Parnil Yodha‘How did you like the film?’ asked Isha.
The morning assembly had just ended; now, the students were filing in queues to their respective classrooms. Isha was right ahead of Prapti in their class queue. Isha’s question made her replay the entire scene of the Saturday night in her mind.
The entire Thaiya family had been sitting in their dining-cum-drawing room with their eyes fixated on the TV screen like a parliament of owls. It was unlike any Saturday night: the renowned film Titanic – a story of two star-crossed lovers aboard a gigantic, luxurious ship, amidst the Atlantic, that was doomed to drown – dubbed in Hindi was being premiered on Indian television.
All scenes depicting nudity and love-making had been censored and edited out, keeping in mind the “Indian audience’s sensibilities” – though Prapti never understood what it exactly meant! Nevertheless, extra precaution had been taken care of by Mr Thaiya, who believed that the Indian censor board could not be trusted blindly: it was the unsaid rule of the Thaiya family that the channel was to be switched to another every time the hero and the heroine came too up close each other so as to forestall any depiction of the locking of the lips on screen in the Thaiya house.
It was another thing that even the subtle indication that the hero was drawing a nude sketch of the heroine – despite undressing scenes and nudity having been cut out – was still rather odious and outrageous for Mr Thaiya. As per him, it was likely to “corrupt” the minds of young girls; talking to boys could corrupt their minds; attending a co-ed school could corrupt their minds; wearing western clothes, having hair hung loose and putting on make-up were all likely to corrupt their minds, and lead them astray from the right path.
‘I loved the film. I was dying to watch it. These English women are so unbelievably beautiful! And her dresses, oh my God, so gorgeous,’ recounted Prapti.
Prapti was indeed craving to watch the film ever since her best friend Isha had narrated to her each and every scene vividly. Isha, unlike Prapti, hailed from a liberal family; she went out to watch the film in the theatre itself with her parents. And that too with all the, in her own words, “sensuous love-making scenes and an exciting, artistic sketching of a naked female body”. ‘I will one day have myself sketched like that,’ she had told Prapti boastfully.
‘I know, right! So gorgeous!’ said Isha
‘And, yeah, that scene when they stand on the bow of the ship and the music plays in the background was so mesmerising, wasn’t it?’ said Prapti.
The tragic tale of a subdued princess (Edwardian ball gowns, long gloves and wide brim hats had made it clear to Prapti that the heroine Rose was a princess) set free by a nomadic artist, as poor as a church-mouse. She had imagined herself in Rose’s place, which gave her a surreal feeling of being free, standing on the bow with outstretched arms, as though soaring up in the sky like a wings-flapping seagull.
‘I know!!’ Isha exclaimed. ‘And remember that misty hand imprint on the car glass?’ Isha giggled with flushed cheeks, ‘What were they doing inside the car, Oh my God!’
Prapti covered her mouth with her right hand and was now giggling too.
‘Yeah, but the Television version was edited; so very little was of those scenes was shown,’ said Prapti.
‘Oh!’ said Isha.
‘Did you…um… get scared?’
‘Scared? Scared of what?’
‘You know, all the flooding water?’
The entire experience had been splendid for Prapti, except for the flooding water scenes in the end of the film where a splendid experience culminated for her into the tail end of a nightmare!
‘What!!!’ Isha laughed out loud. ‘You were frightened while watching a romantic film? Man, what are the odds!’
‘I was not that much scared. I just felt this fear for a second that the water would flood in from somewhere, like it happens in the film, and fling me out the window, or slap me against the wall. That’s all!’
This was not true because she was dead scared as the visuals had really bore down on her. All openings of her abode –doors and windows- had become the henchmen of the Grim Reaper. The moment her eyes would fall upon any door that was ajar, something enormous and frothy would gush in, crushing to pieces everything in its way! Eventually, she had somehow managed to latch all the doors with trembling hands and quickly run to the bathroom; a shower of great relief had bathed her. Suddenly, a torrent had rushed in through the window, flushing the confined space with water, and had lobbed her to the opposite wall like spit. She had pulled herself up by her bootstraps, flashed out like a shaft of light and ran upstairs to the terrace. For a short while, she had gasped to regain her breath as though she had exhausted every ounce of her bodily energy in that sprint. By and by, the night sky had given refuge to her in its tremendous, cosy black blanket; presently, she had been lying on her back with an arm beneath the back of her head like a pillow. The litchi fruit, squishy, white and opaque, up in the sky had been the moon. The dark blanket was a mystery to her; she had endeavoured to solve by connecting the dots called ‘stars’. ‘I wish, life were as easy to solve,’ she had thought.
