Disclaimer: Resemblance to any character living, dead or half-dead is purely coincidental: Or the fruit of my phenomenal powers of clairevoyance.
"Please don't tell May I asked about her"...he said somewhat hesitantly - almost as an afterthought - as the three of us sat finishing our coffee, waiting for the bill.
"No, of course not", I reassured, my voice sounding forced to my own ears. Ranja and I exchanged quick glances in understanding of the secret pact just made. This was the first time that Ranja and Bobo were meeting, both having fair ideas about each other from how much I'd told them!
We got out and took a cab. The three of us were headed in the same direction. But Ranja had to be dropped off first. She got in first and I squeezed in beside her, gesturing Bobo to hop in next.
"I'll sit in front", he quipped and settled beside the cabbie, lighting his cigarette. It felt strange. The seat next to the cabbie's had always been MY place for all of the past twelve years.
We dropped Ranja off. Bobo said he really liked her: Which was saying a lot, considering he had always - without fail -written off all the ladies I had even remotely been interested in, citing reasons of disapproval that were frankly beyond my comprehension. Always. Bobo got dropped off a little ahead of his home; he had to buy cigarettes, he said. He forced a hundred rupee note in my hand, and gave it a tight squeeze, before turning to walk away down the narrow dimlit alley, where we once played cricket. About eighteen years ago.
Yes, eighteen long ears had passed since Bobo and I first met. I used to be this geeky gawky kid with thick-framed glasses, that made it uncomfortable for me to play for as long as I would have liked to. Needless to say, I wasn't a favourite in the group. But Bobo and I - as different as chalk and cheese - bonded nevertheless. Over books - Phantom comics, Tintin, Asterix, Saradindu, Satyajit Ray, Tenida; music - Suman, Anjan Dutta, Michael Jackson, AIR Radio, Phil Collins, Pink Floyd, Genesis, Coldplay; over the same tuition classes, over porn, over years of Durga Puja, piles of photocopied notes, boxes of borrowed cassettes, and of course, girls.
Girls became an integral part of our growing up, and we spent increasingly longer hours sharing stories of heartbreak on the terrace, even as we puffed away on the surreptitiously stolen cigarette or two, followed, as de rigeur, by chicklets. On one of these summer evenings, Bobo told me about May.
May? You like May? Truth be told, I found it hard to imagine May as a love-interest for anybody, LEAST of all for Bobo. She'd grown up with us, playing, fighting, cheering, and even smoking with us. So MUCH around us, in fact, that to actually visualise Bobo and her as a mushy couple-in-love wreaked havoc with my senses. May? I asked again! Yes, he laughed indulgently, wiping his glasses with the hem of his kurta. I had no inkling of this affair that had apparently been brewing behind my back for the past three months. May's father did not obviously approve of this romance; after all these were school kids! May had not been allowed to go out alone since the last week, and my poor friend Bobo had been reduced to the very picture of Romeo. What could be done? We plotted and schemed and racked our brains till I suggested they elope. An entire diagram for the elope route was chalked out on the last pages of Bobo's mathematics copy. All that remained to be done was to work on a few minor details. Minor details like how to convey the very idea to May (no cell phones, remember), where to go after eloping, what to do after that, and oh, most importantly, what to do on the 2nd of the next month - the date the Board Exams were slated to begin. Minor details. They would work themselves out, we convinced ourselves. Thoroughly pleased at the ingenuity and brilliance of our efficient and resourceful selves, we went home: Bobo, with the sweet pain that only the uncertainty of first-love can cause; me with a puffed chest and a rock solid resolution to get and keep these two together at all costs. May and Bobo.
Much to our disappointment, however, the episode of the brutal father fizzled out rather undrammatically, giving us no scope to prove our first stints at gallant machismo. May was allowed to go out again, on condition of a very strict curfew time, as her father realised it was pointless using archaic (or any other) methods of blackmail on her. From that point on, the three of us went everywhere. There was, however, a slight difference in our outings henceforth. The two of them would deliberately lag behind as I walked ahead awkwardly alone. They would look at each other and smile silly smiles, as I sat plucking blade after blade of grass, not having the barest inkling of how and why a blaring midday Sun could induce such mush. After two or three embarrassing lessons, I learnt not to turn back to talk to them as they cosied up in the backseat of the taxi. I learnt to join in much much later for our evening addas at the terrace. I learnt to keep secrets - his, hers and theirs. I learnt to invent newer methods of reconciliation, when they fought. I learnt to function as a go-between. I learnt to act as postman. I learnt to lie to the parents - his, hers, mine. I learnt to never take their ritualistic 'break-ups' seriosuly. Gradually, slowly, I learnt to find new friends. Finally, I learnt to leave nest. My room, my home, my parents, my friends, my city, my May-and-Bobo. Funnily enough, however, I never learnt to really 'get' a girl. So even while a whole range of emotions rushed through my mind as I tagged along with these two - anger, betrayal, hurt, envy - I never once had anyone that could be the equal of May for Bobo. Twelve long years - this is how it went, even as we kept in touch across different cities.
When I returned home this time, however, I learnt of a wedding-to-be. May's. Not Bobo's. It had been a while, he said over coffee. It had been two years since May-and-Bobo had become May and Bobo. Two separate people with separate lives and phone numbers, to which I had to call separately to fix up separate appointments. And yes, I had to introduce Ranja to them - separately.
It felt uncomfortably strange, I realised, to be sitting alone in the taxi, as it sped along the now-empty streets of my city. It felt strange not to be sitting in the front.
