5. Mihir
MIHIR
I t happened like in one of the Hindi movies I’d once watched with Mom. The gorgeous woman walks down the stairs while the man stares helplessly, hoping she walks straight into his arms.
My parents had arrived early, and Mom had called to ask when I would deign to make an appearance. If I hadn’t rushed over, I would have missed this. Sona’s heavenly beauty, enrobed in soft gold, descending toward me.
Since that afternoon, I’d been driving myself sick trying to figure out what drew me to her. All through the ride over to Tara’s, I kept wondering what it was that was so alluring about her. Was it the intelligence in her big, attractive eyes? Or was it the delectable pout of her full lips? Or was it the cute cleft in her chin? Not so deep that it would distract from her beauty, but enough to make one want to lean in and kiss it. The playful curls framing her oval face bounced with every step she took. And, of course, the drool-worthy way she filled out her jeans. I had noticed it all.
But there was something more, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was her sass, the cool fierceness, her assertiveness, the way she lowered her shy eyes and delivered a witty response the next instant. It was possibly the cumulative effect of it all that had kept me preoccupied with her all day.
She sashayed down the stairs, her warm eyes trained on me, her bright, inviting lips turned up at one corner. The straightened, glossy hair made her strong jawline more pronounced. Her chest rose proudly through the neckline of the wispy, sparkly evening gown. Like an apsara, a celestial nymph, she glided toward me. She knew she had me bound, gagged, and begging for mercy, and she was relishing every moment of it.
The spell broke when Riya croaked in a faux bass voice, “What’s up, dude?”
Tearing my eyes off Sona , I shot her a glowering look. “You don’t get to call me dude until you’re thirty,” I snarled in a deep voice I reserved to threaten people.
Riya looked at Sona and shrugged. “See?” she said and skipped away.
Sona tittered and walked past me, leaving behind a seductive trail of a spicy, warm gourmand scent.
I caught up with her in one long stride. “Hey.”
“Hey, again.” She was probably 5’7” in her heels. I towered over her at 6’2”, but she had no trouble matching my stride—and my attitude.
“You look good,” I said dispassionately.
She scanned me in a snap—my formal blue blazer, my meticulous hair—and offered, “You look alright.”
We crossed the large living room that led into the backyard, where the festivities were in full spring.
I held the door open for her. “After you.”
“Ah, chivalry!” she teased. “Where would we be without you opening doors for us?”
I stepped in front of her, leaving an inch between our bodies. “This isn’t chivalry,” I said into her eyes, mustering my restraint against those deep, dark browns. “I just wanted to be close enough to smell that sexy scent on you.”
That seemed to shake her off-balance. Her breath hitched for a small second, but she regained her wit. “Too bad it’s the last time you’ll be doing that. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She gathered her gown and elegantly crossed the threshold into the backyard.
Damn!
I ran my finger under the knot of my tie before I walked out behind her.
The backyard was a misnomer. It was actually a sprawling garden. A pergola accommodated a stately seating arrangement, complete with a fireplace. Festive lights around the yard created an air of celebration. At the end of the concrete yard, round tables were scattered across the lawn with chairs around them. On the other end was a bar and a buffet, where the caterers had set up trays of appetizers and small plates.
Tara snagged Sona and introduced her to the women sitting under the pergola. My mother was among them, and I gave her a nod when I saw her watch Sona with fascination.
Mom was always attempting to push me toward eligible women, especially women of Indian origin. She often commented on my trotting around without commitment. A thorough romantic, she held out hope that, someday, I’d marry, settle down, and give her the grandkids she so sorely desired.
A hope that seemed to dwindle with every passing year.
Sure, I was thirty-five and financially stable, but the nature of my work didn’t leave me time for serious relationships. Rather, I didn’t want to be weighed down by the effort involved in making them work. My last serious relationship had been in grad school. Right now, I had neither the time nor the emotional bandwidth for it. I had enough money to spoil my dates with expensive dinners and extravagant gifts, but I was always candid that there would be no relationship component to it. I was in it for the sex. Some couples, like Sameer and Tara, made it look easy, and if I found a similar connection with someone, I would rethink. For now, I was having fun.
That didn’t mean I was averse to the idea of a special someone , particularly if that someone fell straight into my lap…or descended a staircase right into my arms.
What was it about this woman that consumed me so?
Throwing one last glance in Sona’s direction, I walked away without making any further eye contact with Mom.
I spotted Sameer at the bar, flanked by his friends and cousins. After brief hellos, the younger ones gradually scampered away, leaving Sameer and me at the bar. I terrified people, I had been told.
A magnificent brunette in a curve-hugging dress approached us.
“Blaine. So glad you could make it,” Sameer said.
Blaine smiled at him, then threw a coy glance at me.
“I want you to meet my sister.” Sameer addressed her again. “I’ve been telling her about your boutique, and she’s excited to discuss a collaboration of sorts.”
Blaine laughed a humble laugh. “I’d love to meet her. Thank you for inviting me. We have been trying to get our feet into the Australian markets, and this might be just the thing.”
Sameer returned a proud, wide grin. “Let me get her,” he said and stepped away.
