Caller Tune

Boy and I have escaped to Kochi. This is the first time I am travelling with Boy. This is the first time I am travelling with a boy. I have told the perfect lies at home, and given my friends the truth in proper detail. Just in case, what with women’s safety and all that.

At first it was awkward for me, meeting Boy after many months. Boy is more affectionate than I am used to. He is very touchy. He is happy, he is shy, and excited. Boy is such a little boy.

Our mode of transport is the most apt for stories like these. We are travelling in a sleeper bus. I scan the conductor’s face for any ounce of judgement as I showed him our tickets. I scan the driver’s face too. I don’t see any faces after that.

Boy and I tried to watch a movie, and Boy put a sheepish arm over my shoulder. I tried to lean in, but my body didn’t fold in any of the right places. When I tried to kiss Boy, everything changed. He wasn’t shy anymore. He was a monkey. Boy was a spider and he was a cat. Boy was all over me. A boy. Was all over me. In a sleeper bus.

I had heard stories of a friend accidentally walking in on a threesome in a sleeper bus. It made me freeze at every swish of our curtains and every sound from outside. I never thought I would remember the threesome story from this side of the curtain.

Boy is anxious and urgent and clumsy. But Boy is sweet. Boy takes care not to hurt me, and waits whenever I freeze. My body still doesn’t do what bodies did in the movies I’d seen. We knock knees, his head hits the bed above ours, his jeans snag my pants. Boy’s body has thazhambu. How do you explain thazhambu in English? His skin is rough and every part of him feels like muscle. He lifts me and moves me with ease. In his arms I feel like a pile of jelly. I cannot believe I am in his arms.

Boy and I are very quiet. I think we are. I hope no one hears us. I hope there is no one on this bus that knows me or my parents or my grandparents or our friends or our cousins. I hope everyone thinks I am an annoying tourist. What girl makes a secret trip with a boy to the state her family is from?

Boy stops. He looks at me. ‘What happened?’ I ask. In the orange glow from the street lights passing us, his gold chain glimmers. I wonder if he can tell what I am thinking.

‘Nothing,’ I think he is blushing. ‘I just can’t believe this is happening!’

Boy is precious.

In the morning, I cover myself in a hoodie and a mask as we leave. I scan all the faces I see again. This time, some faces tell me we were not so quiet last night. I think. Or maybe I’m thinking too much. Or maybe not enough. Maybe everyone is disgusted. What if some baby lost sleep because of us? What if there was a passenger with a migraine on the bed above ours? Where was my civic sense? Why were we so loud?

The bus braked and jerked forward, but Boy caught me just in time. ‘Nidhaana,’ he says.

Does that mean ‘slow’ or ‘calm’?

The hotel room is small, but Boy isn’t bothered. He is tired and hungry. I ask Boy over and over, if everything is okay. I ask whether the food is good, whether the bed is comfortable, whether the place is clean enough, whether he likes the city we’re in. Each time, Boy just smiles coyly and says ‘I’m just happy to be with you’ Boy is too much.

Boy says he has never walked this much before. I take us to every place I have always loved from a distance. With my arm locked in his, I am not afraid to not belong. As we sit in a fancy cafe steeped in rock music and references, I tell Boy the songs and the names I love. He doesn’t know them, and he is unfazed. He is just happy to be with me.

In the evening, we sit by a bench facing the ocean. This time, my body takes the shape of the bench and I can lean into Boy easily. As we stare at the waves, I tell Boy how scared I am of living a plain life and doing mediocre shit for the rest of it. Boy asks me why I am afraid to be an ordinary human. Boy tells me that so many of us are. At that moment, Boy and I are cinematic.

Boy falls asleep as soon as he hits the bed. His face is serene. He looks the way he looks when I tell him the worst thoughts in my head. I wonder how much nail biting, head scratching, eyes watering and anxious pacing it will take me to drive him away.

I don’t let him sleep for much longer because we are here to see the Biennale, and we don’t have too many days. Boy doesn’t usually go to art galleries, but I am sure it will be fun. If not, there is always the ocean.

As the new sunny day falls upon us, Boy finds that he is used to walking now. We walk through looping lanes. We walk past many large villas or bungalows or whatever you call the biggest homes. I tell Boy I hope to marry into a home like that. He wishes me luck.

All the lanes have art and cafes. All the windows have cats. We catch ourselves in the periphery of some couple’s pre-wedding photoshoot. A YouTube video. A couple of Instagram reels. I take care not to let our faces show in any of these. Just in case.

Boy and I take plenty of pictures too. We visit a lot of Biennale venues and see a lot of pieces of art. Boy reads all the descriptions in an annoying fake voice, and I roll my eyes.

Sometimes Boy is taken aback by the beauty of the pieces, and we sit and stare for a bit. As other people leave the premises, Boy kisses me.

Boy and I kiss a lot. We sit in all the dark rooms screening documentaries, and we kiss in all of them. So far, we have only seen two documentaries from start to finish.

When we step outside, sunlight crashes into my eyes before I can see her. The cool girl from my old school. She is the one who can pick up any new skill the first time she tries it. She makes friends faster than I make conversations. When she introduces me to new people, she always tells them the story of how I peed on her bed at a sleepover when we were five. When I remind her about the part where she locked me in the bathroom and switched off all the lights. She says I need to move on.

