Close Too Close (24 page)
After a while she got up abruptly to check the time. A murmur – ‘They’ll start missing us in the next hour.’ That was my cue to leave, I felt. All of this was utterly unfamiliar. I couldn’t gauge her mood so I went with what I knew, which is that it’s not wise to overstay one’s welcome; people need their space; sex is sometimes just sex; and too much post-coital conversation is irritating.
I was pulling my clothes on, when she asked if I didn’t want a shower. ‘You can’t go in smelling like that,’ she smirked noncommittally. Completely inscrutable! I smiled and stumbled my way into the shower. A big league player, been around the block – it all sang in my head. Wanting more, was it reasonable or clingy? After just one morning of being together? Perhaps reasonable, but maybe wait on her to make that move?
Her shower smelled like her. I pretended to ignore these small pricks of familiarity and the creeping yearning they produced. The glass shower cubicle beaded over as I turned the hot water on, then faded from view as my eyes squinted shut against the shampoo suds. Red and steaming, I felt blindly for the soap and then, not finding it, opened one eye. I started back! She was standing silently, ghostly, right there, just outside the shower cubicle. Not saying anything, just looking. ‘Hi,’ I shouted above the din of the water, ‘Want to come in?’
Without answering, she dropped her towel, stepped on it, and slid into the shower. Beautiful, those eyes still more than a match for me. Her composed quiet was unnerving. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my breasts. Her sodden hair curled over her shoulders. She took the soap from me proprietarily, turned me against the wall, and soaped my back. Hands flattened against the wall, I let myself feel the gentle wash of her hand on my body, the hot water running off and pooling at my feet. A sharp push at both knees, and my legs were spread expertly from behind. I turned, not wanting to be this helpless with someone I barely knew, but her hands were on my bottom, soaping in between and then running, practised, between my legs. Two slippery fingers slid into me, not painful like before, and quite determined to do what they had not been allowed to, before. Once again, I was surprised by the force of her hands which had been small and inconspicuous in the conference halls. Her left arm snaked around me, her hand pinching my breasts hard, making its way down my soapy body to between my legs where it rubbed insistently while her right hand moved in and out of me.
I felt the pleasure of it, and also the fact that it would stay there, not peak. She was too uncanny, or maybe it was the idea of being so intimate with someone I hardly knew, at a conference where I was to be respectable and be respected, not on my back. The bed was one thing, but the shower? I didn’t overthink it – at least I don’t think so. ‘Shalini’ I gurgled, turning, before she kissed my lips shut hard, the water running into our mouths. I held both her hands firmly away from me, then brought her in close to me, letting her feel the tenderness I had hidden. She didn’t protest, but I could feel her body tense with resentment and contained excitement. After a while she relaxed against me, then moved away and rinsed herself briskly. A growing sense of hurt and disappointment between us which neither would acknowledge.
We dressed silently. I kissed her cheek, saying I would see her at the conference. She saw me to the door unsmilingly. I almost ran to my room, picked up the pens, plastic folders, coloured agendas, pamphlets and books I may not read after the conference. My heart was pounding. What just happened? Once at the venue, I slipped into the room, unnoticed I hope. A couple of heads turned towards me, but I made a great show of pouring myself some coffee. Was my hair wet? Did I smell like her? Was her hair on my clothes? For the next hour I sat tightly on my chair, these thoughts churning in my head. A while later, I relaxed and allowed myself to remember how delicious it had been.
I had not quite missed everything, but a good chunk of the day had passed me by. I joined in with false hilarity, nods and murmurs while the others discussed what had gone before. It was a busy conference, I might not have been missed. It was only after lunch that I dared to look around for her. Not at the table with the big names; not at the table with random people; and not at the table with friends who had planned to meet at the conference. Where was she?
The post-lunch panels had me nervy and looking around. I went in and out of each, trying not to appear as though I was looking for someone. By tea, I had still not found her. No phone number to ring, only a door to knock on.
Too agitated to concentrate, I went in search of her. There was her door, remote, not answering, like her. Had I upset her? Was there something she had expected of me that I didn’t give? It was a conference, I reassured myself; no one expects anything like this, and there are no rules for behaviour.
I left the country a day or two later, still not having heard from her. The sore spot in my heart healed soon enough. Years later, quite randomly, a friend had been introduced to her. In the first five minutes, they had found me on the map of people they knew, like all South Asians do. She had asked after me politely and given her best. But not her email address.
D
arkness did it.
Or did it?
He and I are walking the scorching streets, looking for a place to have chilled beer. This town sleeps in the afternoon but we are looking for even a tiny shack. Feeling like brothers, out in the world, knowing where we are going. Not a word between us. Pounding the streets. Feeling one.
He is big. Broad shouldered. Large hands. Inside his cargo pants. Shuffling his pack of wet tissues. He’d make a beautiful Transman when he gets on T and removes those breasts. Having removed mine twelve years ago, and nurtured a thick beard over fifteen, qualified me.
I know him the minute I see him. We hug. His arms enclose my torso fully, but he keeps his chest to himself. The palm of my hand knows the binder he is wearing under those layers of clothing and we let the moment pass quickly. He says this is impossible to do in Lahore what you have done in Delhi. How did you?
How did I?
The 8x6 room is not enough. He puts his olive green bag down in the corner. It’s going to be beer.
He and I are walking the scorching streets, looking for a place to have chilled beer. His black polished military boots make a deeply satisfying bodily sound; my Bata chappals feel so limp.
In the dark, seven-table shed, men are drinking. The shed is silent with the sounds of drinking. Sounds of small glasses on old wooden tables. Sounds of meat bones falling on aluminium plates. Lungis over knees, legs apart under tables, deep dark brown skin, moulding shoulder bones and chest muscles, glistening hard in the heat. The smell of sweat, nestled in body hair. And then mixed in, the smell of meat. The alcohol wetting the lips. And moustaches. Of men and transmen. Alike.
There is enough between us now. The 8x6 enclosure can prevent only that much from happening. We sit side by side on the 6x2 bed. And into the afternoon I tell him how I did it. He looks upon me as if looking upon his father. How many sons we give birth to in the anonymity of 8x6 rooms . . . But he wants to witness with his own eyes. The chest hair sprouting from the scars of my mastectomy. The meatiness of the constructed penis. The bloodiness and spread of the glans. But unzipping my trousers is not as easy as unbuttoning my shirt. There is another coming out that I know will seal this connect forever. I am brave again. I tell him that my father is from Karor Laalison in Pakistan. And that my mother’s father is from Lahore. And her mother from Jalarpur Jatta. I look into his eyes. He should have worn some kajal in them. He runs his fingers playfully through my hair and says we should do Karor Laalison together someday.