The trial

It was the black bag that did me in.

Till then I was on auto pilot, fully into a stream of activity that kept me distracted and engaged – party till late night, get up, get ready, mails, chase taxi, figure out location, get there, hug, greet, smile, offer to help, help, chat, eat.

I finally sat down for a few minutes at a stretch and the conversation with a fellow-guest petered out. Lulled by the carnatic music in the background, the noise around me dulled to a hum, I gazed lazily around, my eyes arriving at the mandap. And the little black suitcase. As Sonal pulled it open and took out assorted bags being used for the rituals, it suddenly struck me and the memories came flooding back.

The bag on the floor of the bedroom, packed neatly with DB’s clothes and toiletries for his weekend recruitment trips. Over the years, the bag (which I had initially got from Manila as a last minute purchase to stuff all my shopping) got steadily threadbare, causing me amusement and irritation in equal measure, especially when he would do his “I am so middle class” routine.

Well, middle class it certainly was, this sad-looking bag sitting on the corner of the pandal with its glorious orange, white and yellow theme. Little knowing what it stood for – the memories, the moments, the future. Little knowing what it caused…my mind to suddenly wake up and look at everything around me in a new light.

DB sits on the pandal, going through the never-ending rituals, a fixed smile on his face, occasionally looking towards us with a glance of recognition, his face unreadable except when he would make a grimace to signal his exhaustion. I am surrounded by his friends, people from another world, who were a little like mythical creatures to me, and now they were finally real, flesh and blood standing in front of me, looking and behaving exactly as they were described for the first time six years ago in the drive to Pondicherry, at the end of which he paused, put up his hand in that usual melodramatic gesture and said “main toh thak gaya!”

Today there’s no melodrama. The emotions are under a leash, getting frowned upon whenever they try to break free. There’s plenty of back and forth to do between the hall and the room where a lot of stuff is kept, and which is supposedly for him to rest and change in. I accompany as P & his wife, who are primarily responsible for all this. I am a little like a well dressed assistant, happy to tag along, and help wherever I can, not really making a difference, but being appreciated all the same. I am happy to just keep doing something, and comforted by the company of someone who I knew understood the reality, accepted it, and maybe even sympathized a little.

On of my trips back to the hall, I catch his mother’s eye and she smiles at me, obviously happy at the event but somehow also acknowledging my presence there. Or was I imagining that? Would her reaction have been very different if she had known the truth? Or did, as I have always suspected, she always have an inkling of the reality? How many secrets do we carry with us, sometimes for the sake of our own sanity, sometimes to preserve someone else’s dignity or wishes. So much baggage.

We were in the corridor again, going back this time when DB had changed into a tasteful dhoti & kurta, the latter cut short, in his typical style. The three of us stand in a lift, and I joke again about his father-in-law’s stinginess in giving gifts to him. I notice the silver colored watch and ask him if he wants to exchange it with my green one. He looks at me, strangely I think, and says its Tommy and someone else gave it to him. It doesn't strike me for a moment and then I remember. I don’t know what I say…maybe I just smile. Because my stomach had just plummeted as the echoes of another “tommy” played in my head.

P wants to talk about careers. He’s shifting gears for the second time in as many years and wants to make sure he joins the right place. As I give my usual HR advice on the subject, part of me goes back to the day when I folded up that admission letter and put it in my drawer (or did I just tear it up). What a different course my life would have taken if I hadn't done that. Or that mail I wrote. “So you are into stars”, or something like that I said. Sparking off an exchange of mails that snowballed. Or the moments when I kept quiet, wanting to let my guard down, but my ego not letting me, building so many walls around me that he finally couldn't even see through. Or that evening when I got bored and said “what the heck, let me make that profile and check it out”. Small…big…moments that shaped life forever.

I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking. His past, his present and his future are in this room, around him. They are not really that linked and don’t flow into one another. The book is more like a set of short stories with some linkages, rather than a series of chapters. To move to the next, you have to firmly end one. What if you want to revisit? But can’t?

R & I probe me – am I really ok? They can’t believe it when I laughingly tell them I am fine; there’s some sense of irony, but no emotion. “We were and are friends first”, I tell them confidently. I know others are worried too, but they know me too long, and so are not as bold and carefree as these two. They sent me careful texts, and I reply as carefully. There are others who don’t remember, or don’t care, or just don’t know what to say. Not surprising. I always know who’s standing firmly by me, in person or in spirit, as I go through the trials. And I know who aren't or won't. 

In a few hours I am standing below the stage, looking up at them. Arranging for tissues and water as they sweat their way through the greetings and blessings of hundreds of strangers. I wonder if I am being too forward in doing that, in talking to them, in suggesting actions. If I am being too forward in just being there. My aim was, and is, to comfort, to calm and to support. But is that what’s happening?

There’s heat, and humidity. And then some air conditioning. I am restless, wanting to go out and see how he’s doing. Sonal looks at me a little weirdly. I realize my guard is beginning to drop. It’s time to go. I say a hurried goodbye, there’s enough confusion around to not make that look unseemly. I avoid getting on the stage, the formalities would be too tiring. I say a few words of goodbye to his mom, P & S...thanking them with my eyes, even if I couldn't say anything.

I am heading back on the drive, when a voice calls out “Ralhan!” I turn back, he’s standing across the bushes, smiling a little, his face gleaming with sweat, the clothes shiny in the spotlight, his eyes soft and questioning and maybe even saying something. I know I am in the darkness. I don’t remember what we say. But I do manage to say bye. I wave my hand and move away, his face blurring. I keep waving, walking down the drive and then turn away completely. The dark interiors of the car are what I need, my refuge.