Love

Vasunandhan has a story. A story he hasn’t, until now, told anybody. A story that festers like a resolute old wound as he struggles to shake free from its grip. I’ve heard, read many stories of grief, but if one were to ask me why his story, of all stories, turned my heart so heavy, I must say it is because of the way he deals with it even today. The torment that takes hold of him as he desperately seeks some reprieve from the story’s ‘bad parts’. I still remember the way my body shook under the blanket as he told me this story one night; it froze me, rendered me unable to muster the strength to utter even a word of consolation. But what I’m about to tell you now is not just his story. It’s mine too. In fact, I can’t even call it my story. I’m just one of the four people this story happens to be about. That’s all.

*

Our room number in that college hostel was 119. Its occupants were Manjusha, Karthika, Amirthavalli, and me. Karthika had moved to our room only that year, so we didn’t have much of a rapport with her. There were also some rumours about her in the hostel. Her previous roommates would wink, smile, and ask us something pointedly about her and Thamarai Selvi. We found these interactions amusing, playful. We were not all that considerate or heedful back then. Perhaps if we had been, there might be no need to tell you this story now.

Memories are crafty. They can do anything they want to you. They are not bound by the past, the present, the future. They seem to come alive with the intent to destroy you. They wait for an opportune moment. Think about it. Is there really such a thing as a happy memory? No. What you call a happy memory reminds you of the things you associate with happiness only to then make you grieve the loss of those things. That’s why I call them crafty. That’s why I’m running away from them. In a way, to avoid people is to avoid the memories they might create.

The first time I met Vasunandhan was in Chennai at a seminar on South Indian Sculpture. I was there to interview an Archaeology Professor for the magazine I was working for. I was impatient; my demeanour gave off an unpleasant air, and I kept checking the time often. Vasunandhan was sitting next to me. The moment I saw him, I got the impression that he, like me, was also running away from memories. I wonder if that’s what stoked my interest in him. As we left, we exchanged numbers and decided to meet at a coffee shop the next evening.

*

Thamarai Selvi spent most of her time in our room sitting on Karthika’s bed, and the two of them would whisper to each other and laugh and giggle together. Unlike Karthika, Thamarai Selvi would smile gently at us. Have you eaten? Have you had tea? she’d ask depending on the time of day. She had long hair and always wore a thin streak of sandalwood paste on her forehead. Her presence seemed to alleviate the tension we otherwise felt with Karthika, who didn’t talk to us freely. Not even after three months of being roommates. She spoke only if spoken to. Even for meals and tea, she went to the mess only with Thamarai Selvi. Santhiya, one of Karthika’s previous roommates, used to say that she’d seen Karthika and Thamarai holding and kissing each other in a corner of their room. It was after word of this incident had caused problems in Santhiya’s room that Thamarai moved to ours. This matter may not have reached the warden, but word spread rapidly among the girls. Karthika cut a tough, isolated figure only after this incident.

*

After having coffee, Vasu and I went straight to his hotel room. We fucked as if that was what we’d been pining to do all our lives. We were surprised by how quickly things had moved between us. In fact, we felt as if we were swept into this relationship by our circumstances, by the way our lives had unfolded.

Back then, in each other’s company, we were not in any state to wonder Why? or How? I was gathering my strewn clothes from the floor when he said in agony, ‘I’m tempted to ask you to come with me, to take you with me.’ Putting on my clothes, I said playfully, ‘Why don’t you stay here? Don’t go.’ He was to leave for Germany the next day, and I didn’t know when, if at all, he’d be visiting. That night the bodily was all we knew – my body, his, and the desire that seemed to have taken hold of them like rust. We joined bodies again and again, eagerly, as if it were the last night of our lives.

*

Exams loomed. The college declared study holidays for ten days. Since Manjusha lived in Nagercoil she couldn’t go home on weekends, but she’d make the most of any long spell of holidays. Karthika usually stayed at the hostel even during study holidays, but this time even she had left. Since Amirthavalli and I were in the same department, we’d decided to stay back and study together. With few people around, there hung a certain dreary air about the campus. After breakfast, Valli and I would fill a large flask with coffee and study till one or two in the afternoon. Upon returning from the mess after lunch, however, we’d find ourselves unable to study; we’d either take naps or talk about some thing or the other lying down. On one such day, having broached the subject of Karthika and Thamarai Selvi’s closeness, Amirthavalli wondered why Karthika always kept her suitcase locked, even when she was here.

‘Just what does she have in there? Want to open the suitcase?’ – the question, I must say, slipped out of me. If I hadn’t asked, none of what I’m about to tell you might have happened. But I did ask, Valli agreed enthusiastically, and things were turned inside out.

*

After Vasu left, I stayed in touch with him on Facebook and WhatsApp. We were uncertain about the nature of our relationship or where it was headed. I’d spent only a night and four hours the next day with him. I saw him off at the airport even though I only knew two details about him. That his name was Vasunandhan, and he was an Assistant Professor of Physics. I can’t say I learned much about him from the conversations that filled the honeymoon period of our relationship. It was only later that I got to know him better, after many fights and much heartache.

