9

Aaditya 1alwai
II nothing else you know by the smell, quite unlike anything you`ve smelt
anywhere else. When you exit the sanitized airport, you will Iind yourselI in the midst oI
a sea oI Iaces, blanketed by a sticky heat, and when that inescapable odor sneaks up and
curdles in your nostrils, that is when you know you`re in Bombay. It would be wrong to
call it a stench, unpleasant as it may be to those who aren`t used to it, Ior those who are
used to it associate it not with Ioulness but with home. The smell eventually weeds out
those who are built to survive in Bombay Irom those who aren`t, because, quite Irankly,
iI you`re not good with unpleasant smells then Bombay will never grow on you the way it
grew on me. II I had to describe it in one word: sweat. Filthy, disease-bearing sweat but
nevertheless the sweat oI earnest labor, subtly blended with the smell oI the Arabian Sea,
mixed with the smell oI hundreds oI thousands oI roadside chai-shops and the sewers that
gape open behind their backs.

The Iinal human connection I have with Bombay is at one such chai-shop the
last establishment oI it`s kind on a Iuturistic six-lane highway that leads to the
international airport. It is a ramshackle building, positioned in between two gigantic
streetlights so that every passing car can see it. When I spot it Irom a distance, I urge my
cab driver to stop a while, eager to get a hot drink and a cigarette in me beIore I spend the
better part oI a day on an airplane. My driver, a silent, gruII man, grunts something about
being on a schedule. But he pulls over anyway, and I step out oI the stiIling vehicle into
the cool early morning air. It is 5 a.m. an ungodly time, but sadly the only time I can

board a Ilight out oI here to New York City. Dawn is breaking, and a chilly breeze gives
me goose bumps on my bare Iorearms. I look at these and smile because I know that iI I
stick around Ior a Iew more hours, then these same Iorearms will be sticky with hot
perspiration. Such is Bombay.
But as things are, I do not have a Iew more hours; I have barely twenty minutes to
make it to the airport. I can smell the spiced aroma Irom a distance as I walk up to the
counter. I ask the shopkeeper Ior a chai and he pours me a cup promptly. I take a sip and
the hot liquid washes away some oI the morning rheum in my throat. The shopkeeper
looks jovial and asks me, in English -
'Where you Ily to?
I answer him in Hindi, because I believe this to be his language oI choice, but he
puts his hand up and insists I reply in English. Many oI his customers are Ioreign, he tells
me, and he wants to learn to communicate with them.
'I am Ilying to New York.
'For why?
I smile and correct him. He nods appreciatively and gestures me to continue.
'I have a job there. Finance.
He strings together a broken sentence Irom which I pick up the words bank` and
cash`. I laugh and commend him Ior the eIIort.
'That was good, I say, setting my empty cup on the counter.
'When you come back?

I want to say in a month, or in six months, or in a year-and-a-halI, but I can`t
bring myselI to Iorm these words or even envision myselI that Iar in the Iuture. So
instead I tell him the truth -
'I don`t know. Maybe never.
He laughs as he swipes my cup oI the counter:
'$ab vaapas aata hai`
And with this he looks at me shrewdly, as iI he is in on some inside joke that I am
doomed to remain oblivious to. I set some change on the counter and climb back into my
cab.

On the airplane, as we are coasting towards the runway, I bury my Iace in a moist
towelette and mull over his words in my head.
$ab vaapas aata hai Everyone comes back.
*
I`m in New York City, standing outside Melissa`s high-rise apartment building,
waiting Ior her to buzz me in. It is a blustery aIternoon in March, and my Iingers are
already numb Irom the wind chill. Melissa keeps telling me I ought to wear gloves, but I
never do and I never have a good reason not to. She even bought me a pair last
Christmas, which I wore Ior a week to show my appreciation but, to tell the truth, it never
seemed natural to me to have to put something on my hands Ior the sole purpose oI going
outside. Just like wool caps or scarves or thermal underwear never seemed natural to me.
I cup my hands over my mouth and blow into them Ior some ephemeral relieI, while
cursing Melissa Ior taking so goddamn long to respond. I buzz again, in annoying stop-

start patterns that I know she hates, until Iinally the door unlocks and I burst through into
the warm interior.