‘What? Isha gave a shriek of laughter, ‘You live on the second floor, stupid! How can you expect a deluge to make it to you on such altitude, especially, when there is not even a sign of any water body within ten kilometres of your place?’
Prapti felt a rush of hot blood in her cheeks. The bell rang at the right moment. Prapti unzipped her yellow Tweety school bag and took out the timetable.
‘The first period is of Biology,’ said Aiman, who had just come in.
‘Thanks,’ said Prapti.
Aiman nodded and walked past, making her way through the narrow aisles between the queues of wooden desks and chairs. Then, having put her bag back on the last seat, she came back.
‘Yaar, when will Bose teach the reproduction chapter? It’ll be fun to make her uncomfortable: “Ma’am, why do they say in ads that this and this condom is available in three flavours? No one eats a condom, do they?”’
Isha and Aiman chortled and hi-fived each other.
‘You, guys, are so…’ said Prapti, grinning.
‘One more: “Ma’am, it is the mother who breastfeeds a baby, right? Then, why do men have nipples? What’s the use?”’
All three laughed in unison this time.
‘Actually, that biology class will be for people like you, Prapti. We already know much of the human reproduction, anyway,’ said Isha and winked at Aiman.
Prapti pouted with a sullen expression on her face.
‘So, Miss Experts-In-Biology, did you do the biology homework?’ asked Prapti.
‘I did,’ said Isha.
‘I was about to do it,’ began Aiman, ‘I had made up mind to do it this time, but – ’
Prapti chuckled. ‘But what?’
‘Emraan Hashmi’s film was on TV. I was, luckily, alone at home. A Sunday, an Emraan Hashmi film and me alone at home – how could I miss this golden opportunity? It would’ve been too brutal to deprive myself of such rare pleasure, you see!’
Prapti grinned and gave an eye-roll to Aiman.
‘Thank God that I don’t have to do anything surreptitiously to keep it from my parents,’ said Isha.
***
It was the month of February. The white daisies, the yellow sunflowers and the red roses were swaying in the school garden. The garden was fenced with barbed wires, and the students were not allowed to enter the garden lest they would pluck the flowers. Prapti was standing across the fence, gazing at the flowers and their guests: butterflies and bumblebees. Prapti checked the time on her pink strapped watch; it was still ten minutes for the recess to get over. The sunlight was balmy. After a minute or so, she saw a faint, fully-grown blue figure treading towards her from the other end of the school premises.
‘The principal ma’am?’ she thought, ‘Is my watch wrong? Is the recess over?’ Her heart began to throb. She looked around; the other students were still gambolling about in the playground. ‘Phew!’ Then, who’s that? When the figure was closer, she recognised the person: It was Aiman’s mother. But what was she doing in school? It wasn’t the day of the Parents Teachers Meeting. Prapti tried to act casual, as though she had not noticed anyone coming in her direction.
‘Prapti,’ said Aiman’s mother.
‘Yes,’ Prapti tried to look surprised, ‘Auntie? Good morning. You’re here?’
‘Yes, beta, they told me that I would find you here near the garden; so, I came.’
‘No, no, auntie, I meant, why have you come to school today? Aiman is on leave today. In fact, she said she would be on leave for two days because you all were going out of town.’
‘Leave? What leave? Aiman left for school this morning. But I can’t find her in school.’
‘What? How’s that possible? Did you check with her school bus mates?’
‘No, I don’t know any of them. This is why I have come to you.’
‘Okay, I’ll take you to her bus mates that I know.’
Prapti took Aiman’s mother to the few bus mates of Aiman’s she knew. One said she did not know anything because she had missed the bus that morning. One said that she did not know who Aiman was. Finally, one junior blabbed, ‘Auntie, she did board the bus from her stop, but got down on the very next stop.’
‘WHAT?’ said Aiman’s mother.
Aiman’s mother staggered and was about to lose balance when Prapti held her. She quickly opened her purse and took out her mobile phone. She apprised Aiman’s father of everything. She then made a beeline for the principal’s office. Prapti left her and ran to see Isha.
