Half Torn Hearts Read online

  ‘I knew it because you played with the other boys.’

  ‘I knew it because . . . because . . . ’ Nirmaan tried to hazard a guess, but failed.

  ‘I just knew it,’ he said and finished his half of the mango. Some of the pulp was stuck in the corners of his mouth and cheeks and although Raisa found the sight funny, she didn’t laugh.

  That night Raisa peeped out of her bedroom window and noticed Nirmaan on his balcony. They lived nearby and their apartments faced each other. Raisa was about to wave to him when there was a power cut. She scurried indoors, grabbed the flashlight from her mother’s cupboard and ran out into the balcony. Directing the flashlight’s beam at Nirmaan’s balcony, she located him almost immediately. He covered his eyes with his hands, blinded. It made Raisa giggle to herself. She moved the beam from his face to his arms and back to his face again. Suddenly he ran into his apartment. Disheartened, Raisa switched off the flashlight. Did she scare him off?

  She was about to go back into her room, when a beacon of light shone on her balcony wall. She realized that the light was coming from Nirmaan’s balcony and its glare was on her face now. She covered her eyes and somehow managed to switch on her flashlight to see Nirmaan gleefully aiming his flashlight at her balcony. Raisa ducked down and playfully crouched behind the cemented portion of the balcony with an amused face and a heart that was beating fast. She could see the beam of light hover above her head on the windows of the adjoining drawing room, looking for her. Then the light was switched off. Fearing that Nirmaan would leave, Raisa stood up and saw that Nirmaan’s mother had joined him. Together they waved at her. She waved back eagerly. His mother went back in, but Raisa’s mother came out just then, boxed her ears and took her inside. She hit the bed after getting slapped twice by her mother for not having been asleep already. She closed her eyes feeling excited for no apparent reason.

  VOICE NOTE 3

  The following two seasons painted Raisa and Nirmaan’s friendship in deeper hues. During a fancy-dress competition in school, their mothers decided to dress them as Krishna and Radha. They looked incredibly cute together and won the first prize. They spent most of the day with each other. Apart from his parents, Raisa was the only one whose company Nirmaan looked forward to, both in the colony as well as at school. He had once asked his mother, ‘Why can’t Raisa and I stay together with you and Baba?’

  Mrs Bose had laughed at that and had kindly explained the difference between family and friends. Friend. Although Nirmaan had other friends, calling Raisa a friend sounded inexplicably strange to him.

  That spring, when Nirmaan brought out a bicycle that had two smaller wheels on either side of the rear tyre, Raisa couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Nobody has those on their bikes,’ she teased.

  Glancing at her and then at the other kids who were racing by on their bikes, Nirmaan’s heart sank. Abandoning his bicycle, he retreated into one of the surrounding buildings. He looked the picture of misery sitting on the bottom stair, hugging his knees to his chest. Raisa parked her bicycle outside and came over.

  ‘What’s the matter, Nirmaan?’ she asked.

  With long, shuddering breaths and head sunk into his knees, Nirmaan mumbled, ‘I can’t balance myself like the others so Baba got those supporters for me. Without them I can’t cycle. But with them, people make fun of me.’

  Raisa caressed his hair and said, ‘Look at me.’

  Nirmaan didn’t.

  ‘Look at me, Nirmaan. Now!’

  He looked up. Raisa wiped the tears from his face and said, ‘I’ll teach you how to balance while riding a cycle. Come with me.’

  ‘You will?’ Nirmaan said, looking at her in disbelief.

  Raisa smiled and nodded, ‘I will. Get up now and follow me.’ He stood up, dusting his pants and joined her.

  Nirmaan mounted his bicycle.

  ‘Not this one. Sit on mine.’

  Nirmaan parked his bicycle and mounted Raisa’s. Raisa positioned herself behind him.

  ‘I’m holding you from behind to make sure you don’t fall sideways, but you must keep pedalling, okay?’

  ‘I’ll fall!’ Nirmaan was genuinely scared.

  Raisa came in front of the bicycle and extended her hand to him.

  ‘Hold it.’

  Nirmaan held her hand.

  ‘Tightly.’

