This story was written in 1999 and published elsewhere. I am reposting it here to keep all my work together.
"Imitation is the best form of flattery, Asha," said Uma, dangling her legs from the side of the chair. Then she took a deep puff of her cigarette as if to imbibe the collective appreciation from the comments on her latest published article with great satisfaction. "They are all imitating me," she said lifting her head for a second, tapping her fingers on the desk lazily, fishing for compliments from Asha. Asha nodded vigorously focussing her eyes on Uma, and spoke in a perfectly rehearsed tone, "How beautiful you look Uma, when you are so fabulously disengaged." Uma smiled a self-acknowledging smile and gazed at the computer screen lazily once again.
That is not what I was looking for! Not a word of appreciation on my work from Asha, not one! She has perfected this technique of praising my looks whenever she wants to avoid commenting on something else.
It was a cozy afternoon and Uma and Asha had just finished discussing some new writer. Ram Nanda. What an ace, Uma thought, even though she was too proud to admit that aloud.
Such clarity of vision, such brilliance! I wonder if he has the purple skin of a laborer? Perhaps a thin moustache. I am sure he is quite attractive. If I liked men, he would be on the top of my list. Sometimes I hate myself for my mediocrity. I am glad to have Asha for a chamcha. She thinks I am the best writer in the world.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," Uma said dismissively.
I am getting irritated with this girl though. If she didn’t make such great malai chai and pakoras, I would have broken up with her months ago. She may be stupid, but her cooking is to die for! Besides, she is the most willing lover I have ever had. That must say something. Lord knows what she does at work, this computer programmer fool. She and her insufferable office mates. I could bed a lewd panshopwallah before I would give a second glance to any of them. But then, I don’t think I would.
She chuckled at the thought of her parents still waiting for her to get married.
"You are lost in thought again," yelled Asha; "I am waiting for you to say something."
"Say what? About what?"
"You don’t listen to me anymore. You don’t care one bit. I was asking you how you like this song."
"It’s OK."
Yeah, its OK for a dog. I won’t say anything more. I am going to pretend to smile.
She felt a slight pang of remorse. Perhaps I judge her too harshly.
After all, I use this silly girl to pay for my life. Who am I kidding? If she wasn’t so enamoured ofme, I might still be living in that crummy apartment with Lauren and her crackhead friends. I should do something before this girl drags me into another meaningless topic.
"I am going to write a new article," quickly announced Uma, getting up with a lot of energy.
I am going to write about these idiotic fools from India who can’t appreciate art or literature. I am sure I can get it published. Kevin is always ready to print stuff about these programmer types and their follies, ever since he got outwitted by one of them.
"Asha, chai milegi? One cup. Only for inspiration?"
"Huhmm," Asha whined, "I am lazy. Wait for an hour. Come here and cuddle with me."
"Asha, sweetie, I have a wonderful idea for a story. If I don’t write it now, it will be gone forever. Samjha karo."
Asha got up and walked to the window.
Did I raise my voice? I know she is mad. I can tell even though she is facing away from me. She always bends her neck sideways when she is mad. She is pretty though, even though not as pretty as I am. I could just walk up there and kiss her on the nape of her neck. I can almost see her legs framed under her white summer dress. Oh heck, I have some writing to do.
2
"Imitation is the best form of flattery, Asha," says Uma, smoking her fifteenth Virginia slims. "They are all imitating me.". I remember her days in the drug pad that she called home. Dimly lit, covered in smoke, and filled with the stale stench of unsatisfying sex. But now she thinks she is God’s gift to humanity.
"How beautiful you look Uma, when you are so fabulously disengaged," I say in a rehearsed tone without meaning a word of it, and instantly regret it. Why do I do this? Uma fleers and looks away to the monitor. But I still love this girl and hate myself for doing so. And I hate long pauses.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," Uma mutters with her characteristic nod. Even in that tone of condescension, I can’t help but notice the sweet pitch of her voice. She is the pretty one amongst us. If she wasn’t, I would have walked out of here six months ago. I have to work 10 hours a day to make the money to feed both of us and her extravagant life. She thinks that this writing pays for her side of the bargain. I wish. I can feel the anger running through me. I think of all the code that I have to debug on Monday, and about Mahesh, my cubicle mate. He is cute in a rustic way even, though his constant whistling irritates me. I am sure he wants to ask Uma. Where is your cute roomie these days? he asks. Roommate! But it is better that way. Just as the woman on the CD coos in the background, "hum tum sanam, lekin duniya kehtee hai na na na." I close my eyes and listen to the words. Ordinarily I am not a big fan of these stupid songs; Jhinjhak music Uma calls them.
