave him fine headaches. by this time in life, meera knew.

then, she would smile her tight smile. another in the category of the fake ones. she had an entire assortment. she could bring out tight smiles, sleepy smiles, condescending smiles, i-am-listening-to-you smiles and what not...

nothing of sore jaws, though. he waited. but she never asked.

how come she does it so well. this detached, but doing-all attitude of hers. with him always. but gone away. always. why does she do it. should stop this bloody game. she wont ask.

and come on, even if she does, what next.


***********

maybe she has turned different. meaning, she has changed. and everything about her changed with this change.

so, is this meera.

looks like her. the same woman. charming, not beautiful. not even pretty. sensuous? not that. definitely not that. pristine perhaps. pure, good. too good to be true. a hidden something about her. infectious. highly infectious look...

an almost swan like, girlish tinge enveloped her entire being and she flitted around, swathing everyone around with her mogra bloom fragrance... well, there you go again, kabeera. poetic.

meera can still chase up the poet in me...

the same woman. nah. girl. still the girl he chased around till she married him. and then. felt relieved that finally, she was HIS.

i got relaxed or what. and she got relaxed. that one still looks troublesome. that undecided, troubled, hesitant look in her eyes when she said yes to him.

well, not to blame me. was too happy to have her say yes. phew. what a chase. and then she said yes. yes. yes. busy with that feeling. busy bragging about it. busy telling amit and the guys...

of course, i noticed.

those droopy amit-shoulders that drooped some more. and continue to...

that guy...

**************

meera.

known to him for years now. ages in fact. sometimes, he looked at their recent pictures and told himself. lookalikes.

lookalikes.

not to mention thinkalikes, doalikes, likealikes and what not. inseperable twins. sensing each others needs. doing things for each other. even before telling. isnt that telepathy or what.

and then it got boring. no more surprises. sick of pushing the farce of an all-knowing, predictable life.

predictable is downmarket. downtrodden. lowly. down. down. down. if you are predictable, you are dead meat man kabeera. what woman will look at a predictable guy. nothing exciting. nothing cool. all homely. domestic. tamed. tied.

tied. tied. tied.


*************

then came the cellphones.

where are you. office. when will you reach. let’s see, will call you. see you.

and then the smses.

met amit. nt rchng 4 dnr. go ahd & eat. c u.


*************

amit.

an intonation. nothing beyond that.

over time, she had learnt the art. and slowly grown quiet. quieter. and quietest when kabir laid out the end-of-the-day questions. and talk. and jokes. and banter. and blah. blah. blah.

more blah. mindless talk. almost a chatter. a drilling voice, insistent about drowing her out. it is easy to be quiet with kabir. he doesnt seem to notice at all. so, she could wander all she wanted and come back to put in a timely ’is it...?’

************

bathrooms therefore are a blessing in a marriage gone off track.

meera, the vagabond, felt at peace in her bathroom. that was the only space in her home where she could talk in peace. look at herself in the mirror. and speak. amit, please come and take me out of this hell. please come and take me out of this hell, amit please come and take me out of this hell, please come and take me out of t his hell, please, please, please....

amit.

**************

meera!

was this her. primped up woman staring back from the mirror. grey strands littering the wavy, uneven hair. a deep groove under her eye. truth-telling, exposing, laying bare.

it has been ages... and the act was still on.

how far. and how long. what for. why.

back in school and college, teachers had always been fascinated by her penchant for asking questions. what relevant questions meera.

yes, really. what relevant questions. chaos creating. disrupting order. from strumming away on her guitar to endless laundry... everything that she tried to outsmart the questions always boomeranged on her.

so good old meera-questions. banging away, insistent, demanding, unrelenting, unforgiving, cruel...

***********

and then once she gave way.

a whole evening and half a night spent clinging on to amit. half a night and flicker of a dawn spent listening to his heartbeat. feeling his clasp around her waist. in a corner of the study with marquez, kafka, tolstoy, hardy, yeats, eliot, et all... the nook which could hold either padma’s sitar or bundled stricken miserable lovers...

**********

amit stood by her.

looking at the still waters. unmoving. the only signs of his wild desperation visible in the violent clutching and unclutching of meera’s hands.

wont let you go. wont. wont. wont. should say that to her. tell her. shout it out aloud. take her away from the muck. run off. elope. just take her. take her and run. run amitav.

my meera...


