She wouldn’t have gone to the wedding if it hadn’t been for Paromita’s insistence. “Please, Neera, come – for the sake of old times. If Kishor had been alive, he would have definitely come. After all, we were neighbours for 20 years,” she’d said over the phone. Even though Kishor had only been dead for four years, it seemed like a different era to Neera. Surprisingly, she had handled Kishor’s loss well. She had moved into a larger flat and a better neighbourhood, leaving behind Paromita, who, she suspected, secretly envied her.
Neera had no children of her own, and with Koel – Kishor’s daughter from his first marriage – in California, there was hardly anyone to whom Neera could present the bereaved, widowed version of herself. Not that she had sobbed hysterically at his death; she was far too poised for it. She had, however, shed some solemn tears. Even in her grief, Neera never lost her grace. She’d lost the only pair of eyes that would have been wet when hers would shut forever. Was it his death that she mourned? Or that no one would be left to mourn hers? She knew it was a waste of time to think about it. But these thoughts ambushed her. Then, in order to keep them away, a distraction – a bigger waste of time – had to be found.
“So, Chandar, how long have you been driving this cab?”
“A long time, madam. I used to work in Mumbai before. The work hours are bad here. I can get up to 12 rides a day, some of them very early in the morning. Especially for the airport. But I’ve decided to give it everything I’ve got.” Neera had not expected such a genuine response. Was it his perky smile that made his face stand out? She felt like indulging him. “Do you enjoy driving?” she asked, looking out of the window. Outside, it continued to drizzle. “Yes, madam. You know, I want to prove myself. I can’t afford to be a lost child. I used to play a lot of cricket, go to the gym and hang out with my friends. But it’s all about work now.”
“Do you no longer play or exercise?”
“No, who has the time?” he responded, as if surprised by the question. She secretly examined his chest. He appeared in good shape. “Arey, madamji, this is nothing,” he said. His left hand flew from the steering wheel and landed on the dashboard, searching for his other phone. “Would you like to see what I used to look like when I worked out?” Neera felt exposed and embarrassed. She had thought her actions were subtle. He opened the phone’s image gallery without waiting for her approval. Neera couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused by his antics. She couldn’t bring herself to say what she was thinking or what she ought to have said: Thanks, but no thanks. This boy was tactless, like Paromita.
Neera had never been particularly fond of her old neighbour. She missed the cool indifference of her Parsi neighbours when she was a girl growing up in Mumbai. Her family used to take pride in being one of the only four non-Parsi families living in an all-Parsi colony in Lower Parel. Not only was Paromita tactless, but she was also intrusive. They fought frequently when she lived next door. Of course, Neera couldn’t compete with her neighbour’s decibel levels. She began sputtering Marathi swear words whenever she was losing the battle. Eventually, Kishor had to step in every time. That was the thing about Kishor: No one could stay angry in his company. He could diffuse the situation with a single joke. After all was said and done, she couldn’t forget how Paromita and her family had helped her in the aftermath of Kishor’s death. It would have been unkind of Neera to have declined the invitation. And then there was Aditi, Paromita’s cheerful daughter, who used to come to Neera with her maths problems. What a fine-looking woman she had grown into. At such a young age, she was the regional manager of a reputable private bank.
Neera would not have gone to the wedding reception if it hadn’t been for Aditi and the fear of being labelled ungrateful. She could have used Koel’s latenight flight to dodge the invitation. But she liked Aditi; she had watched her grow up. She had decided to give Aditi her favourite perfume as a present. Neera’s own daughter, if she had had one, would have been Aditi’s age. Neera had told herself many times she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.
Kishor would always remind her of the conversation they’d had about this topic on their second date. One of the first things she had asked him was whether he read books. Kishore had joked that he liked books from a distance. “I mean, I am not opposed to books so long as I don’t have to read them. You can bring all your books to my home – nay – our home, if that’s what you mean,” he had replied, making Neera blush. As their date was coming to an end, Kishor had asked Neera if she liked children. She paused before responding. The Arabian Sea in front looked hungry enough to swallow the last rays of sunlight edging the horizon. It was nearly dark. Neera, in her mid-thirties at the time, stood silently on Marine Drive, the sea breeze ruffling up her hair. “Neera…?”
“I like them, Kishor, but from a distance. I mean, I don’t mind them as long as I don’t have to raise them myself,” she explained, unsure whether he would find her joke funny. To her surprise, Kishor laughed in his usual, uninhibited manner, which Neera always found a little embarrassing in public. “I’ve already got one of my own. Just don’t get rid of her!” he exclaimed, squeezing her shoulder.
Excerpted with permission from the story “The Invitation”, from Cockatoo, Yashraj Goswami, Pan MacMillan India.
