Chocolate Girl

Creative Writing Competition 2012 India
CODE	988
SETTING	Busy Market
OBJECT	Chocolate
THEME	A Strange Day/Night

"My Love, the night before last something happened which would shock you, I didn’t tell you about it, my love for you made me hide."

 

The night before last, about eight, near about where I stay but not very near, I was strolling. It’s busy market place and crowded, roads here are full of people, it’s Mumbai.

At the crossing near Garware circle in Andheri where Sahar Road meets Western Expressway, I banged on a girl twenty-five, fair and scholarly. You know I am good at making these things out.

She stepped back with a gasp and looked at me. No remorse or anger, these things happen. Her mind lost in an other world, she woke.

Brown lipstick made her lips look like plums, her springy locks cascaded on her sleeveless tops aimlessly, flowery design, mild-tone shades, complemented by faded jeans. Her arms fine, promising and unblemished even at the elbows and her shoulders were delicate.

Stepping aside I gave her the right of way. Others permited no such graciousness, kept pushing edgily, people wade through like rafting boats doing rapids. None has time for anger in Mumbai, people either going to the Railway station or coming away, depending whether they have started their journey or are ending it, whatever time of the day!

I returned her glance with undertone of apology, thought she might have hurt badly. She reciprocated the act of contrition, then we broke the gaze. I walked away, she followed behind!

As I mentioned I was on a leisurely stroll, looking for peaceful stretches to drain my waist-line. Since she trailed, I speeded to shake her off. Like apparition she tagged. Curiosity over-took prudence, I assure you it was curiosity and nothing more. Not to be not overt, I halted under pretense of noting down address from a bill-board tied to a lamp-post. It offered coaching classes for entrance tests to Professional courses, assuring success for all, which is silly. Entrance tests are meant to be competitive.

She over took me, brushing my sleeve, the same girl.

Once ahead, she wheeled on her heels to flip back. No qualms. Anonymity of the crowd gave cover. Call it defiance; I stared into her eyes. You know I am made that way.

Whiff of coolness struck me despite the warms night, she might as well have walked out of her AC office. What did she find in me that I got singled out for such attention!

For sometime, we continued the same direction, then I sauntered near the stand-alone pan shop, the panwallah was slapping bunch of betel dipping them in bucket of water. Water sprayed on us cold, the sprinkle made us fresh and she responded with a quiver. A customer was giving instructions about what to be added in his pan and in what proportion. The air was humid, the fabled Mumbai monsoon far away.

We felt conscious of each other’s presence, you know we were strangers just a while ago. Was she coming on me? How can I let her know I am scared, so I winked my eyes! No, wasn’t wooing her my love, you know me.

I thought she would tame, walk away abandoning me to my purpose. War of glances grew persistent, we moved to less-peopled lane. Motorists zoomed which terrified me. When you come to see me in Mumbai and when we go for strolls you will see it’s difficult to enjoy unhurried walk.

Then the road got dark, street lamps at the junctions hid amidst the slumberous trees.

With her, she carried loads of expensive Chocolates slung in plastic-bag. I don’t like chocolates, they impact my flab. We heard skirmishes, birds fighting for berth between snatches. This distracted our attention. Birds fought for frivolous things. Angry call of an owl from afar, made us acknowledge. The nocturnal creature would have field day after it’s time for Mumbai to rest.

Walking behind unnerved, my efforts to overtake failed, she strode faster, made it appear I was stalking, God forbid, would I do something like that?

Near the impromptu Pani-puri shop, a bitch slept on the stone-bench covering her eyes with fore-limbs. Had marked her territory well, wet patches either sides of the bench. The vendor persuaded us in Bhojpuri accent, first her and later me to taste his stuff. Pani-puri is difficult to relish without being anxious. Water drips, soils attire.

Next crossing, she swung right and the game over. An Audi with music-horn passed, it’s Halogen-lamp hid darkness and I had a good peek at her, her eyes blinded like a hare by the glare. She’s ravishing.

She was behind again,I lost my equilibrium and squirmed like a drunkard. Her eyes down, she walked by my side. Asked if I am going towards Vile-Parle and before I answered, suggested we can share auto-ride. I blinked at this unexpected behavior. It was the first time we spoke.

She explained she has only ten bucks and that to reach her place by auto-rickshaw it requires twenty and if we could share an auto it will be fine. She spoke like a friend.

I told you, it was my evening walk and I tried to explain her. An auto whizzed past spewing deleterious smoke which she hailed. Her voice sounded different from the one in which she spoke to me. The driver turned half circle challenging us to come. She looked towards me and I said what the hell and got in.