"So what do you think of this song, Uma. I borrowed it from Shalini at work."
Uma pays no attention. She types away on the keyboard with two fingers, like she is writing an epic.
"You are lost in thought again," I couldn’t help my voice rising; "I am waiting for you to say something."
"Say what? About what?"
"You don’t listen to me anymore. You don’t care one bit. I was asking you how you like this song." And you think I am stupid. Without any creativity. But you eat my food and live in my apartment and withhold sex from me whenever the mood doesn’t strike you. May be you deserve someone like Mahesh.
"It’s OK." And she thinks I cannot detect the placating condescension in her voice.
"I am going to write a new article," Uma announces, getting up with a lot of energy. A conversation stopper, I could tell. Next, she will ask me to make tea.
I don’t want to say anything. I hope Kevin publishes this one. He would publish anything from her. I am sure it is yet another wounded article on how technology is complicated and programmers are stupid.
"Asha, chai milegi? One cup. Only for inspiration?"
"I am lazy. Wait for an hour. Come here and cuddle with me." And pay for your chai with some quality time bitch. Wait for an hour. Wait for an eternity.
"Asha, sweetie, I have a wonderful idea for a story. If I don’t write it now, it will be gone forever. Samjha karo." Uma raises her voice. Really? Now I would rather look out of the window at the empty parking lot than make you tea.
I walk out to the window and gaze out at the clouds. The sky looks so cloudy and worried. Under that the paved parking lot is curled up end to end in humidity. Cars look like they were left out like playthings in this heat.
3
Ram Nanda finally withdrew his gaze from the painting on the wall and looked away. He must have looked at it for a long time; the painting stood against a white backdrop, framed in a simple wood rectangle, the canvas showed two women, one slender beautiful girl facing a computer, smiling and typing and another facing a window away from the viewer. His eyes felt tired and he really wished for a cigarette. You are psychotic, he said to himself, making up a whole story from a stupid painting. But I am sure these girls could only be named Uma and Asha if they ever existed. Uma with her slender features and dignified fingers and Asha wearing a sheer white summer dress. There was a perversion in him that made him feel sexually aroused, just a little bit.
Time to leave, he thought. Can’t look at one more painting this afternoon. He felt tired. This was a routine for him. Waking up late; walking unkempt and under-groomed, from the hot hole on Sand Piper Lane that he calls home to Garrand Plaza,; watching the buses and the Mounties, drinking coffee at the Future cafe if he had enough change in his pocket; laughing at people audibly and impolitely and then wandering aimlessly through the art district until he found a painting he liked. Then weaving fantastic tales in his mind until the place closed for the day or he felt tired.
Perhaps I need a haircut, a shower and some sleep. And my mouth is dry; these SSRIs* make my mouth so dry. He came out of the hall and stopped at the entrance for a second, and paused stylishly, touching his thin moustache. He thought of the better days before depression struck him, before Paxil, before Renu left, before mommy died. Now he can’t even cry when he thinks of those days!
He walked out of the gallery to the parking lot and let the hot sun bake his purple skin for a minute. Then he carefully fished out his keys from his pocket and walked to his car, lying under the shadow of the tall apartment complex across the street. His Toyota stretched in front of him submissively like a dog.
4
Hmm, strangely enough, there is an Indian guy coming out of the building across the street; Asha is almost sure their eyes met when he looked up. She watches him disappear inside his car, and slowly drive out of the parking lot. Who goes to an art gallery at this time of day! Perhaps, I could drink some tea myself. The sun is baking the asphalt and I can see the colorless wave of smoke rising down below. Time to close the window.
With a deep sigh of resignation, Asha moves closer to Uma and strokes her back as she sits writing.
