It was a mere eleven weeks and two days since her first cup of coffee with him, and she could do nothing but obsess about him, night and day. She was straying from the restricted path she was supposed to tread.
She’d reminded herself often of her obligations to her family and herself. Her dance guru was upset with her for arriving late for lessons several times. On a couple of occasions, Vinita had skipped lessons altogether and then lied to him that she’d been sick. She told herself her heart would break if she didn’t watch out. She was walking a very fine line. And yet all that wisdom was useless in the face of the irresistible attraction Som held for her.
She was in love with him. There was no doubt left in her mind. All the pride she’d taken in being a strong girl, incapable of falling prey to an attractive body and surging hormones, had crumbled quickly. The contempt she’d once held for girls who were too weak to resist temptation was reserved for herself now.
Unfortunately, the flesh was weak, the heart weaker. The soul was apparently the weakest.
Som and she met almost every afternoon at the café. It was an unspoken agreement, and it had become a habit to take a diversion on her way home and walk past Bombay Café—after Prema had taken the turn toward her own house.
If Vinita found Som outside the café waiting for her, they’d go inside and spend some time together. If he wasn’t there, she’d turn around and go home, feeling let down. He wasn’t all that predictable. Besides, he had cricket matches and practice games that sometimes interrupted their routine.
She wondered if he’d be there today.
And then she saw him, seated on the top step leading into the café, wearing sunglasses that masked his eyes. One leg was folded at the knee and the other was stretched out, the creases on his pants sharp as razor blades. The bright green shirt would have looked garish on a lesser man, but on him it looked rakish. Perfect. One arm hung loosely over his knee, the ever-present cigarette dangling between two fingers.
She forgot all about her spat with Prema, and her footsteps quickened in keeping with her heartbeat.
“Hello,” she said to him, trying not to show her delight.
“Hello, yourself,” he replied, rising to his feet with his usual pantherlike grace. Peeling his sunglasses off, he hooked them over his shirt pocket. He held the café door open for her and followed her inside, bringing with him his unique scent.
They occupied their usual booth behind the curtain. He asked her about her last exam and she gave him an offhand answer. He wouldn’t have believed her if she said she’d fared badly, anyway—just like when Prema had laughed it off. Why did people find it so hard to believe that she could do poorly on a test, perhaps even fail? In any case, things like exams were of no interest to Som. In his world, all that mattered was sports.
But in all fairness to him, he was generally charming to her, attentive, often kind, or at least he seemed to try to be all those things, for her sake. The cynical frown was there, but it wasn’t that severe. He even smiled at times—and each time it warmed her heart to think maybe she was responsible for it.
Nonetheless, there was a part of him that remained aloof, a part he didn’t share with her. He never talked about his family like she talked about hers. He never shared his dreams for his future with her. She could never get a glimpse into his heart and head. For a man with so many friends and admirers, and someone who had deliberately sought out her company, he was perplexingly private.
Whenever she brought up the subject of his siblings and parents, he gave her some flippant reply that bordered on abrupt. Questions about a future career were brushed aside with a vague reference to “eventually joining my father’s business.”
So she’d stopped asking him. No point in trying to chip away at a hard rock with a blunt knife, and certainly no reason to make that scowl deeper. She was happy with the simple fact that a part of him belonged to her.
Nevertheless, there was one thing he did share with total abandon: cricket—his passion, his ultimate bliss. That’s when those rare smiles brightened his face—when he gave her a strike-by-strike account of some successful match or other. He seemed to come alive in those moments and pulse with the kind of energy she could almost touch and taste.
She waited till the waiter delivered their coffee, and took a sip before asking, “How was yesterday’s game?”
He extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and shrugged. “The match wasn’t bad. Wasn’t exactly good, either.”
“What does that mean?” she asked with a lift of her brow.
The scowl turned a little darker. “I was this close to scoring a century,” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate the tiny gap. “But damn it all, just when I thought I was going to score my hundredth run, I got caught out.”
“Oh no!”
“Their stupid team has only one good fielder.” He gave a dramatic groan. “And it was my bad luck that he was precisely where my ball was headed.”
“But I heard you scored the most impressive runs,” she offered as a salve for his bruised ego. Scoring ninety-nine runs was quite amazing. The buzz in the ladies’ lounge was that despite his having missed a century by a hair, he’d still left the rival team and their bowler totally frustrated. “Besides, it’s only a game, Som.”
“Only a game!” he hissed, his eyes wide with shocked disbelief. He reminded her of an incensed cat.
“But your team won, and that’s what matters, doesn’t it?” She could see she’d upset him by belittling his chief occupation. To her it was just a sport, but to him it was obviously the only thing that mattered in life.
“I suppose so, but coming that close and not making it…” He trailed off, pulling out a fresh cigarette from his pocket with one hand while the other grabbed the coffee mug. Sometimes she wondered how his body could tolerate so much caffeine and nicotine. And yet he seemed to thrive on both. She worried about his health, about his future, everything about him.
She’d have to find a way to convince him to give up smoking. It was no doubt going to be a battle.
But she liked hearing him talk about his game, watch the light glow in his uncommon eyes, and hear the unexpected laugh leap from his throat. She listened now to his voice turn gruff with pleasure as he recalled some of the highlights of the previous day’s match.
Eager to please him, she had even made it her business to read about the game and learn enough so she could understand him better. When he used terms like sixer and clean bowled and downed wickets, she at least knew what they meant. A girl who’d more or less eschewed sports as the worthless parading of muscle and physical prowess was now taking an interest in them. It had to be love.
Was she crazy to feel this way—throw caution to the winds and think of nothing else but him? Perhaps, but it was nice to experience the heady feeling of being in love—something she’d never thought she’d feel. She’d always convinced herself it was meant for other girls, pretty and popular girls. But now she was one of the lucky ones to share in the experience.
She watched his hands as he lit his cigarette. Wielding a cricket bat for years had left calluses on the pads, but it lent them personality. An athlete’s hands—firm hands with the resilience of steel, and yet they trembled a little when they came in contact with her skin.
It meant he cared a little. Maybe more than a little. All at once the world seemed brighter, full of possibilities.
If she had to fight a few battles to have him, she would.