Behind us, an old lady in white sari had also hailed, the image of her growling distress of missing out, painful. In Mumbai, one has to be decisively quick, survival of the fittest. I thought of persuading the girl to share with old woman and do a good deed but the girl gave instructions already. Which surprised me because she hadn’t asked me where I was heading. She simply told if my destination is on the way, I could get down first or if it is beyond, she will drop off early.

I told her in English to tell the driver to drop her first. She indicated what must be roughly the locality, the driver didn’t ask for more information.

She arched her eyebrows, adjusted her garment. The chocolate bag was between us. I chuckled informing her I was actually on evening walk and I live exactly in the opposite direction.

Her face contorted and I smiled which said it’s okay. The auto driver didn’t understand English and didn’t follow. His mobile ringed Nokia tune, he rattled in unfamiliar accent, the instrument tucked between his ear and shoulder. Conversation ripped to bickering, I tapped his shoulder to calm him down, which worked and her appreciative nod energized me.

The ride was bumpy, we maintained silence. Occasionally I stuck my neck out to stare at windows of the apartments, my hobby. Sociological study really, to make interesting observations about the way people live. On one windows-grill, a frail man perched like a pigeon about to commit suicide.

I retracted ending my intrusive tour. Closing eyes, she let a deep sigh. Her fragrance was mesmerizing. It’s indecent, otherwise my love, I would ask her what perfume she wears, so I can buy you too.

She said if my house is far away I can use the same Auto, she could borrow money from the neighbors and pay the full fare and it doesn’t matter. She also explained her neighbors aren’t friendly and when she told me about it her smile disappeared.

I said I would like to walk back from wherever her house is and my purpose is to walk. Her brown lips, pouted through the dimpled cheeks, brought life into the acrid residential colonies, but the smile didn’t return.

The auto moved into a by-lane, by then camaraderie had developed and I didn’t want it to end abruptly. My love, you always wanted me to be friends with unknown people, not be an introvert.

She muttered precise directions and the driver commented people don’t know his worth and he meant that about person he quarreled with.

We got down and he verified the meter and said twenty and I paid the whole amount. He went away shoving the money into his shirt pocket. She busied fishing the ten bucks she must contribute, took time to locate the bill and held it towards me and I touched it gently and said no.

I indicated I should be leaving. She offered to pay the fare, tossing her head towards the neighbor. I said I really meant to catch up indicating the waist line. She laughed. I signed if I could have a drink of water. She said yes and dug into her bag again. Women always dig into their hand-bags every time they need to take something out. I assumed she will pull out the water-bottle, instead she pulled out the key bunch.

I told myself strictly, for a drink of water, you know me. It was very dark, she tussled to locate the keyhole. I offered to hold the heavy chocolate bag. It’s amusing that a girl her age should pamper herself. She ignored me and managed while I combed my hair with my fingers.

Her arms shone in the darkness of the moon-light, so attractive and you know I like beautiful arms. The first time I kissed you was your arms, right? Her arms were slender but made me suspect if she was older than I guessed.

Shadows of the clouds traversed on the ground, clinkering of the locks, very distinct. Inside, the house was dim. Her drawing room looked like classical black and white photograph. It had many artefacts, every thing tasteful and arranged well and you know I have fad for such things and we must set our house like this. And no photographs, hers or her parents or of her boy friend. The small apartment reeked refinement, implied she lived alone. I stood at the footsteps.

She removed things scattered on the sofa, mostly fashion magazines, tossed them on the center-table. She looked at me and at the sofa in a manner that I should take my seat.

Her eyes spoke obscure words, she flung the handbag on the desk with plenty of charcoal sketches. Dropped the chocolate bag on the floor.

I sat with poise, the tip of my bums on the tip of the sofa. Suddenly she bleated closing her ears with her hands and snatched away what looked like her panties from under me. She hid it behind her back as she stood red and I said I prefer cold water if she pleases.

She ran to the other room where the buzz of compressor was audible. I faked apathy and pulled a magazine, pictures of fashion models. She served water sparkling in the low light, hand-cut glass, crystal clear .

Her fingers were long, she wore brown nail polish, with gold flakes which gave her nails a luxurious look. She chomped something and offered me grains of Cadbury’s Gems. I wanted to iron out the red and pink lines on her palms, the wretched bag had caused the wreck. I want to hold her till it gets back to normalcy. Simple acts of care is worth several wads, I am by nature very compassionate.

I was thirsty, I drank the water careful not to spill, I let water spill over my neck other times. She rushed back to the room, before I was finished. I placed the glass and stood up, wiping my hands on the trousers. I waited reluctantly to bid her bye.

