Swear You Won't Tell? Read online

The traffic light turned green, saving her from a longer explanation, and they sped off towards the Taj Mahal Palace hotel.

  An enduring landmark, rumoured to have been the result of a stunning architectural gaffe3, the Taj stands for old money, old world charm and since 26 November 2008, for terror tourism. History has it that the hotel was built by Jamshedji Tata, after he was denied entry into the then-fancy Watson Hotel. The charge? He was, at the time, suffering from a serious case of being born brown. Whatever its origin story, today the Taj throws its doors open to all of humanity—white, black and brown. Well, at least to that section of humanity that draws six-figure salaries. And to the section that included people like Avantika—journalists and other media professionals who got invited to the high-brow events that were hosted at the Taj.

  As she made her way inside, Wayne tagging behind her like a wide-eyed wheeled suitcase, Avantika paused to wonder at the ambience. The hushed tones, the rich but subdued music, the tasteful decor littered with odd pieces of art; the Taj was not very different from any other five-star hotel in Mumbai. But it was elevated in the mind’s eye because the mind came from a middle-class to which the Taj, was THE TAJ. You were going to THE TAJ. Better wipe your soles properly on the doormat. Are you wearing good, clean underwear? What if you crash into a waiter and fall into a pile of diamonds and die? Then everyone will know you were wearing tatty underwear to THE TAJ.

  The press conference was in the North Crystal Room, all ornate carved pillars and nineteenth century chandeliers. The doors were closed, but there was a PR lackey sitting at the table outside. Avantika glanced at her watch, 3.45 p.m. They were late. Just as well, she thought as she signed for both of them and picked up their press passes. With any luck, nobody would see her get in. Or out.

  The room was dark, but in the light of the audio-visual presentation playing on the large screen at the back, she could see people huddled over tables. She made her way to the nearest empty seat and sat down. A second later, there was a thud and a muffled yelp. Amidst whispers of ‘Ssshhh’ and ‘Quiet!’, Wayne got back to his feet and slipped into the seat next to her.

  ‘I tripped over the—’ he began, but she cut him off with a ‘Ssshhh.’

  On the screen, blank-faced, pouty models held Aisha’s new Spring-Summer collection of handbags, as a breathy female voice extolled their virtues. Bold neons, soft pastels, and vibrant floral prints had been moulded into reasonably attractive shapes. Avantika could see why terminally fashion-conscious bloggers had christened Aisha the ‘hot new designer on the block’. But for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to shell out the thousands of rupees each of these bags cost. Then again, it wasn’t like she fit the consumer profile for these things. All her handbags were bought from Dharavi4.

  She stifled a yawn and hoped that the AV and the conference would end soon. It’s not often that the Universe actually listens to your inner monologue, but perhaps in this case it did. Because just a few seconds later, the AV ended and the lights came on. A plump woman in a lavender skirt-suit came on to the makeshift stage, and began essentially repeating everything the AV had said about the collection.

  ‘Is that the designer?’ Wayne whispered.

  Avantika shook her head and scanned the crowd. ‘That’s her, there, next to the tall guy in the glasses.’

  Wayne turned in the direction she was pointing at.

  ‘She’s hot,’ he said with awe.

  Avantika didn’t bother glaring at him. It would take too long to explain to this boy that nobody asked for his knee-jerk reaction to the looks of a woman he didn’t even know. And, also, because it was true.

  It takes a special kind of person to carry off black jodhpurs, a fitted black waistcoat minus a shirt, a silver lamé bow-tie and matching silver trainers5—the kind of person who only feels at home under a spotlight, the bigger and brighter, the better.

  Now, as the plump woman on the stage made way for Aisha, Avantika found herself marvelling at her. Here was a woman in a pixie haircut and an outfit that was part horse jockey, part male stripper, who was nevertheless oozing the kind of electric self-assurance that makes men go weak in the knees and women go wild with jealousy. It wasn’t fair. It didn’t even seem like she was trying, as she graciously answered a question from a Vogue correspondent.

  ‘Same old Aisha,’ she muttered.

  ‘You know her or what?’ Wayne asked.