Prapti looked for Isha in the canteen, the playground, the classroom, but she was nowhere. Then something struck her; she immediately rushed to the back of the school building. And there she was, Isha, busy talking to her boyfriend on the mobile phone. Phones were prohibited in school, so Isha had to be sly about it.
‘Isha, a huge problem’s come up,’ said Prapti.
Isha covered the speaker of the mobile with her hand and whispered, ‘What? Can’t it wait? Aman is ill. I have called to check on him.’
‘No, it’s urgent!’ said Prapti.
‘Alright, alright, Aman, I’ll call you after I reach home. Yeah, tell me, yaar, what’s wrong?’ said Isha.
‘Aiman’s missing. I mean –’ she told Isha everything.
Isha pondered for a second and said: ‘She must have gone to see him.’
‘Him? Who’s him?’
‘Her boyfriend, of course: that eighteen year old douche-bag! Aiman, yaar, is so naïve, I tell you.’
‘Huh? What do you mean?’
‘She met him at my place. He’s my brother’s friend. He was the first guy she met, and she fell for him. She has no sense of judgment for boys.’
‘Oh my God, is she in danger or something?’
‘Arey, no, no, not at all; the guy is a sweet-talking creep, no doubt; but he won’t hurt her physically at least, though emotionally I can’t guarantee.’
‘But, I think, her parents are going to call the police.’
‘What? Shit!’
Isha pressed buttons on her mobile phone keypad. She waited and then said:
‘Nishant, call Shiv now; he is with Aiman, and her mom is at school. They are calling the cops. I know!! Okay, uh-huh, alright.’
After an hour or so, the police came, and so did Aiman. Shiv had apparently dropped her near the school and fled. Aiman’s mom slapped her tight and took her along, dragging her by the arm to their car, followed by her father. The car pulled away.
***
For the next two days, Aiman did not come to school. The tongues were clicking all across the school. The news of Aiman’s bunking the school had spread like wildfire, but the reason changed with every exchange. One rumour went: Aiman had eloped with the bus conductor, but then she had to return because the man had dumped her. Another said: Aiman had gotten pregnant and was admitted to the abortion clinic. Yet another was: Aiman’s father had strangulated her for bringing shame to the family reputation.
Aiman returned to school on the third day. Throughout the morning assembly, she was solemn and silent despite the students around her acting like they had seen some weird thing (They kept nudging one another, pointing at her and mouthing to each other). Aiman seemed abstracted and unaware of her bearings.
‘Hi, Aiman,’ said Prapti.
Aiman continued to walk. Prapti caught her by the arm and shook her.
‘Aiman, where are you lost?’
‘Oh sorry, what happened?’
‘Nothing, leave it.’
The classes progressed as always. It was the recess. Most students scampered out of the classroom to the canteen or the playground. Prapti, clutching her lunch box, went to Aiman’s seat. Aiman was bent forwards, picking up her pen from the floor; her kameez got blown up by the air of the ceiling fan. Prapti saw a bluish stripe on her back above the waistline.
‘Aiman, wait, there’s something on your back – ’
‘No, it’s nothing.’
Prapti gawked at her in disbelief.
‘Um…Aiman, did your…um – ’
‘Did my father beat me? Hell, yeah, he did with a belt. And, after all this, that schmuck broke up with me for refusing to have sex with him.’
Prapti looked nonplussed. Aiman gave a wry smile and said:
‘Let’s go to our haute.’
Both of them walked to the backside of the school building silently. They had their lunch in utter silence too. Then Aiman ventured:
‘Prapti, have you ever felt attraction for a guy?’
‘Not really. My parents, just like yours, don’t allow me to mingle with boys. If you don’t meet any boys, how can you –’
‘Still, a crush, perhaps, for anyone?’
‘I feel guilty, like I’m doing something wrong, if I ever think of something like that, or feel something like that.’
Nothing was said after that.
Prapti kept religiously nibbling her lunch. Aiman kept staring at her own feet absentmindedly. Deep down, Aiman knew that Prapti could only dream to be Rose; she, in reality, was one of those passengers who stayed put without even trying to survive and went down with the ship: she would make peace with her family’s medieval beliefs and, eventually, even internalise their “morality”. And Prapti also knew that Aiman was like Rose, one of those rebels who are either finally tamed by force or fly off to freedom although at the cost of severed family ti