She didn’t return for a long time, I sat again. The ten bucks which she offered was on the floor. I placed it on the desk arresting it with the flower-vase. She didn’t come, though I heard her movements.

How do I call her, I don’t even know her name, who she was or what’s her profession. How was it she afforded a flat in this posh locale, didn’t have the money to pay the auto measly twenty bucks. And she complained her neighbors are unfriendly. What of her bag full of chocolates?

I waited for more time, courtesy demanded that I should inform. I grew restless with passing of time.

I had no reasons to be there, the caretaker in my guesthouse would be waiting, to serve me dinner. I rubbed the shoes on the floor, to no avail. Nor did the clearing of my throat bring any effect. Where’s she?

Can I amble in to the room like a friend, see what she’s doing and end the suspense. If so, would I be taking liberty with an innocent girl? What if she’s changing her dress and shriek upon seeing me. To end the nice inhibition-less encounter on a wicked note would be lousy. What if she’s one of those call-girls, who lured a prospect and is lying on her bed stark naked to seduce. Is she is one of those fun-loving girls who loves kicking havoc on a naïve, altruistic man (me, me), railing and labeling him as molester, a rapist, and derive vicarious pleasure of seeing him humbled by the moralistic public?

So I decided to leave her house without a word which eventually I did. Then ran like a rat. I am sure you would agree with my decision, my love.

Half way to the gate, a dog chased me, looking back had caused all the trouble, so I didn’t and ran as if it didn’t matter. An auto motored from behind, the driver called out. I jumped in and blared him my destination. She might follow me like she did on the way up.

In the Guest House, the talk show in TV was about corruption, everyone on the panel said the same thing with different degrees of fizz. I had my bath, my meals and forgot her. She came in my dream that night, the night before last that is and in the dream the same thing happens, I walk with her like I stalk her, share auto and she carries the bag of chocolates, at her door step I want drink water, in the moon light her arms are resplendent and I leave her apartment in a flurry. In the dream I do one extra thing, I steal a chocolate bar (something I didn’t do in real) and then I leave without telling her and the dog chases me.

The next day was uneventful. I didn’t venture anywhere near Garware circle. In any case I was delayed from office. When I opened the news papers this morning, the next to next day of the rendezvous, sipping hot cup of tea, after going through the mundane things about floods in Assam, potholes on the roads, depreciation of rupee, I found in the second page, photograph of the apartment which looked like hers, where people, some of them cops, were seen carrying the dead body of a young girl in jeans and sleeveless tops. A small passport size photo was inset on the top right side which resembled her. I paid attention and it was her.

A case of suicide, hanging from the ceiling fan, her name Mantaya Chougule, aged twenty seven, (I was so accurate) working as a fashion designer for one of the biggest clothing company, but out of job now.

A note by the bed side table said, quoting her, “I hate to live alone, I have been forced to, but cant, so I decided to end my life, nobody is responsible for my death. I hate to die alone, so I brought somebody home so I don’t die alone. If that gentleman informs the police about my death, I assure that I don’t know who he is, he has no role in my death, yes he definitely has not raped me though he had ample opportunities, an innocent bye-stander who helped me without knowing. Spare him please”.

It also said that the door was open, there was a glass of water in the front room, half empty which bears the finger-prints of the person said to be with her last and at the hour of her death. The neighbors sensed foul smell coming out of the apartment and had informed the police. None of the neighbors admitted to knowing her or being friends with her and they said nobody visited or spoke to her much and that she was a loner.

It also said there was a large bag of chocolates. The police suspects the possibility of her paramour appeasing with chocolates, murdering her when his advances failed. It can’t be said she was raped and a police officer said under conditions of anonymity that there were no bruise marks on her body or anything to indicate violence.

One of her ex- colleagues from the clothing firm said, again under conditions of anonymity, Manyata had complained about the boss’s sexual advances which she spurned and the boss had threatened to fire her and he did. She was brilliant in her designs which aroused envy from peers and grouse from her own boss.

The police is also investigating the other angle, murder for theft as the house was wiped clean, save for the ten rupees. Post Mortem results awaited and sniffing dogs provided no clue.

I closed the paper, went to the toilet and looked at myself in the mirror. Write on the mirror in italics, with brown lipstick,

Now I have confessed to what had happened, including what happened in my sub-conscious mind and manifested through my dream.

My love, you must forgive, if the chocolate girl’s death is traced to me, I plead because I love you. You must forgive me all the more if I am convicted and hanged like they say I have hung her,

– because I didn’t let her die alone.

— End—-