********

its late meera. we have to go. i’ll drop you home.

come.

*********


and if amit hadnt looked at her with those troubled brown eyes swimming with love and longing she would have said...

but, she crossed herself again.

i dont want to go back.

how many times had she said that. over and over again. then, those shoulders would droop. the brown eyes that she knew so well, darkened. with thought. or was it pain. did he ever feel anything. will she ever know...

talk to me amit. please.

***********

but.

oh, but for all these buts in life. meera hated buts. but used them so often.

as always. amit took charge. its late. do you understand meera. its late. its late meera. let us go.

such blind trust. is it possible.

are we all right...

his voice. the intonation of her name - meera, meera, meera... she followed him back home.

to kabir.

************

kabeera.

who waited. for her.

always.

he would watch the gate, the clock, the bell, the phone.... everything that would indicate her coming.

with a single look he encompassed her. without a touch. without a gesture. people would know meera belonged to kabir. or was it the other way round.

no one knew. neither meera. nor kabir. not even amit. the man who knew them both. understood them so well. but one look. and kabir established his rightful possession over meera. HIS in all caps. MINE in bold. WE. he tried. but looked a bit lame. that does not work. they dont look like a WE.

amit, he always stepped back. and waited. for them to establish thier contact. and make space for a third person.

dont touch her. swine. dont you dare look at her. what do you want to prove. there is nothing to prove. we all know where we stand. dont touch her.

mine. we. its us who are a we. we always were. and will always be. she is just married to you. she just lives with you. she is nothing to do with you. my life. my dreams. my very breath. my meera... quit eyeing her. swine. swine. swine. punch him should i. swine...

amit. no. wont come in today. padma will be up for me.

jealous-hurt-sad-lost-meera-eyes.

why.

will remember to kick myself. cant be doing this. not with him around. go in. come out. some coffee. some fake smiles. some chatter. and back home. to blazing padma.

well.

***********

padmakshi.

lotus eyed. dark. beautiful. flary. hot tempered. and terrifyingly honest. wife to amit. wife as in wife and husband. two people married and then living together.

no children. no investments. no dreams. meaning, no we-together dreams. only i-i dreams.

alone dreams.

lonely dreams. which sometimes met up with meera.

or with kabir.

but never with amit...


*************

amitav.

of the brown eyes.

amit of the crossed arms. amit in trademark blue. amit of the noiseless laughter. amit of the half smile. amit of the bushy bushy bushy unruly, unmanagable, tangled hair. once again, the wind had got into it and made it wilder. if there was anyone who could smoothen it back, it is me.

who else.

all mine. once told and decided, meera would walk off with a gait that kabir said was almost swanish. almost. because there’s a thin difference between a swan and a duck. he would joke...

like so many times before, amit would try to hold back. one bloody kick and that would wipe out the all knowing, assured, secure and possessive look on his face.

bloody damn smirk of a man.


**************

keen kabir watching with a corner-eye. so, found anything interesting.

location hunting. lake sides. hillsides. cottages. valleys. mudroads. some together. some in pairs. some alone. it all looked very comfortable. team-team. ill-tempered padma joined them sometimes. that always ended in a fight. between amit and padma. a roaring fight. as kabir called it. mostly ended wiht padma leaving in a huff. followed by meera.

and sometimes by kabir. i will get her back. you guys carry on. and sure enough, they would be back. padma, strangely quiet, subdued, downcast.

and then quietly, the four would go through the ritual of an evening gone sour. meera smoking away to glory. crossed-arms amit in the gallery. kabir moving from one being to another. and padma smouldering quietly in a corner.

at times amit would come and snatch the glass off her hands. at such times, hell broke loose. loud arguing. louder namescalling. loudest of all, a yell ’bastard’ and off she was again. padma huffing out again.

oh for god’s sake. let me go and get her. she’s bloody drunk. dont kabir. i will do that. my duty after all. i am supposed to be responsible for her. so, here goes. and just pray that she does not claw me to death this time...

meera watching amit go. kabir watching meera watching amit go.


************

padmakshi

... sensuous, alluring, passionate, fiery. arousing....if there is anything that can calm down that fierce, blazing eyes, it is a kiss on her earlobe. and a slight bite. just that much to cool down the tigress...

wrap her in your arms and she’ll be all ... kabeera, kabeera, kabeera... we’ll get caught you fool...

***************