  Clearly, her mutters weren’t as quiet as she’d thought. Kicking herself mentally, she nodded.

  ‘Same class in school.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ asked a jolly female voice.

  The plump woman who had introduced Aisha, had materialized behind her, holding a bottle of mineral water in her hand. Before she could respond, the woman held out her hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m Renuka from Glitz PR.’

  ‘Avantika Pandit, Mumbai Daily,’ Avantika said. ‘And that’s Wayne,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘Nice to meet you, you know Aisha from St Agnes?’

  ‘St Agatha.’

  Renuka smiled smoothly and for some reason, Avantika felt as if she’d already known that. ‘St Agatha, of course, silly me, would you like to meet her, it could be easily arranged,’ Renuka said. She was clearly a woman with no time for question marks. Or full stops.

  For one mad moment, Avantika considered telling her that Saint Agatha may not be available for a meeting, what with her having died some eight hundred years after Christ.

  ‘Erm, no thanks, we must get going. Lots of work at office.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m sure you can steal ten minutes—’

  And before she knew it, Renuka had grabbed Wayne by the arm and frogmarched him towards the stage. Avantika considered leaving at this point. Then she imagined Nathan’s face when she would have to tell him that some random PR valkyrie had taken his Precioussss away at the press conference, while she legged it from there. She sighed. Some days you were just a hydrant for the Universe to piss on.

  Dragging her feet, she followed Renuka and Wayne to the front of the room. The tables at the back were mostly occupied by the sorts who had come here just to fill column space. But the front of the room was a different story. The clothes were quirkier here, the handbags much more expensive. Here were the journalists who weren’t just interested in fashion, but often, dictated it. The style editors of Cosmopolitan and Vogue, the hosts of TV shows dedicated to fashion and the ten most popular fashion bloggers in India. These were the ladies who could tell a Birkin from a Kelley, knew what the next ‘It’ bag was going to be and could make or break a designer with a mere fifty words of print. They were, in other words, the Handbag Mafia.

  They were all currently staring at Wayne, whose Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down like a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance. Renuka was introducing him to Aisha. Avantika almost pitied him at this point, but she pitied herself more.

  ‘And he’s come with a friend of yours from school,’ Renuka trilled. ‘Avantika, from Mumbai Daily … right, dear?’

  Avantika stepped forward with a nod. Her body language had changed in the last second or so, to completely conceal the distaste she was feeling. ‘Yep,’ she said with a smile. ‘Hello, Aisha.’

  It was worth it, just to see the look of horror on Aisha’s face. The next second, it was gone and her grey eyes narrowed.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, in tones of chipped ice. ‘Long time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Avantika agreed, ‘long time.’

  1989

  There was a parrot on the tree outside the window. It was eating something Avantika couldn’t see. Probably a guava, she decided. The parrot in her storybook ate a guava. And a red chilli. But the thing in the parrot’s beak wasn’t red. Or chilli-shaped. It was green and white. So it was probably a guava. The mystery satisfactorily resolved, she turned her attention back to class. It was English period, her favourite. She liked all the new words and writing with pencils and Miss D’Sa, who reminded her of her Aunty Rujuta
. She liked everything about being in the first standard actually. The small recess and the big recess and the bells at the end of the periods and her classroom with its white walls and her wooden desk and wooden bench painted blue, and all the lovely notebooks and pencils.

  Ooh, and she loved her uniform. She had never worn a uniform until she came into primary school. And then, one day Aai and Baba had taken her to a big shop and bought her three! She looked at the one she was wearing now. It was so smart, a pink and white checked shirt, a dark pink pinafore and a pink and white checked belt. She lovingly smoothed her pinafore, feeling the soft fabric under her fingers.

  ‘Can I come in, Miss?’

  A girl was standing at the door. She looked old. Probably in the third or fourth standard, Avantika thought.

  ‘Not “can”, Kashmira, say “may I come in”,’ corrected Miss D’Sa.

  ‘May I come in, Miss?’ the girl called Kashmira said.

  ‘Yes, you may.’

  ‘Miss, Miss Francis has called you to the 3B classroom, Miss.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes Miss.’

