Chapter 10
“If you wanna be my lover…” she mumbled along in pain, resting her head back on the closed glass window of her flat.
Even the late evening sun felt harsh on the glass but the AC humming in the bedroom cooled her down.
She was trying to find one comfortable feeling, one comfortable spot, one comfortable state to be in.
Her stomach and thighs were cramping so badly, she couldn’t even lie down and die.
Amaal took a deep breath, willing the dramatic self-conversation to stop.
She turned her head on the hot glass, grinding her forehead on it.
Could she climb up the windowsill and stick her stomach to the heated surface?
She groaned, hating herself for not preempting this and buying a hot water bag.
She popped open her eyes in a daze and squinted, seeing somebody staring at her from the ground.
Amaal pulled back, focused. It was Samar.
She blinked, confirming if it was him. Parked and standing outside his car, face turned up.
Amaal tried to smile and wave. He did not wave back. So she limped around on her heels and trudged to… where? She did not want to go to bed. She did not want to sit on the three-seater sofa or the chair or anywhere. Neither did she want to stand. What was this misery?!
If you want my future, forget my past…
Her laptop blared. Amaal sang along to take her mind off this.
“If you wanna get with me, better make it fast.” She half-cried. Her doorbell rang.
“Now don't go wasting my precious time…” She crawled to the door on two legs and pulled it open. “Get your act together we could be just…” she stopped singing. And did a double-take. “You?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Now say it without the smile.”
“I am not smiling.” She grimaced, needing to fold over but holding her own. His eyes went down to her stomach, clearly, because she was holding it tight.
“If it’s stomach pain, take this,” he held out a small white paper bag. “And if it’s period cramps, take this.” He pulled out a strip of paracetamol from his pocket. She mildly slapped both away — “It’s not that bad.”
“Which one?”
“Period cramps.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“I get these dramatic periods once in 6-7 months when I want to either bite somebody’s head off or chop my own head off. The extra cramps are an added bonus,” she managed, leaning on the frame of the door. “I manage without painkillers. Thanks for checking, though.”
He stepped back and closed the door, leaving just as he had come.
Amaal didn't have the energy to be properly appalled at his behaviour. At least he had come, just by the look on her face. She got herself off the doorframe and was debating where to go now to wallow in this pain when the doorbell went off again. Who was it?! Didn’t they get that she was on half-day leave?
! She pulled the door open — “You are lucky I am standing near my door or…”
Samar stood there, a hot water bag in hand. Amaal’s eyes widened.
“No more medicines?”
“You are better off with this.”
“You are meant to give medicines.”
“I am a doctor, not a pharmacist.” He pushed the bag towards her, and the mere sight of it brought tears to her eyes.
She did not glance up, mortified that she would cry.
— at the hope of relief, at the sight of this gesture, at the small pop of good in this excruciatingly painful day.
She reached for the bag and found it empty.
“This is not hot.”
“You are supposed to fill it with hot water.”
Amaal finally had enough control to look at him — “Really?”
He snatched it back from her hand and marched inside.
She gaped, in shock, as he went to her bathroom like it belonged to him and switched on the geyser.
Amaal continued to lean there, through the sound of running water, through the tick of the geyser turning off, and through his footsteps that returned, his fingers twisting the cap on the bag.
He checked the temperature on his hand and held it out to her.
Far from fighting about him entering her bathroom, she accepted it and hugged it close to her tummy. Her mouth opened in relief.
“Sit down.”
“I will stand,” she smiled through the relief, leaning back on the doorframe. She would love to float in this now.
“Have you eaten?”
She sighed, throwing her head back.
“Varun told me you fought with him.”
“I did not.”
“Hmm.”
Amaal opened her eyes and glared at him — “I did not! He was going on and on about regulations for…” she shut her mouth, realising he was right and she was out of her mind.
“I did,” she confessed in a small voice.
“But I immediately informed them that I was taking the rest of the day off. I will speak to Atharva about the half day and apologise to Varun tomorrow. He is right. The EC regulations don’t allow us any promotions after circuit is declared.
Even if it is nukkad natak. But… what if it is not sponsored by us… ”
“Have you eaten?”