I remember all our fights well. They were all caused by my feeling that he didn’t seem to like talking to me. These were not just your regular lovers’ quarrels; Vasunandhan had spells when he would not talk to me for days on end without offering any reason. One of his spells lasted two and a half months, but just the previous day we’d spoken for a long time and he’d bemoaned, ‘I want to see you right away. I want to kill this distance between us.’ He’d read my messages, but wouldn’t respond. I told myself he’d call back, but the call never came. Then I took to calling him repeatedly for several days; still not a word from him. He called me two weeks after I’d deleted his number out of hurt and disappointment. I pressed Accept despite myself. ‘Sorry da,’ he said.

I said nothing.

‘This distance between us really does hurt me physically. I can’t see you when I want to… can’t talk to you…don’t you understand? You have people you can call on, don’t you? Over here, I don’t. It’s just me. My loneliness worsens when we hang up. When I hear your voice, I’m reminded of that night. I yearn to be with you. Talking doesn’t suffice. That emptiness I’m returned to after we talk … it leaves me utterly helpless. I can’t deal with it.’

‘Weren’t you aware of all this earlier, Vasu? Weren’t you the one who wanted this? Have you considered how it makes me feel, what it does to me when you disappear without a word?’ My voice, which grew loud with anger at first, broke down eventually. It was then, for the first time, that he told me more about himself, his parents and his relationship with them, and why it is not just me he avoids but just about anybody who approaches him with warmth and care.

*

Amirthavalli and I had decided to break open the suitcase.

‘Want to look for the spare key? She may have hidden it somewhere in here.’

‘No chance. She wouldn’t leave the key here even when she left for classes; she’s never trusted us. You think she’s going to have left a key here during the holidays? No way.’

‘Wait, let’s see if our keys work,’ she said, and proceeded to gather her key, mine, and Manjusha’s. None of them fit. Rather cinematically, we tried a hairpin and a safety pin. No avail. We could have dropped this scheme then, but we were no longer just curious; we seemed to be acting out of a certain cruel, helpless, frenzied need to know. Heedlessly we picked up whatever heavy object we could find and had a go at the lock till it broke. Under several clothes, we found ten-fifteen letters and some greeting cards with quotes about love. These were letters and greeting cards Karthika and Thamarai Selvi had exchanged. Fiery, passionate letters written in ecstasy. One of them had details about each other’s roommates, about who was and wasn’t going home for the weekend. In another, Thamarai had written, ‘Don’t talk to Lavanya. It enrages me and makes me cry when you do. I don’t want to share you with anybody else.’ It was another letter that really shook us. In it, Karthika had unflinchingly recollected details of some of their intimate moments. Valli and I took turns reading these letters. This new-found secret gave us a kind of closeness and ecstasy we hadn’t experienced before. Though we’d heard that these things occurred in hostels, only now were we privy to one such act. We were excited and scandalised. With forced scowls, we mumbled expletives we believed we had to in that situation, though we didn’t know what the words meant.

‘What do we do when Karthika asks us about the suitcase?’ I wondered.

‘Why should we be afraid? Come, let’s hand over these letters to the warden right away. She will deal with it,’ Amirtha said.

Today, neither Amirtha nor I would even think of doing such a thing. But back then, as we walked to the warden’s room clutching those letters, we felt as if we were doing something commendable.

*

Vasunandhan was an only child, and his parents harboured many dreams for him. His father had a good job, and they took care to ensure he was sent to one of the city’s better schools. In the second grade, Vasunandhan’s class teacher wrote his mother a note in his school diary, mandating that she meet her the next day to discuss an important matter. When they met, she told his mother that having once noticed Vasunandhan holding his genitalia, she’d monitored him closely to find that he always seemed to have his hand there, that he continued to do so even after she’d warned him twice, and that she was left with no choice but to call her.

A heated argument ensued between his mother and his class teacher. That night, he took a good beating from his mother. She hit him, asking repeatedly, ‘Why did you do that? Will you dare do it again?’ Not knowing what to say, he stood drifting in and out of sleep. He liked to have his hand there; it gave him an indescribable feeling, a feeling he wanted to experience again and again. Fearing his mother might hit him more if he told her so, he stood silent and confused.

‘Why are you hitting him like this? You’re taking her word? For all we know that tight underwear of his could be making him itchy.’ Rebuking her thus, his father picked him up and approached the bed.

Shaking off her hesitation resolutely, his mother said, ‘He does that here too,’ loudly and with anger.

‘Come on now, he’s a child. A certain nobody may have said those things, but you shouldn’t run your mouth like this about him.’

His father’s response seemed to have mollified her. The next day she didn’t broach the matter with Vasu; it was as if all was normal. His father obtained a TC from the school and shifted him to a nearby school. Seeing him off on his first day at this new school, mother gently pinched his cheeks, smiled, and said, ‘Be a good boy. All the teachers should call you a good boy.’ Vasu nodded happily.