I nodded at Blaine and asked, “What will you have?”
“White wine, please.” Another coy smile.
I turned to the bartender. “One white wine and a scotch on the rocks.”
“I don’t think you remember me,” she said. “We met at Sameer’s party a few months back.”
“Oh yes, of course. Nice to see you again, Blaine.” I handed her the wine, but my eyes wandered toward Sona. By a strange coincidence, she looked at me just that moment. Her eyes scanned me and the woman beside me.
With some effort, I made polite small talk with Blaine. When Sameer returned with his sister in tow, I excused myself and walked away. If this was any other day, Blaine would’ve been in my bed that night. It’s what she’d wanted too. But that evening, my heart remained fixated on Sona.
I shook off thoughts of her and found Dad chatting with his friends. I grabbed a seat next to him and exchanged formalities with everyone around the table. But as the chatter around me continued, I found my mind drifting toward the gorgeous woman tormenting me. I caught her in my peripheral vision and stole a quick glance. She was seated next to Mom, and the two seemed cozy enough to pass off as old friends.
Then, she laughed. A heartfelt, carefree laugh that made her nose scrunch up. This time, the word that crossed my mind was cute . I was too old for that word to be anywhere in the vicinity of my vocabulary, and yet, here I was, admiring her cute laugh. Fuck!
I had to find a way to get closer to her. Excusing myself from the gang of aging overachievers, I stepped toward the pergola where women in lavish clothing and expensive jewelry reveled in laughter. I sauntered over in a way that would catch my mother’s eye.
“Mihir! Come, join us. I’ve hardly seen you these past few weeks,” she called with what others might have construed as a warm smile, but I could always spot the mischief in her eyes.
I pulled a chair near her.
“So, who are we gossiping about tonight?” I asked and took a sip of my scotch, throwing Sona an intentional look.
“Why would you assume we’re gossiping?” Sona took the bait but instantly turned stiff as all eyes converged on her.
Gotcha! I knew Sona had spotted the wicked grin in my eyes, and Mom’s face said she was highly entertained by our exchange.
“Sona is right,” Mom said, giving me a faux glare. “This is stereotyping and borderline misogynistic.”
Sona’s eyes flickered as she exchanged a warm smile with Mom.
Mom continued, “Sona, you were about to tell us about your research.”
Sona smiled. “My work revolves around gendered spaces in the public sphere.”
“Like in politics?” Mom asked.
“Yes, but less obviously political spaces too, like the women’s compartment or entire women-only local trains, or women-only nights at bars and clubs.”
“It’s a double-edged sword, isn’t it?” Mom was now thoroughly engrossed in the conversation.
“You know it.” Sona gave Mom an adoring look. “On the one hand, it offers women a safe space. On the other, it doesn’t address the root cause of the problem. Why do women need women-only spaces in the first place? If sexual harassment and violence weren’t such a widespread problem, we wouldn’t need them,” Sona explained.
The women around her listened with rapt attention, drawn to her brilliance. Riya, with her eyes glued to Sona, sat beside Amrit aunty. Tara was perched on the arm of a couch, coolly sipping from her glass, watching Sona’s intellect blow people away. Juhi had returned to her spot on another sofa beside her mother and now fussed over her remarkably unfussy child.
I knew Sona had observed it as she continued, “There’s also the other unintended side-effect. It’s called the Zenana Dabba effect— women’s compartment effect. Once women are relegated to the women’s compartment, their presence in the ‘general’ compartments is seen as an anomaly.” She made air quotes. “Tara has a fantastic example that I use regularly in my classrooms. Tara, would you like to share?”
“Sure.” Tara balanced her wine flute in her lap as all eyes turned to her. “I was once visiting my cousin in Mumbai. When I had visited her before, I used to take her son with me in the ladies’ compartment, but this time, he was a teenager, tall for his age. So, we boarded the general compartment, where a man unabashedly rubbed himself against my back. When I made a scene, nobody moved. Nobody intervened. When I huffed and puffed and shouted at him, another man shouted back, ‘ If this bothers you so much, why don’t you travel in the ladies' compartment? ’”
“What audacity. Such arrogance!” Mom said with a gasp. “And what flawed logic!”
“Quite right,” Sona said. “Once women are allowed a women’s only space, their access to the general public spaces becomes more difficult, more fraught with the threat of violence.”
My eyes darted to a few women, some of whom I knew only by face, as they scrutinized Sona, probably doubting her marriageability. She was talking politics, after all. How sacrilegious, how unfeminine! Perhaps if she was explaining a scientific or a medical concept or how a particular software worked, she could’ve made a nice, intelligent, attractive wife. But opinionated, political women were so undesirable! I relished the stunned looks on their gaping faces.
Sona had a Ph.D., and I shouldn’t have been surprised at her smart mouth and sharp brain. But hearing her talk like that made me throb, as if, in that moment, there was a direct connection between her brain and my cock. With every dazzling word out of her mouth, more and more blood rushed to my loins. I needed to get up and walk away, but I couldn’t tear myself from her brilliance, even as I imagined her perfect, red lips sucking me violently. This woman was certain to be my downfall.