  Nirmaan tightened his grasp.

  ‘Last Sunday I watched a movie. In it, the hero said that if you hold someone’s hand and wish the person luck with all your heart, then nothing will ever go wrong. I wish you luck, Nirmaan, with all my heart.’

  Looking into her eyes, he felt reassured. She let go of his hand and went behind the bicycle again.

  ‘Now look in front and pedal. I’m right behind you.’

  Nirmaan moistened his dry lips and started pedalling slowly, looking at his feet. Raisa urged him to look up and straight ahead. The bicycle kept wobbling until Nirmaan mastered the art of looking straight ahead. With Raisa pepping him up, Nirmaan discovered a new thrill. With each passing second, he gained more confidence and better control over the bicycle. He had overcome his own fear. Half a minute later and he still hadn’t fallen over. Of course Raisa is holding me from behind and . . . a quick turn of the head told him she was a long way behind him now. The unprecedented thrill made him pedal harder. The wind buffeted him fiercely and sang in his ears. He had never believed a fear so terrifying could ever be truly conquered. But now the wind was real, the thrill was true, the fact was he was cycling without any support . . .

  ‘See, I told you, Nirmaan,’ Raisa’s voice reached him.

  Nirmaan turned his head and shouted, ‘Thank you, Raisa!’

  Before he could slow down or steer the bicycle away, Nirmaan, who had been speeding a little, crashed into a low wall beside the bend in the track.

  Raisa came running to him. The front of the bike had been damaged. They exchanged sheepish glances. She noticed his palm was grazed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nirmaan,’ she said.

  ‘Why are you sorry? I didn’t fall because of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry because I lied to you. I saw no movie where anything was said about bringing good luck by holding hands.’

  As Raisa’s absurd lie seeped in, Nirmaan understood that she had only said it to help him defeat his fear.

  The next day at school, when a surprise test was conducted, Nirmaan couldn’t complete half the assignment because of his injured palm. When the teacher distributed the papers, she reprimanded Nirmaan severely for scoring the lowest marks. After she was done humiliating him to her heart’s content, she turned around to write something on the black board when something hit her squarely on the back of her head.

  ‘Ouch!’ she roared and spun around. A brick-shaped eraser lay on the floor at her feet. ‘Who threw that eraser?’ she yelled.

  Nobody answered as she panned her gaze on the students from left to right and back again.

  ‘Who threw the eraser at me?’ her voice rose ominously. Still nobody answered. Nirmaan noticed that the student sitting by his side was about to raise his hand to point at the culprit: Raisa. He quickly stood up.

  ‘It was me, Teacher,’ Nirmaan said.

  Raisa, sitting a couple of rows ahead of him, turned around to look at him in sheer disbelief and then stood up herself.

  ‘You shouldn’t have hit him, Teacher,’ she said. Everyone gaped at her audacity.

  The teacher summoned their parents. Although Nirmaan told Raisa that they should confess to their respective parents, she couldn’t find the right moment to tell her mother about the school summons all through the evening. That night, she had a quiet dinner as always, sitting alone in a corner of her room. It was either that or the kitchen because her father didn’t appreciate a girl child sharing his dining space. His prejudice paved the way for a neurotic father–daughter relationship. Sometimes he ignored her completely and at other times, when he came home sloshed, he clasped her tight against his chest and wep
t. The stench of cheap country liquor revolted Raisa, but at the same time, his display of affection made her feel loved, something she didn’t feel too often. Raisa didn’t know whether she loved or hated him. Worse, she didn’t know whether he loved or hated her. On the other hand, her mother was a loving and caring woman who rarely spoke in her husband’s presence. Although Raisa liked her mother, she could never understand why she periodically developed black eyes or bruises around her eyes or neck or cuts on her lips.

  That night, when Raisa finally worked up the courage to tell her parents about the school summons, she went to her parents’ bedroom and found it locked from the inside. This was nothing new. Once or twice a week, they locked themselves in their bedroom after dinner. Her mother had told her that when grown-ups prayed in their room, children were not allowed inside. Raisa never disturbed them, but that night was different. She was about to knock when she heard a strange noise from within that disturbed her so much that she scurried back to her room, jumped into her bed and burrowed under the blanket.