Her living room is almost bare. Cardboard boxes are piled in a corner and there is
a table in the middle oI the room, with a white cloth over it and a vase oI roses in the
center. She`s wearing a thigh-length mauve bathrobe and her arms are Iolded at the waist.
She smiles at me:
'I thought we could enjoy one last meal here.
I am a little conIused as I see no silverware set out nor does her kitchen look like
it`s been used recently, but then Melissa`s lips are within an inch oI mine and my hands
move around her hips without guidance. Within seconds, we are horizontal on the living
room table and I hear the vase oI roses crash to the Iloor. I stop Ior a moment and mutter
something about cleaning up, but she doesn`t seem to care and, to be honest, neither do I.
Her skin is moist with sweat and she smells Iresh like a morning run. Her auburn hair
tickles the side oI my Iace as I hover over her. Soprano whimpers rise up Irom the
cockles oI her chest and punctuating her soIt, rhythmic breathing.
When we are Iinished, she points out the things she wants me to carry Ior her. We
are moving in together. It was my idea. Or hers. I can`t remember. It was one oI those
things that we knew was going to happen eventually it was only a question oI whose
apartment. Mine was bigger, but hers was closer to the subway. I think we decided on
mine because Melissa said she was sure I`d complain about having to move. She knows
me pretty well.


It is Iive years since I leIt Bombay. For the Iirst three, I didn`t have Melissa.
During those three years, I would read about Bombay and see it on the news and
excitedly point out, to no one in particular, the monuments and locales that I recognized. I
called home every weekend to talk to my parents their voices would crackle across the
airwaves, taking on the sound quality oI an old black-and-white movie. 'Your niece is
engaged now, my mother would tell me. Or 'Call your great uncle. He`s in the hospital
with stomach cancer. I am careIul to maintain this strand oI connection, because I know
it is worth remembering where my roots lie, and worth preserving the identity I was
raised with. But in all other matters oI liIe, I am less cautious. I allow my accent to twist
itselI into an abominable double helix, crisscrossing between the stereotyped Indian
inIlection I talk on the phone with, and the New York twang I use when I order at
McDonald`s. AIter a Iew embarrassing instances when I take my shoes oII at Iriends`
doors, I resolve to keep my Iootwear on all the time, even in my own home, which now
perpetually smells like wet sneakers. I eat meat, lots oI meat. Big, Ileshy quarter pound
burgers that would make me squeamish when I saw them on television as a kid, but are
such a novelty to me that I am instantly won over by their Ilavor and succulence. I am
aware oI the Iact that I`ve changed; Iriends who have made the same move tell me that
this happens to everyone, and that I shouldn`t beat myselI up over having to adapt. I try
not to think about it too much because when I do, I Ieel a guilt that cannot be assuaged by
voices over phone lines.

I meet Melissa aIter two years on the Upper East Side and my phone calls to
home become less and less Irequent. On our Iirst date I tell her I am Ioreign, and she begs

me to regale her with stories about growing up in another country. It`s not as diIIerent, I
tell her, and quickly change the topic.
*
Three months aIter Melissa moves in, Bombay is hit by an earthquake. She sees it
on the ticker on CNN, and shouts to me Irom the living room. I am shaving, but I quit
halIway through and scramble to the phone. I Irantically put in the digits to my parents`
number but I mess up the Iirst two times and am Iorced to dig out my old black book and
look it up again. When I Iinally get through, I hear a Iemale voice on the other end. It is
too distant and weary to make out, but I assume it`s my mother.
'Hello? Hello, Mom?
'Do you know it is 4 o`clock in the morning? she groans.
'Mom, is everyone OK? I just heard about the earthquake.
'Earthquake? Oh yes that was hardly anything. Don`t worry, we`re all saIe.
I stay silent on the other end and Ieel the blood rush back into the Iingers I grip
the receiver with. I picture my mother, halI-asleep in our living room, holding the phone
loosely to her ear as my dad snores peaceIully in the background. This calms me down
and I stay Iocused on it. AIter a long pause, my mother pipes up again,
'Why don`t you say something? You haven`t called us in more than a month!
As I`m on the phone, Melissa walks in and looks at me anxiously. Her hands are
on the sides oI her Iace and her brows are crinkled up in adorable ridges across her
Iorehead. I show her the all OK` sign and the ridges disappear, replaced by a broad smile
that makes me smile too. When I get oII the phone she Ialls on my lap and kisses me on
the halI oI my Iace that isn`t covered in shaving cream.

'That was scary, she says.
'Uh-huh.
That night, aIter Melissa is asleep, I slip out Irom under the covers and go Ior a
walk. I don`t head towards anywhere in particular, but simply circle the neighbourhood.
At Iirst I walk briskly, but my Iootsteps echo with urgency as they strike the pavement,
and this unnerves me. I slow down and allow my bare skin to breathe in the balmy June
air. It Ieels like I`m in the tropics. I crane my neck to stare into the tall streetlights, and I
think oI the ones that light up the highway leading to Bombay`s airport. I hear the
gushing oI the East River in the distance, and I think oI the Arabian Sea during the
monsoons, roaring at the coast with demonic Ierocity. Behind me, a homeless man is
under a blanket oI newspapers. He twitches in his sleep as insects circle around his head.