“Does your car ever travel in one gear?”
“Have you eaten?”
“No! I am bored with the food here. I…”
“Rest for an hour, then come with me to eat carbs.” He began to turn away.
“Hey! Wait, wait, wait! Come with you to eat carbs?”
“That’s what I said.”
And he closed the door.
————————————————————
Amaal sat in his hot Santro with a hot water bag. And with her pain mellowed, she could appreciate his gesture even more.
“Thank you for taking me out.”
“I am not taking you out.” He set his hand on her headrest, turned over his arm and reversed the car from the lot.
Amaal held her head as straight as she could, feeling the heat of his face so close, even in the general heat of his car.
The car was reversed, and he straightened, allowing her to breathe.
“What is this then?” She asked, turning in her seat to fold one leg under her other. Aah, what a position! She did not even need the hot water bag. Amaal relaxed just as he turned the AC knob.
“I am to look out for you. Seatbelt.”
She pulled the seatbelt and clicked, not taking her eyes off him.
He did not care. She knew he knew, but nothing moved him, not even a PMSing woman staring at the side of his face in his small car.
As usual, he was driving without a seatbelt, like most North Indian drivers did.
And as usual, she asked — “Your seatbelt?”
And as usual, he did not answer. He had selective answer syndrome. Very conveniently ignoring what he did not want to touch, and being unapologetic about it. She would have to learn that trick.
“Where are we going?” She sighed, finally looking at the scenery through the windshield. The sun was softening now, spreading golden rays through the canopied lanes of outer Jammu as they sped into the city.
“Do you want to eat pizza?”
“I don’t think they’ll make good pizza here…”
“Naan pizza.”
“Anything but aloo-puri.”
He drove down the wide highway and turned into the tight lanes of the actual old Jammu.
The bustle here was real. Amaal had visited the area just last week for their house-to-house campaign, but she hadn’t been able to see the place, what with being at the centre of a crowd of KDP volunteers, leaders and locals surrounding them.
KDP blue flags were still fluttering on electricity poles and outside houses, the antelope staring back at her.
Nobody vandalised KDP symbols here, nobody spray-painted ‘Don’t support India’ here.
A strange mix of pride and hope unfurled in her chest. That she could be a part of this achievement, at this age, with so little experience…
It was a heady feeling, a little arrogance too.
The good kind. What did they call it… hubris?
The car weaved through a tight lane, and he parked outside a small shop at the turning of a crossroads.
The architecture here was old and so precious.
Amaal observed the brick buildings with British influence, the Victorian arches over windows and doors.
Electricity wires tangled and criss-crossed across the sky, birds hopping and taking off as the evening progressed towards dusk.
“Are you getting out?”
She glanced at Samar, half out of the car, arm on the steering wheel.
“Do I have a choice?” She huffed half-heartedly, opening her door and stepping out. She left her hot water bag behind, feeling soo much better at the smells of tandoor and coal and yummy baking greet her. Her stomach growled, taking over the cramps.
“Do pizza naan, kaladi wali,” he ordered at the live tandoor set up in front of the place, the owner rolling out doughs of stuffed naan and patting them inside the barrel of tandoor. She glanced up at the menu board written in English and Hindi. Paneer naan, chur-chur naan, aloo naan…
“What if I don’t want pizza naan?” She voiced out loud.
“Then order whatever you want.” Samar stepped back from the tandoor and walked to one of the high tables with steel tops.
It was still dirty, but a young man promptly came and wiped it down.
Samar set his forearms on the tabletop, eyeing the street and the crossroad.
She sighed, walking down to him and aping him on the opposite side of the table, in his line of sight. His eyes still did not settle on her.
“Is pizza naan your favourite here?”
“It’s a speciality.”
“What’s your favourite?”
“They don’t make it here.”
“What?”
“Rajma chawal.”
Amaal smiled — “You are a proper Jammu man.”
Dark eyes finally came to her face, and stayed.
“It’s the most cliché thing in the Jammu handbook since I came here. A Jammu person cannot live without their rajma-chawal and daily temple visits.”
He took his eyes back to the crossroads, silent as always.