  Miss D’Sa sighed. Then she looked at the class and said, ‘I’ll be right back, everyone. Don’t make a noise, okay?’

  ‘Yesmiss!’ the class chorused.

  ‘Just copy what I’ve written on the blackboard.’

  ‘Yesmiss!’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to tell me that the class was talking when I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Yesmiss!’

  Satisfied, Miss D’Sa followed Kashmira out of the class.

  It was at this point that Avantika realized with sudden horror, that she needed to go to the bathroom. Really badly. But how? Miss D’Sa wasn’t in class. She couldn’t leave the classroom without taking permission from Miss D’Sa. It was not allowed. Oh, how she wished she had asked for permission instead of staring at the parrot!

  She looked around nervously. Everyone was busy copying the sentences Miss D’Sa had written on the board. Everyone, except Mitali, who sat in the next row and was always being yelled at by Miss for not doing her homework. Maybe if she held on for some time, Miss D’Sa would come back and then she could ask for permission and go to the bathroom.

  So she turned her attention to her notebook and started scribbling. A few minutes later, her bench partner turned to her and said, ‘I finished. You finished?’

  Avantika shook her head. Miss D’Sa had told them not to talk.

  ‘Why you are writing so slowly?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Sssh, Miss said no talking,’ Avantika whispered.

  The girl giggled. ‘But Miss is not here to see who’s talking, no? And no one will tell her, because she only said she doesn’t want anyone to tell her the class was talking.’

  Avantika glanced at the door, worried. Miss had said that. But it still felt … wrong.

  ‘Let me write,’ she said instead, and picked up the pencil.

  ‘Then write,’ her partner said, but there was an odd smile on her face.

  A moment later, Avantika felt a finger tickle her neck. She turned around and whispered, ‘Stop it!’

  ‘No,’ her partner giggled, tickling her again, this time on the side of her waist.

  ‘Stop no, please!’ Avantika said with a whine.

  But it didn’t stop. Avantika wriggled and squirmed, her body tense and her mind full of fear, till she couldn’t take it anymore.

  ‘Stop it no, please!’ she cried, ‘I feel like going to the bathroom!’

  Her partner stopped the onslaught immediately. ‘Really?’ she asked, her face serious.

  ‘Yes,’ Avantika replied, relaxing.

  And then, to her shock, her partner grinned and started tickling her again, only much, much harder. She tried controlling herself, she really did, but it was no use. She felt her underpants get wet, and a thin trickle flowed down her legs, wetting her uniform. Her nice new uniform.

  Avantika felt her eyes sting and before she knew it her face had scrunched up and she was weeping great big blobs of tears. Her nose, clearly feeling that her eyes shouldn’t be doing this alone, joined in and began to run. Avantika covered her face with her palms and cried and cried, trying to drown out the whispers and giggles as more and more girls saw what was happening and joined in.

  Then a gentle voice in front of her said, ‘Girlie, girlie6, take this.’

  Avantika peeped from behind her hands. The girl sitting on the bench in front of her had turned around and was holding a hanky.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she said. ‘If you cry, they’ll tease you more.’

  Avantika took the hanky. It was pink and had an L embroidered on a corner, with a pattern of roses. It was so pretty. She didn’t feel like making it dirty. The girl seemed to understand that.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can wash it and bring it tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Avantika, sniffling and wiping her face.

  Then she folded the hanky and placed it carefully in her pocket.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘Laxmi Swaminathan,’ the girl replied.

  Avantika wanted to say thank you again, but suddenly, the whispers and giggles died down. There was what Miss Francis often called ‘pin-drop silence’. Miss D’sa was standing at the door, a stern expression on her face.

  ‘Why are you all making such a noise?’ she asked. ‘This whole class is going to be punished now.’

  ‘Miss, miss,’ a girl from the third row said, putting up her hand. ‘That girlie did susu in class, Miss!’

  The whole class giggled. Avantika felt her eyes sting again, but she remembered what Laxmi had said, and she didn’t cry.

  Miss D’sa looked shocked. ‘Who?’ she asked, her threats of punishment forgotten, ‘Who has gone to the bathroom in the class?’

  Miserably, Avantika raised her hand.

