You'll Feel It When You're Me

It all began with my late night craving for watermelon juice. I tried shutting it out, I really did. I even shook out my sheets and curled inside the tent I make every night. Only to wake up my already wide awake self.

My roommate, the last of her kind, looks at me from the dough she is pounding. She'd invited her friend over for dinner over an elaborate menu.

"Watermelon juice", I pout. I like playing the kid with her.

"Put something decent on. He'll be here in half an hour."

Walking in back to my room, I look for a suitable dress to meet a suitable boy. I don’t find any.

I crawl back into the now cold and reformed lumpy bed. But the magenta pink chunks with an occasional black seed that evades the whir of the blades, in tall glasses. Watermelon juice on rocks. Shaken not stirred.

I pick up the phone.

I don't linger in front of the mirror.

I pretend I don't see the disapproving look on my roommate's face. Girls from decent homes don't go out at 11 in the night. But home is miles away tucked away in a street in Pondicherry. Decency- well, we'll pretend I've left behind what I never had.

Maybe it’s the drink, but he comes.

Climbing in, I see him smile.

"What's with this watermelon thing now?"

I smile back. Pushing my luck, I ask, "Shall I drive?"

He's too attached to his car. It’s not healthy.

We play guessing games at the music that runs on the system.

I smile a smile of alarming severity at the juice shop guy.

We wait for the drink in the car. He recognizes the tunes I sing tunelessly. I recognize the ones he tries to sing. We'll never make good singers.



The beach is deserted and it’s only 11.30. I think I sound like my army uncle when each time I begin 'In Pondicherry...' So this time I don’t.

We talk about work. Friends. Non friends. I draw heavily into my fast depleting glass of juice.

So when the policeman comes and barks at us to get lost, we continue walking but this time towards the car.

"He could have been more polite. Anyone can see we aren't like..."

He appears amused. "Like?"

I don’t answer the answer he already knows.

The policeman isn't thrilled by our pace. I can feel his angry and irritatingly derisive look. The feet drag more than before.

"It is important that they do this. And he doesn’t really care what we are. He has a home to get back to too."

I let him take my hand. We walk, our steps longer this time.

I don't remember how the topic changed from everything pleasant to everything not. But we were suddenly talking about rape. I see he's played this through his mind before.

And it fell on my ears which I still refuse to believe, his acceptance of the fact. The whole situation. The reasoning out to the attackers. Their refusal to reason. The pleading tone. The scornful villainous laugh that is played until worn in every movie, which might not be there in real life. And then in a series of fast moving images, the actual act.

His words roll on. I hate the ease with which they fall. I hate his logic, his helplessness.

I throw away the water melon juice. It doesn’t tempt me any more.

It doesn’t end there. I hear his words laced heavily with sarcasm.

"Where did the logic that's so characteristic of you vanish?"

What do I tell him? That he's talking a woman's worst fear? That it’s easy for me to get into her shoes and imagine the horror?

"Do you really think I'll be able to take on 2 or 3 people at the same time?"

"Does that give reason enough to not even try?"

"Even when you and I know it's gonna be pointless? A random throw away act of heroism when the last thing that you feel like at the moment is heroic? And you still would want me to 'try'?"

I hear our footsteps on the gravel. Long wavering shadows that appeared almost apologetic in front of us, sorry to be there.

"Yes."

I feel his warm lips on mine. I hope they were saying sorry. At least, that's what I wanted to hear.

Tomorrow, we’ll go back to being friends. Just friends.