  The next day at school, Nirmaan appeared in the teacher’s room along with his parents, but Raisa came alone. Nirmaan’s father kindly covered for both children and they were soon allowed to go.

  As soon as Mrs and Mr Bose left, Nirmaan turned to Raisa as they mounted the stairs to their classroom on the first floor.

  ‘Why didn’t your parents come?’ Nirmaan asked.

  ‘I didn’t tell them,’ she replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do your parents make weird noises while praying?’ she asked.

  Nirmaan shook his head, not understanding a word she said.

  ‘Mine do. They aren’t like your parents, Nirmaan.’

  VOICE NOTE 4

  A few months went by and it was time for the annual sports day in the RBI quarters. Although both girls and boys had the same athletic events, they competed separately. Nirmaan stood second in most of the boys’ events, losing the first place to Yash. Raisa came third in one of the events and lost in the rest. Huffing and puffing after his last event, Nirmaan ran up to the stone bench where Raisa was also sitting, catching her breath.

  ‘I didn’t win a single event,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Neither did I,’ Nirmaan shrugged.

  ‘Now we’ll have the mixed events.’

  ‘Be my partner?’ he proposed.

  ‘Sure!’ she replied enthusiastically.

  It was then that they heard the announcement of the names of the couples in the mixed events. Raisa was paired with Yash while Nirmaan was with a girl called Vini.

  ‘Now we won’t win at all,’ Nirmaan mourned and plonked down beside Raisa, his expression both angry and disappointed. Raisa stood up.

  ‘If both of us want to win, one of us will have to lose,’ she said enigmatically.

  Nirmaan frowned and watched Raisa amble over to Yash.

  The first event was the marble-and-spoon race. The partnered pair stood at opposite ends of their track. First, the girl would set off with the handle of a spoon clenched between her teeth, a marble wobbling in its bowl. She would need to reach her partner balancing the marble on the spoon and relay it to the boy. He would then put the spoon in his mouth and return to the girl’s starting point. The first pair to successfully complete this exercise without dropping the marble would be the winner.

  When the whistle was blown, the girls started walking towards their respective partners. Raisa, with Yash waiting for her at the other end, kept glancing sideways. Two girls were alongside her and then overtook her. One was Smita and the other Vini. She let Vini go past her, but gradually caught up with Smita. As they drew abreast, Raisa flung out her arm, striking Smita’s shoulder. Raisa’s marble dropped. And so did Smita’s.

  ‘Sorry, I noticed a bug on my hand,’ Raisa apologized.

  Smita burst into tears when it was announced that both she and Raisa had been disqualified. Vini, meanwhile, reached Nirmaan, who went on to complete the event and win the race.

  If both of us have to win, one of us will have to lose. Looking at her, Nirmaan now understood what she had meant. His success had the fragrance of her victory as well.

  VOICE NOTE 5

  That evening Raisa waited for her father. She wanted to show him the only silver cup she had won. She felt that if her father would embrace her for once without the stink, it would be rewarding enough for her. Although her mother kept telling her not to wait up since her father always came home late on Sundays, she preferred to wait on the sofa with the silver cup on her lap. At around ten in the night, when her father came home, she opened the door. One look at him and her cup clattered to the floor. Mr Barua, his eyes bloodshot, pushed the door open with great force and staggered in. Raisa noticed that he was swaying the way he always did whenever his breath stank. He collapsed on the floor beside the sofa. Raisa was about to try and help him up, when her mother stepped in and told her to go to her room. Raisa obeyed.

  She rarely cried as a child, but that night the tears just wouldn’t stop. She didn’t know exactly when she dozed off. It was a cry that woke her up with a start. As the haze of sleep lifted from her mind, Raisa heard more cries that seemed to be coming from her parents’ bedroom. She jumped out of bed and ran to their room. It wasn’t locked. To Raisa it meant that they weren’t praying. Pushing the door slightly open, she peered in with her heart thumping hard. She got the shock of her young life. On the big bed was her mother and on top of her was her father, naked, beating her while thrusting his pelvis up and down violently. Raisa began to shake with fear, watching her mother begging her husband to let her go. But he was slobbering on her mouth, slapping her cheeks and continuing those seemingly demonic hip movements.