"Please don't tell May I asked about her"...he said somewhat hesitantly - almost as an afterthought - as the three of us sat finishing our coffee, waiting for the bill.
"No, of course not", I reassured, my voice sounding forced to my own ears. Ranja and I exchanged quick glances in understanding of the secret pact just made. This was the first time that Ranja and Bobo were meeting, both having fair ideas about each other from how much I'd told them!
We got out and took a cab. The three of us were headed in the same direction. But Ranja had to be dropped off first. She got in first and I squeezed in beside her, gesturing Bobo to hop in next.
"I'll sit in front", he quipped and settled beside the cabbie, lighting his cigarette. It felt strange. The seat next to the cabbie's had always been MY place for all of the past twelve years.
We dropped Ranja off. Bobo said he really liked her: Which was saying a lot, considering he had always - without fail -written off all the ladies I had even remotely been interested in, citing reasons of disapproval that were frankly beyond my comprehension. Always. Bobo got dropped off a little ahead of his home; he had to buy cigarettes, he said. He forced a hundred rupee note in my hand, and gave it a tight squeeze, before turning to walk away down the narrow dimlit alley, where we once played cricket. About eighteen years ago.
Yes, eighteen long ears had passed since Bobo and I first met. I used to be this geeky gawky kid with thick-framed glasses, that made it uncomfortable for me to play for as long as I would have liked to. Needless to say, I wasn't a favourite in the group. But Bobo and I - as different as chalk and cheese - bonded nevertheless. Over books - Phantom comics, Tintin, Asterix, Saradindu, Satyajit Ray, Tenida; music - Suman, Anjan Dutta, Michael Jackson, AIR Radio, Phil Collins, Pink Floyd, Genesis, Coldplay; over the same tuition classes, over porn, over years of Durga Puja, piles of photocopied notes, boxes of borrowed cassettes, and of course, girls.
Girls became an integral part of our growing up, and we spent increasingly longer hours sharing stories of heartbreak on the terrace, even as we puffed away on the surreptitiously stolen cigarette or two, followed, as de rigeur, by chicklets. On one of these summer evenings, Bobo told me about May.
May? You like May? Truth be told, I found it hard to imagine May as a love-interest for anybody, LEAST of all for Bobo. She'd grown up with us, playing, fighting, cheering, and even smoking with us. So MUCH around us, in fact, that to actually visualise Bobo and her as a mushy couple-in-love wreaked havoc with my senses. May? I asked again! Yes, he laughed indulgently, wiping his glasses with the hem of his kurta. I had no inkling of this affair that had apparently been brewing behind my back for the past three months. May's father did not obviously approve of this romance; after all these were school kids! May had not been allowed to go out alone since the last week, and my poor friend Bobo had been reduced to the very picture of Romeo. What could be done? We plotted and schemed and racked our brains till I suggested they elope. An entire diagram for the elope route was chalked out on the last pages of Bobo's mathematics copy. All that remained to be done was to work on a few minor details. Minor details like how to convey the very idea to May (no cell phones, remember), where to go after eloping, what to do after that, and oh, most importantly, what to do on the 2nd of the next month - the date the Board Exams were slated to begin. Minor details. They would work themselves out, we convinced ourselves. Thoroughly pleased at the ingenuity and brilliance of our efficient and resourceful selves, we went home: Bobo, with the sweet pain that only the uncertainty of first-love can cause; me with a puffed chest and a rock solid resolution to get and keep these two together at all costs. May and Bobo.
Much to our disappointment, however, the episode of the brutal father fizzled out rather undrammatically, giving us no scope to prove our first stints at gallant machismo. May was allowed to go out again, on condition of a very strict curfew time, as her father realised it was pointless using archaic (or any other) methods of blackmail on her. From that point on, the three of us went everywhere. There was, however, a slight difference in our outings henceforth. The two of them would deliberately lag behind as I walked ahead awkwardly alone. They would look at each other and smile silly smiles, as I sat plucking blade after blade of grass, not having the barest inkling of how and why a blaring midday Sun could induce such mush. After two or three embarrassing lessons, I learnt not to turn back to talk to them as they cosied up in the backseat of the taxi. I learnt to join in much much later for our evening addas at the terrace. I learnt to keep secrets - his, hers and theirs. I learnt to invent newer methods of reconciliation, when they fought. I learnt to function as a go-between. I learnt to act as postman. I learnt to lie to the parents - his, hers, mine. I learnt to never take their ritualistic 'break-ups' seriosuly. Gradually, slowly, I learnt to find new friends. Finally, I learnt to leave nest. My room, my home, my parents, my friends, my city, my May-and-Bobo. Funnily enough, however, I never learnt to really 'get' a girl. So even while a whole range of emotions rushed through my mind as I tagged along with these two - anger, betrayal, hurt, envy - I never once had anyone that could be the equal of May for Bobo. Twelve long years - this is how it went, even as we kept in touch across different cities.
When I returned home this time, however, I learnt of a wedding-to-be. May's. Not Bobo's. It had been a while, he said over coffee. It had been two years since May-and-Bobo had become May and Bobo. Two separate people with separate lives and phone numbers, to which I had to call separately to fix up separate appointments. And yes, I had to introduce Ranja to them - separately.
It felt uncomfortably strange, I realised, to be sitting alone in the taxi, as it sped along the now-empty streets of my city. It felt strange not to be sitting in the front.