  ‘Very bad, Avantika, why didn’t you go to the bathroom to … go to the bathroom?’

  Avantika stood up, shaking. ‘M … miss, you weren’t h … here m … Miss … how … to—?’

  Miss D’Sa looked confused. She took a deep breath. ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  Avantika followed wretchedly, the back of her wet pinafore clinging to her thighs. She could feel the eyes of the whole class on her, as Miss D’Sa led her out of the classroom. She had no idea where she was being taken. What if she got punished? What if they told her to not come from tomorrow? She liked school, she didn’t want to stay at home. And what if Miss D’Sa took her to Miss Francis and Miss Francis gave her a note in her diary? Mitali was getting notes all the time and one day Miss Francis had even called her parents to school! What if Aai and Baba were called to school to meet Miss Francis? Her eyes filled up again and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  But Miss D’sa didn’t take her to Miss Francis’s room, which was on the second floor. Instead, she took her to the first floor, to the staff room. Avantika had never been inside the staff room before. It had big windows and tables and chairs and dark grey steel cupboards. When Avantika entered with Miss D’Sa, two other teachers were sitting at one of the tables. One teacher, whom she didn’t know, was correcting notebooks with a red pen. The other teacher was Mrs Cama, her craft teacher. Avantika liked her. She had a soft voice and always smiled in class.

  As Miss D’Sa came in with Avantika, Mrs Cama looked up from the magazine she was reading. She saw the patch on Avantika’s pinafore and smiled.

  ‘Spilled water on your uniform, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘No Miss … I … I did—’

  ‘She went to the bathroom in class,’ Miss D’Sa said briskly, opening one of the steel cupboards and taking out a neatly folded spare uniform and clean white cotton bloomers.

  ‘It’s alright, dear,’ Mrs Cama said in her soft voice. ‘It happens.’

  Avantika cheered up a little at that and felt just a little less nervous, as she went with Miss D’Sa to the toilet to change.

  She was back in cl
ass, twenty minutes later, her uniform, underwear and eyes, all dry. Her bench, on the other hand, was still wet. She raised her hand.

  ‘Miss, bench is wet, Miss.’

  Miss D’Sa, who seemed to want this period to end almost as badly as Avantika did, gave her a tight smile.

  ‘Then sit next to Laxmi, till peon-dada cleans up.’

  For the first time in the past half hour, Avantika felt like smiling. She picked up her schoolbag and went and sat next to Laxmi, who promptly shifted along the bench and made place for her. But she didn’t have time to feel happy for too long. The period was almost over. Once the bell rang for the next class, Miss D’Sa would rub off the blackboard. Sitting down, Avantika hurriedly started copying the sentences on the board in and managed to copy them all before the bell rang.

  As Miss D’Sa left the class, her old partner nudged her in the ribs and began singing, ‘Susu girl, susu girl!’

  Avantika turned around angrily. ‘I only did it because you tickled me! Say sorry!’

  ‘No,’ said the girl, and made a face.

  ‘Say sorry! You’re supposed to say sorry when you do a bad thing!’

  ‘No! I won’t!’

  Avantika clenched her fists. She had never felt so angry before. When you did something wrong, you were supposed to say sorry! And this girl was not saying sorry! And there was nothing she could do about it! She felt her eyes sting again, but this time out of sheer rage. She felt like hitting someone. No, she felt like hitting a very specific someone.

  Just then, Laxmi spoke up. ‘Just say sorry,’ she told the girl calmly. ‘Or I’ll tell your name to Miss, okay?’

  The girl glared at Laxmi as if she was a strange new kind of beetle.

  ‘I’m not doing anything to you, no? Then why you will tell her my name?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you’re not being nice,’ said Laxmi. ‘Just say sorry, okay?’

  The girl glared at them both, her eyes filled with loathing.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  Avantika’s fists slowly unclenched and she breathed out. She knew what she was supposed to say next. She was supposed to say ‘it’s okay’. She was supposed to forgive. Good people always forgave others, even if they weren’t nice to them, Miss Francis had said that day in assembly. God loves those who forgive, she had said. But Avantika was still angry. So she said the worst thing she could think of, something she had never said to anybody else ever, ever.