  Raisa wanted to help her mother but her limbs went numb and stiff as if she were paralysed. Her mind went blank. Only her eyes stayed wide open and whatever they were witnessing was getting imprinted into her core. Her squirming mother kept sliding up and down and fighting her father, but she was unable to free herself. Raisa wanted to slither down the floor by the door and weep at her mother’s helplessness, but she couldn’t even do that. And then her mother caught sight of her. That moment sucked the life out of Mrs Barua. She abruptly stopped fighting her husband. No more whimpers or whines emanated from her. Her husband clutched her for a few seconds before collapsing beside her with a groan. Mrs Barua slowly sat up, adjusting her clothes, covering her inebriated and naked husband, still looking arrow straight at Raisa. The latter was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Her mother got out of bed and stood up looking dishevelled and weak. She limped towards her daughter as if it hurt to move. As she drew nearer, Raisa noticed her tousled hair, smudged vermilion and a streak of blood from her lips to her chin. Mrs Barua looked deep into her daughter’s eyes and knew that whatever she had just witnessed would remain seared into her little girl’s brain no matter how much she tried to justify it at this juncture. Mrs Barua simply held her daughter against her bosom. Soon mother and daughter started conversing in the language of pain whose words were tears.

  VOICE NOTE 6

  Knowing that her husband would invariably repeat himself and fearing that Raisa may witness it again, Mrs Barua asked Mrs Bose if Raisa could spend the weekend at their place, citing some lame excuse. She knew perfectly well that it wasn’t a solution at all.

  ‘Sure,’ Mrs Bose was happy to have Raisa.

  On the first night, when Raisa sat down with Nirmaan and his parents to dine, she couldn’t help but cherish every moment, crazily wishing that she had the same routine at home. It wasn’t the food, it was the heart-warming togetherness. It wasn’t the routine, it was the fact that his parents were there for Nirmaan. That feeling was alien to Raisa. Hence, appealing. And heart-crushing.

  It started to rain late in the night, the pitter-patter of the raindrops woke Raisa. She went to Nirmaan’s room to wake him up.

  ‘Nirmaan, get up. Let’s go for a picnic,’ she shook his arm.

  ‘Picnic? Where?’ Sitting up in bed, dis
oriented, for an instant, Nirmaan thought he was dreaming.

  ‘On the terrace.’

  ‘Ma will scold us.’

  ‘She won’t if you do as I say.’

  Nirmaan rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

  ‘We’ll need two umbrellas and something to eat.’

  Nirmaan went to his parents’ room and fetched a large, black umbrella from the cupboard without waking them up. Meanwhile, Raisa opened the refrigerator and found several canisters of Frooti and a box full of sweets. She tucked the box under her arm and picked up a Frooti in each hand before softly elbowing the refrigerator door shut.

  When Nirmaan joined her in the drawing room, he said, ‘I don’t know where the other umbrella is. Will one do?’

  Raisa pondered for a moment before saying, ‘We’ll just have to make do.’

  She stealthily unlocked the main door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Nirmaan was more scared than curious. But the thrill of the forbidden was immensely attractive.

  ‘Told you,’ Raisa chided gently, ‘we need to go up to the terrace.’

  Like an obedient child, Nirmaan followed Raisa as she drew back the bolts and wedged the door ajar, and together they climbed the stairs to the terrace above the fourth floor.

  They sloshed to the middle of the terrace under the umbrella, with Nirmaan clutching Raisa’s dress as it poured heavily around them. She lowered the umbrella and they made themselves comfortable under its vast black canopy, as if it were their den. Raisa handed a Frooti to Nirmaan and said, ‘You’re lucky, Nirmaan.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you have good luck with you.’

  ‘What’s luck?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve often heard Ma use this phrase to describe other people. Both you and Aunty,’ Raisa replied.

  Nirmaan looked at her as she stared at the weeping night sky, taking care not to get wet.

  ‘Can’t best friends share their good luck?’

  ‘Best friends can only share Frooti, not luck,’ she shook her head.