The girl is here with a couple of her friends that I recognise from her social media. They look like the catalogue for GenZ fashion. Some have holes and cut-outs in their tops, and the others have holes and cut-outs in their pants. I see the whole unit turned in my direction. I freeze. Boy looks at me. I turn us in the opposite direction but it is too late.

‘Oh my god Babeeee!’ Her voice tugs at the collar of my shirt.

I smile. She smiles. We do a round of introductions. I immediately forget their names and the names they want to be called. My hand is tugging at loose threads on my bag. I only notice when Boy pulls my hand towards his. The girl is looking at him.

Her eyes are sharper than forceps as she scans Boy. I want to cover him. His eyes are on me the whole time. She starts talking to Boy about the art. I try to interrupt, but one of the friends starts quizzing me on the history of the place. Boy is unfazed. He is cool and calm and he even laughs. He invites the group to eat lunch with us.

As we sit at the cafe, everyone discusses the Biennale. People talk about all their favourite pieces and the way they interpret them. I see a few eyes falling on Boy and me, people waiting for our contribution. Boy listens distractedly. He looks at me quizzically, as he stops me from scratching the paint off the table leg.

The girl calls our names and I freeze. ‘Did you guys see the piece about the mosquitoes?’

Boy places a reassuring hand on my knee, but he also picks up the conversation.

‘Mosquitoes?’

‘Yeah, the one with the mosquitoes embroidered on the sheer fabric? They even had mosquito sounds playing in the room.’

‘Ohhh…’ Boy laughs

The cool girl’s face turns sour. ‘Didn’t you like it? I thought it was quite poignant.’

Boy slowly mouths the word for himself, seeking out the flavour of poignancy.

The girl scoffs, her eyes falling on me. ‘It means sad, but in a deep way. I mean, think about it. The artist was trying to talk about how the colonisers … you know, European conquerors? … It was about how they were so terrified of a tiny insect because it was from a foreign land!’

‘Hmm, yeah.’ Boy smiles at her as he casually swirls the water in his glass.

But the girl is persistent. She was always persistent. ‘What? Was it too basic for you? Do you have an opinion about it?’

Everyone is looking at Boy. He smiles gently, and takes my hand in his. I see now that I have managed to pull out a small strip of wood from the table. He holds that too.

‘There’s this Tamil movie called ‘Maari’, have you seen it? In that, the hero says – How do I translate this … If a mosquito bites you when you’re sleeping, that doesn’t mean the mosquito is great. One day, if you wake up and hit it, the mosquito will be dead.’

The girl makes a face I have never seen before. I tighten my grip on Boy’s hand but it’s too late.

‘It’s the same thing here too, right? When a mosquito starts buzzing in your ear, you will kill it. Whether you are European, Malayali or whatever.’

Giggles and guffaws spill out from different parts of the friend circle. But the girl is glaring at me. She gets up and walks towards the bathroom. I follow her. I have to.

In the bathroom, the girl ties and unties her hair in one swift motion. Her eyes are on the mirror as she pulls out her phone and starts clicking pictures. She pulls me in too. She smiles into the mirror sincerely. I feel droplets of sweat settling on my neck. I wonder if the girl can tell. She doesn’t seem to notice. She stops taking pictures and pulls out her lipstick.

‘So … Are you guys serious?’ Her eyes are still on the mirror.

I mumble half an apology, but she laughs.

‘No, I mean, you and …’ she tilts her head towards the door.

‘Oh … Yeah. I lo … I like him a lot’

‘Hmm … cute.’

She takes my face in her hand and puts some of her lipstick on me. She says she hates how every colour looks good on me. She doesn’t mean it. Does she?

‘It’s just … He doesn’t seem like your type you know? He’s so … You know’

I can’t say anything, but I manage a ‘Hmm’

She turns my face to the mirror. I do look pretty. She clicks a picture of us in the mirror and writes ‘Grew up with this one’ on it. All this while she continues to talk about Boy.

‘I mean … Like, when we were talking about art and everything … His tastes seem very different. I mean that reference he made just now … Like really?’

‘I really didn’t see that coming.’ I manage a nervous laugh.

‘Right? I can’t believe you’re with this guy who quotes mainstream movies in serious conversations!’ The girl put her hand over my shoulder as we walk towards the door. Just like when we were in school.

‘You think that’s bad? The song from that movie is his caller tune! Who even has caller tunes now? I don’t realise how loud I am until I see Boy by the door, washing his hands.

Boy heard me. I see it on his face. I open my mouth and close it again. Words refuse to help me. He smiles at both of us and walks back into the cafe.

Boy doesn’t look at me for the rest of lunch. Some of the others start conversations with him. They talk about tattoos and food. I want to butt in, but my voice is a lump of tar in my throat. I make eye contact with another girl in the group. She points at Boy and mouths ‘Badass’ to me. I feel splinters under my nails.

Boy doesn’t look at me as we walk back. Suddenly, my legs are tired as I try to keep up with him. When we reach our room, he climbs into the bed, and turns away from me. He scrolls on his phone.

I wait for a minute, still searching for my voice. I give up and step into the shower. Outside, Boy is playing early 2000’s Tamil music on his phone. I know all the lyrics.