After this, Vasu was very careful not to repeat his actions at school, at home, or in anyone’s presence, but he’d developed a mild distaste towards people. In particular, towards his mother, who at times brought up that incident while reproaching him for unrelated mistakes. This distressed him of course, but, strangely, it also seemed to have sparked something in him he couldn’t name. In the clutches of this unnameable spark, he found himself wanting to impress his mother, make her happy. His mother was delighted when he came top of the class, which delighted him in turn. He was always top of the class after that. He would seek her help with homework, even when he needed no help, just to be around her. He enjoyed being close to her, felt protected in her presence. When his father visited them for a day or two from Hyderabad, Vasu would feel annoyed, as if some stranger had intruded upon him and his mother.

As Vasu grew older, he began to sense his mother growing distant. She had even stopped adjusting the front of her sari around him. If, as before, he moved closer to her as they slept, putting his leg on her, she’d say, ‘Keep your distance, Vasu. It’s hot.’ Vasu was irritated by all this. He understood why she was saying these things to him now, but continued to act as if he didn’t. He’d stand really close to her as if it meant nothing. He’d put his head on her lap and lie down like he always had.

His mother was finding it difficult to come to terms with his behaviour. She wondered, often to the point of confusion, if he was doing these things deliberately.  Sometimes she couldn’t stand the way he looked at her. There seemed to be nothing innocent about it; in fact, there was something unsettlingly brazen about it, something she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge. No ordinary twelve-year-old boy would look at his mother this way, she felt. She agonised over who to talk to about this. Indeed, what would she say even if she did know who to talk to? She began to feel angry with herself. She continued keeping her distance from him.

Vasu was hurt by his mother’s increased irritability toward him. She’d even stopped helping him with his homework and had enrolled him for tuition with the schoolmaster down the street. What angered Vasu the most was being given a separate room. How fond I am of her. Why does she have to act this way, he’d wondered with rage.

Sometimes he’d sneak into her room and stand there watching her sleep. Once, when he was thirteen, he’d snuck into her room as usual, but just as he was preparing to leave, he felt impelled to approach her; he bent down and caressed her breasts.

Startled out of sleep and trembling with fear and rage, his mother slapped him repeatedly and pushed him out of her room.

His father visited them from Hyderabad the next night, and without asking for any explanation, whipped Vasu with his belt till his rage subsided. Vasu stayed only in hostels after that – not just through college but all the way till he left for Germany. His father would meet him at the canteen three times a year when it was time to pay the fees; they’d have tea together, but would barely speak.

Before leaving, his father would give him a small bundle of cash and nod as if to say, ‘until next time.’ Vasu would nod in response. This was all they had by way of conversation until his father’s death.

*

Without a word, the warden took possession of the letters. To justify having broken open the suitcase, we told her that we’d heard several rumours about the two of them. The warden’s face shrank when we told her that Santhiya had once run into the two of them kissing.

‘Ok then. There’s no need to mention this to anybody else now. I’ll let you two know when I meet the principal tomorrow. You must also come,’ she said. We were taken aback, but we nodded in agreement as we left.

‘What di, she says she’s taking this to the principal. Should we not have handed over those letters?’

I walked silently.

The visit led to a number of events we were unable to anticipate. The warden summoned both girls’ parents. Without so much as offering them a seat, she broke into an hour-long lecture about the college’s prestige and its focus on good conduct before telling them that they would not harbour girls like theirs and risk spoiling the other girls’ characters. She advised them to collect their daughters’ TCs right away. Thamarai Selvi’s father collected the TC without a word of protest.

Thamarai Selvi’s face was swollen when she came to our room to collect her things. She gathered them without looking at us and left exhaustedly.

All three of us were present when Karthika came to collect her things. We froze on seeing her, but she too refused to look at us. She was on her way out, carrying her carefully arranged mattress, suitcase, and other things, when Manjusha approached her. ‘Karthika,’ she said. Karthika stood there for what seemed a whole minute and looked at us sternly, even disgustedly, as if she were looking at a worm. She left without a word, but the way she left…we’d not have felt as shaken if she’d slapped or spat at us. That look of hers…it stuns me even now as I recollect it.

Having finished our final exams, Amirthavalli and I had made our way out of the exam hall. Question paper in our hands, we were deep in discussion when we heard that Thamarai Selvi had consumed Round Up, a garden pesticide, and had died on her way to the hospital. Amirthavalli leaned against a wall of that long corridor and sat herself down. I was still holding the question paper when my hand began to tremble.

*

Vasu was awaiting my response. I couldn’t speak. Vasu’s face, his mother’s face (though I’d never seen her), Karthika’s face, Thamarai Selvi’s face, my face, Valli’s face – they all began to spin in my head like figures on a carousel. I tossed my phone, held my head, and sat on the bed.