For the next week, the slightest incident or vision or noise will take me back to
somewhere beyond the horizon oI the present day. At work, in the elevator, while making
love - disparate recollections that have little in common except that they are all Iounded
in the same place, oceans away Irom where I am now. One night, Melissa and I are in the
balcony, eavesdropping on an argument on the street, Iive stories below, between a white
man and a cab driver who sounds Pakistani. My head is on Melissa`s shoulder; she runs
her Iingers through my hair and plays with my earlobe as we hear accented swears ring
out below us.
'Can I tell you something? I say.
%
'OI course. Melissa replies, gently scratching the nape oI my neck. Some people
have walked up and are trying to diIIuse the argument down below. I liIt my head oII oI
Melissa`s shoulder -
'Sometimes, I don`t think I can live here any more.
Melissa turns to Iace me. She looks conIused.
'You mean, here on the East Side?
'No, I mean.here. America.
I see her eyebrows make those delightIul ridges again, but I can`t smile at them
because the rest oI her Iace is sad. She takes a step away Irom me and I can no longer
smell the rosemary in her hair.
'Why? Aren`t you happy here? I try to look into her eyes without Ieeling bad
about myselI, but this is impossible because she doesn`t just look unhappy; she looks like
she`s been betrayed. I don`t know the look too well, but I remember the last time I saw it
was when I told my dad I was moving out oI the Iamily home to New York. It`s not a
look I handle very well.
'I am happy. It`s just that.
Words bottleneck in my throat and I turn away Irom Melissa. Five stories down,
the Pakistani cab driver throws his arms in the air and storms back to his vehicle. Melissa
and I hear the slam oI a car door and the screeching oI wheels as a yellow taxicab speeds
away into the night. A small crowd persists around the taxicab-shaped void, without
saying anything.
'It`s just that I miss home.
%
Immediately aIter making this I statement I realize that it is true. I do miss home.
I`m not just saying it the way people say they miss being able to Iit into their prom dress
or they miss their pet hamster beIore he rolled under a lawnmower or they miss the days
when you could see the stars over Manhattan without squinting. My emotionless
monotone doesn`t let it on but, right now, I probably miss home more than I`ve missed
anything. I see Melissa`s Iace soItens into an oasis that I can look at again. She puts her
hands on my shoulders.
'Is there anything I can do to help?
I know she can`t help, and I wonder iI she knows it too. But still, she sounds so
sincere and I Ieel like I don`t deserve this.
'No, I`m Iine. I Iorce a smile. The streetlights play oII Melissa`s skin like
magic, bringing out the smooth contours oI her lips and nose and intensiIying the dark in
between the ridges oI her eyebrows. She doesn`t need me to worry her with this. I tell
myselI that it`s just the earthquake that`s put me in this mood. It`ll pass; I know it will.
'I`m sorry - I didn`t mean I wanted to move. I`m just homesick. I`ll get over it.
I Ieel the tension in her arms dissipate as she wraps them loosely around my neck.
'I`m here Ior you.
My smile turns easy again.She leans in to kiss me and does that thing with her
tongue that makes me Ieel like there`s a live Iish in my mouth, soIt and tantalizingly
warm. My homesickness recedes into the background as I sink into the warm pleasure oI
Melissa`s lips. A Iew seconds later, she pulls back and grins at me -
'Are Indian girls better kissers than I am?
*

I am IiIteen and cocksure, playing soccer in a back-street in Bombay, barely wide
enough to let a car through but still ample space Ior eight oI us and a ball. We all bet our
allowances on this game, because we think that gambling makes us big men, and we
could all use some extra cash, and Irankly, it gives us all a reason to turn up and not play
like Iucking chuthads vaginas, because obviously vaginas can`t play soccer. I marshal
my three team-mates towards goal and thrash the ball against one oI the walls, so that it
ping-pongs back and Iorth across the narrow stretch, and somehow squirms its way
through to Arjun, who isn`t paying attention and lets it bounce oI the back oI his head.
Fucking chuthad. The ball rolls out to me and I consider putting my Ioot through it,
beIore I see her emerge Irom one oI the several gated apartment buildings that line the
street. She is wearing high heels, tight jeans and a bleached Grateful Dead t-shirt that
exposes the tiniest sliver oI midriII. We stop our game and let her pass through out oI
courtesy. Arjun makes a lewd gesture as she walks past and I look at him with disdain. I
wait until she`s a reasonable distance away and then abandon the game (and, by
understanding, my week`s allowance) to Iollow her. They shout aIter me but I don`t
bother turning back to explain. Her t-shirt is riding at the waist and the arch oI her back is
visible. I draw closer to her to get a better view. II you live in India long enough, you will
appreciate that the arch oI a woman`s back can be as erotic, as captivating, as anything
you`ve ever laid eyes on.
I know where she is going. It is an hour or two aIter lunch her parents are asleep
and there is no one to notice her sneak out oI the house or back in. She doesn`t know it,
but I`ve been watching her walk the same route every day Ior the past week. And today I
am determined to walk with her, though not alongside her, because I know that that

would put her oII. A stray dog sniIIs at my ankles and I quicken my pace. For the liIe oI
me, I can`t take my eyes oII the small oI her back.
She makes a leIt where I know she`s going to make a leIt, and Ior a second I lose
sight oI her. A peanut-hawker emerges Irom an alcove with a cart Iull oI shelled peanuts
and a steaming hot iron-plate on which he is warming several up. He knows me well, and
preemptively tears out a strip oI newspaper and Iolds it into a cone. But I stop him beIore
he can Iill it up and gesture that I won`t be having any today. He looks disappointed. I
dodge around his cart and turn the corner, where I have to push through a group oI
commuters at the bus-stop; they push back just to make my liIe diIIicult. I am relieved
when I catch sight oI her again, a little Iurther away than I would like. I am about to
break into a run when I Ieel a sharp nip at my heels; I look down and realize that damned
dog is still Iollowing me. I do what they told me to do in pre-school and stop Ior a
moment to let him get a good sniII (which is apparently all he should want Irom me) and
then continue walking at a leisurely pace. But this doesn`t work and I Iigure that I don`t
have the time to deal with this - I can barely see her anymore, she`s so Iar ahead oI me. I
try to catch up with her while ignoring the mutt at my heels. She`s getting close to the
cigarette-shop; I break into a run. I get there a second or two aIter her, and make eye
contact with the shopkeeper just as she is counting out her change. We have an
understanding. He hands her a loose cigarette. She asks Ior a light but he shrugs his
shoulders and says he can`t help her. This is panning out quite nicely. I have a matchbox
in the inside oI my sock, stolen Irom the kitchen; I imagine my mother`s searching Ior it
right now as she looks to make the aIternoon tea. I leap to the girl`s side and strike a
match a symbolic match, I think to myselI, a match that will spark a Iiery desire in her

loins and mine. I stare into her eyes with what I think is smoldering passion, and she
looks back at me and halI-smiles a halI-smile! I draw the match closer to the brown end
oI her cigarette and nearly leap with delight when it glows orange. She takes a long, slow
puII and releases the smoke through exquisitely puckered lips. I stand there grinning,
unsure oI what to do next. My plan had only been marked out this Iar and, to be honest, I
was surprised it had come oII without a hitch. I shuIIle around nervously, still smiling.
She has a nose-ring that I hadn`t noticed beIore. And she`s wearing the tiniest bit oI eye
shadow. What does one say to a girl who smokes cigarettes and wears eye shadow? She
sees my wide grin and takes it to mean something else, oIIering me a drag oI her
cigarette. I have never smoked beIore. I hold the cigarette between my thumb and index
Iinger and gaze at it like it is something alien, otherworldly. She is watching me, so I act
quickly. I put it to my lips like I had seen her do, and inhale. A warm, itchy sensation Iills
up my mouth and throat and I Ieel it Ilow down into my chest. For a second, just a
second, it Ieels good. But then it Ieels like a hot iron rod is being held to my sternum, and
I choke and splutter and keel over and cough my guts out. I stay keeled over Ior a second
or two because I am embarrassed, but aIter a deep breath, I stand up straight and look at
her through burning eyes. She looks worried, but she still has that halI-smile on her Iace.
The shopkeeper chuckles and hands me a canteen oI water. I drink.
*
The cashier girl at the corner store has an obnoxious Jersey drawl that makes me
cringe. I see her three times a week, so you`d think I`d be used to it by now, but I`m not. I
imagine a thin stream oI grease trickling out Irom between her lipstick stained teeth, and
when she opens her mouth she can`t help but splatter all over the place, spraying me with

mangled words that only vaguely resemble the English language. I remember she
sniggered the Iirst time she heard my accent and I guess I`ve never Iorgiven her Ior it.
Anyway today I`m buying a six-pack and a magazine.
'Good to see snow, huh? is what I think she`s saying as she rings me up.
'Hmm I reply. I don`t like snow, so my disinterest is genuine. Besides I want to
keep our interaction as brieI as possible so I don`t have to hear too much oI her voice.
'67 cents She says as she carelessly drops my change on the counter. A Iew
coins roll oII onto the Iloor and I bend to pick them up. BeIore I leave, I stare at her and
wonder iI I`ve given her enough reason to dislike me by now.

By the time I get up to my apartment Melissa has Iixed dinner, which we eat in
Iront oI the television as usual. It`s been seven months, to the day, since she moved in
with me. And I`ve been happy. Melissa eased herselI into my home and my liIe in ways
that I hardly appreciated at Iirst, but soon began to Iall in love with her Ior. She made the
whole place smell like jasmine. Or maybe it was lavender. