A Handbook For My Lover Read online

  Then I slipped back into silence, making it clear that the next move had to be yours.

  That evening, as I was making myself a cup of tea-bag tea (the way you usually make it when you have no time to bother with the ceremony of brewing, with two tea bags for that extra kick), I heard the door bell ring. Not expecting anyone at the time, I first peered through the peephole. I noticed a figure and was surprised to find it was you. I opened the door and found you out of breath, a swivel chair in tow.

  It was only later that I realised you had replied to my earlier message saying you were aware of all that I was telling you, and you knew I was right, but you just needed time to cool off, and that you would start making amends by bringing over the chair.

  I let you in and offered you the cup of tea I’d made for myself. Cigarettes were our peace pipe and when you left, I asked if I’d see you again for dinner.

  ‘Let’s see, I’ll call you.’

  Around 8 p.m., with no word from you yet, I decided it was time I made my own peace offering. I took a shower, called a cab, and headed to Defence Colony. I stepped out of the cab and headed straight to Amici and ordered two of their best wood-oven-fired pizzas, and then stopped at the liquor store and bought a Chilean red (I remembered what you once said, ‘You can rarely go wrong with a Chilean red’).

  I had a plan. I would stop by your place and if you weren’t in the mood for company, would simply drop off my offering. If you weren’t home, I would leave it at your table with a note, and should you want to have dinner with me, we’d find ourselves in an opportune moment. As I was about to get back into the cab, I got a message from you. ‘Whiskey and pasta?’ I replied, ‘Can we do red wine and pizza instead? Coming over.’

  You were elated at the sight of the Chilean. You uncorked it enthusiastically and poured the dark red liquid into two of the cutting chai glasses I’d recently gifted you. We sat across the table from each other and gorged on the first pizza, a lovely thin crust with prosciutto and eventually, the second one which had, as toppings, chorizo, rocket leaves and parmesan.

  ‘I realised that this August will mark six years since we’ve been together.’ I said.

  ‘Oh really?’ You sounded genuinely astonished. ‘Gosh, that’s scary!’

  ‘I know! I’ve never been with someone so intensely for so long.’

  ‘Well, no one is forcing you to stay,’ you said, feigning offence.

  That night we added new flavours to our growing archive, the holy taste of rocket, the salty-spicy fleshiness of chorizo, and the intense, full-bodied texture of the Chilean red.

  Feast

  For you the choicest meat: drumsticks, plump ones, from Republic of Chicken. I washed them, made incisions at the intersections between flesh and flesh, and with my bare fingers, I rubbed the marinade so it would seep into the bones. It’s an old Goan recipe, African in origin. We call it cafreal.

  I massaged the legs with the marinade and had a sip of red wine. An inconsequential detail, I understand, but red wine does things to me, mixes with my blood, flows through secret pathways in my brain until I finally relent.

  For you, no skimping on ingredients, no scrimping with cheese. Crumbled bits of feta sit alone in a bowl. I split a couple of cherry tomatoes into two. They contrast starkly with the crisp white of the goat cheese. I tear some iceberg lettuce, like a writer destroying her masterpiece—calculatingly, so it can be reconstructed in the event of regret. Long slivers of sun-dried tomato. The feta is no longer alone. A drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkling of fresh basil, a few drops of balsamic vinegar. I toss all the ingredients. They jostle for space, they nudge and tug, shuffle and hug, and sigh.

  I transport the half-cooked meal from my kitchen to yours, a transfusion of sorts. I stop on the way to buy a bunch of potatoes, just in case, and a quarter-kilo of mostly-sweet black cherries, and one perfectly round musk melon that I could tell was ripe to the core from the effusive, wild scent that hung over the fruit cart, and tampered with the scents of other fruits.

  Your kitchen is dysfunctional. The stove is moody, the microwave sings, the toaster regularly goes on strike, and the sink is so low I have to bend to wash the rice which I then soak. Your water heater is the only reliable appliance. I heat two parts of water for the pulao. I use a standard 1:2 ratio. I dice an onion, a large majestic one. It yields to my touch and for the first time in months, my eyes aren’t overwhelmed by its pungent perfume. I grate a tomato so that the fattish red fruit is reduced to a wet, thin pulp.

  For you, only excess.

  Because when you bite into food that is good, your body crumbles. And with every morsel, I dismantle you until you submit to my sliver-of-a-touch.

  Because any man who kisses the way you do, with controlled abandon—as if you were transporting a ball of fire from your lips onto mine, as if, with your tongue, you were firmly licking the insides of my soul—is deserving of a feast.

  Take my firm black-cherry coloured body. Undress the layers of cloth that surround me like a peel. There are various methods of preparation to choose from. You could have me simmer in the brazen warmth of your touch, or you could use red wine as marinade, to soften me up, leave me intoxicated for hours until I ooze. But tonight, I suggest you eat me raw. Place my unfurled body on an un-made bed, bite into the dark, supple flesh. Start with the nape of my neck until you reach the soft tips of my toes. I strongly recommend you play with your food; let your fingers graze against my nipples, the curve of my belly, the steep incline of my spine. Savour the flavour of my honey-scented skin. Dip into my flesh. Suck on my joints, chew on my bones. Consume me.

  For you, a feast.

  Artful

  I’m still unable to trace exactly when and how this handbook came to be more than a document. I imagine there was a point when some confusion arose. Perhaps I kept referring to it as ‘the book’ and you assumed it was indeed a book, a work of fiction that I had embarked on. When you started to pester me last year, you asked once again why it was taking so long. I explained that there were many issues I had still to resolve.

  ‘Is it because of me? Am I in the book?’

  ‘You are the book!’

  ‘So what are you so afraid of?’

  ‘Well, you’ve always been so private about our affair. You’ve made it clear on many occasions that you’d rather no one knew … But this book, it’s revealing.’

  ‘Women have written about me before, you know.’

  ‘Probably. But this is different.’

  ‘Whatever the reason, I don’t understand what’s taking so fucking long.’

  ‘Writing is a process.’

  ‘When you started, you said you’d finish it in two months.’

  ‘That was then, when I didn’t know better. You can’t keep holding that against me. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I think you’re wasting time! I know a lot of writers. When they start on a book, their lives revolve only around the book.’

  ‘We have our methods. Writing doesn’t only happen when one is actually writing, it happens all the time. One is constantly making notes, observing things, archiving sensations. In fact, there’s no point when a writer is not engaged with the act of writing. It’s all consuming.’

  ‘Have you thought about what happens when you finish this?’ you asked.

  ‘I’m in touch with this woman, an agent; she represents the India office of this big London agency.’

  ‘What about X? Why don’t you get in touch with him?’

  ‘Do you know how many manuscripts he must reject by the hour? There’s no way he’d even look at mine.’

  ‘So what? Why should that stop you? What’s the point, if you’re not going to put yourself out there, test your mettle, see if you stand a chance in the first place?’

  I spent the next two days sulking. I don’t like feeling pressured into doing things. I prefer taking my time and making decisions intuitively. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face the repercussions of putting
my name to such a book, were it to be published. It was easy for you to harass me about finishing it, given that you hadn’t actually read it, save for the harmless, tiny fragments from here and there that I’d read out now and then to amuse you.

  The next day, I sat at my desk from morning until late evening and put my chapters into place. Perhaps you were right after all, that I should in fact ‘test my mettle’, challenge myself, and put this book out there. Now that I had your sanction, I no longer had to fear your reaction. I could spin any opposition from you by reminding you that it was you who had pushed me towards publicity. I wrote to a few publisher friends who read the first three chapters and were intrigued, but not enough to offer me a contract. Their unanimous sentiment was that they’d like to see a finished draft and then come to a decision. Now that I had actually contemplated seeing it published, of immortalising through printers’ ink the complicated snares of our relationship, I needed an external force to have faith in the project. I needed someone to commit to my endeavour. It seemed impossible.

  Then one morning, I decided to attempt an email to X. I argued that it wasn’t really the risk or gamble I was making it out to be. He would either consent to representing me or would reject the work-in-progress. At the very worst, he wouldn’t reply. So I went ahead and composed a little note, enclosing three chapters for him to sample.

  He replied within 24 hours and asked if I could tell him more about myself. I can’t remember what I said, I have the email somewhere but I’m too embarrassed to reread it. Then he asked if there were more chapters he could see. I sent him a few more, and then, one evening, more than a year ago, when I still lived in Khirki, just as I was about to leave my place to head to you, I found an email from him nestled in my inbox between other, more inconsequential ones. He said he was interested in taking it on.

  I was ecstatic.

  I rushed over to you and waited until I had you sitting across the marble-top table to break the news. You shared my excitement, but told me to stay calm. We were still in the midst of our conversation when my phone began to ring. It was a UK number, so I decided to pick up.

  It was he.

  I mumbled as much, that he was actually calling me, but you didn’t need for me to tell you, you could fathom from the flushed tone of my voice.

  ‘Relax,’ you said. ‘Play it cool.’

  ‘Are we on,’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to ‘play it cool’ but so obviously failing.

  ‘Excellent. So let’s drink to it, shall we?’

  I was euphoric. You brought out two empty glasses and a bottle of Laphroaig, to ring in the celebrations.

  A few weeks later, I emailed you my working manuscript. But of course you didn’t bother to read it. What is it with your impatience for the written word? I realised long ago that the only way I can get you to read something is if I read it out to you. I asked you if you’d agree to a listening session. You were all ears. And yet, when I had you across from me, a willing audience, I found I was shy, the contents of the book seemed too intimate for a one-man audience.

  ‘How do you expect this book to be public when you’re so shy about even sharing it with me?’ you asked.

  A few months later I got a call from a musician friend who runs a café in Hauz Khas Village. He asked if I would consider doing a session on the rooftop. I jumped at the idea. Then he asked if there was any way you would agree to showing some of your work there. Strangely, you agreed.

  A day before I was to read, you were in a state of panic.

  ‘Listen, what are you going to be reading? How much of me is in there? Am I going to feel uncomfortable? What are the chapters like? How do I come across?’ you badgered me.

  ‘I sent you at least ten chapters to read more than six months ago. You should have done your homework!’ I said.

  ‘Did you really think I was going to read it?’

  ‘But that was the idea behind the handbook in the first place! You cannot blame me, or worse, censor me at this stage. I’m too far in. If you’re going to suddenly start having issues, then I’m fucked, because I won’t have a book anymore. And this book needs to be written!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I added, after my rant. ‘I won’t read anything too incriminating.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  The invitation to the reading was rather amusing. On the left-hand corner of the page was a stick figure-like drawing of a girly face, on the opposite end, a gruffy, bearded male counterpart with a camera beside it. The two faces were joined by a wavy cord. I called my friend instantly and asked him to cut the cord in between. It was too obvious and I knew you’d have issues with its representational transparency. He agreed.

  That evening I turned up at your house wearing a dress. When we were about to leave, you asked me if I couldn’t wear a sari instead.

  ‘You look so elegant in a sari.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me these things beforehand? I don’t have a sari with me now.’

  ‘Can’t you call one of your flatmates and ask them to get one for you?’

  ‘I can try.’

  I did. When we got to Ziro, I found my flatmate, picked up the sari, and went to the loo to change.

  You were busy hanging your photographs. I made my way to the rooftop, somewhat nervous and, by now, two beers down.

  There must have been about forty people in the audience, mostly friends, my friends. I found my way to the seat that was assigned to me, in a corner of the terrace, diagonal to the crowd. I kept my printouts on the table, and lit myself a cigarette while I waited for everyone to settle down. After a brief introduction, I began my reading. I had chosen to read what I thought were the safest chapters: ‘To Strip’, ‘What I See in You’, ‘Charter of Demands’, and‘Feast’. A friend later remarked they were anything but safe. I noticed you were seated right up front, but the lights were dim, save for the table lamp that I was provided with, and I could barely gauge your reaction. When I was done, I came up to you sheepishly. You were making idle conversation with a curator friend.

  ‘So, are you still talking to me?’

  ‘Of course,’ you said. ‘Come, have a beer!’

  We left soon enough. You had a flight to catch the next morning. All through the ride home, you were unusually quiet. Too embarrassed to make conversation, I kept my thoughts to myself.

  We arrived at your place, and I unlocked the door. It was only after we entered that you finally broke the silence.

  ‘I’m hungry. Are you hungry too?’

  ‘I’m not exactly hungry. I had a BLT at Ziro, but I can whip up some pasta if you like.’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘Of course. Give me twenty minutes.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won’t later write that I forced you to cook me dinner?’

  I was heading to the kitchen when you made this remark. I turned back, startled, and found you grinning ear to ear.

  ‘Very funny!’

  I proceeded to prepare the pasta, and when it was ready, decided to wash the dishes so I wouldn’t have to do them later. You entered the kitchen just around then and asked if I’d like a drink. I said yes, enthusiastically. You dug through the liquor cabinet and brought out some bourbon and poured us each a glass.

  ‘How’s it going with the dishes?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if it will end up in your book.’

  You laughed, and I joined in. I was relieved that we were laughing!

  Finally, when we sat down to dinner, we spoke about what had just transpired.

  ‘When I came upstairs I felt like everyone was watching me, so I decided to sit right up front. Then, in between, I stuck out my camera and started taking pictures so that I would look busy. It was so bizarre, the whole thing. You were talking about my fridge, my floors, my tap, my plates, my Gypsy. It was all so familiar!’

  ‘And what did you think of it?’


  ‘It’s actually quite good. But if there’s one critique I have, it’s that you could be more critical of me.’

  ‘Oh, I have been! I just didn’t read out those parts.’

  ‘So tell me, how does it end? Are they still together, do they break up? What happens?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think they part ways. There are last words exchanged. She asks him to remember her. It’s not a request, it’s an invocation, an incantation.’

  ‘The pen and paper are a real impediment if you are seeking relationships that will last,’ Kamala Das told her biographer Merrily Weisbord. Kamala should know; she spent most of her life longing to be loved, and embellished each affair with the flourish of her language. Each lover became more than what he were, as if transformed by the fertility of her bounteous imagination. Eventually, Kamala would understand that she had made myths out of men, and the myths were so grand that if they were stripped off, only a skeletal structure would remain. And yet, she couldn’t but be seduced by the lure of being desired and desiring, as if this endlessly repeated twin act sustained her writing self like nothing else could. Dr Husain, a Muslim surgeon who awakened her lust in her late sixties, is left speechless when he hears the first piece of text Kamala ever composed about him. ‘I am just an ordinary man. Yet, you take this ordinary man and make him great. That is why I love you so much,’ he tells her, with Weisbord as his witness.

  It’s an innocent statement, and yet it alludes to the fact that his love for her rests on her ability to transform his understanding of his own being through her experience of him, imbuing him with qualities he never thought he possessed. By inscribing him in her writing, she elevates him to being not merely the object of her desire but the subject of her art.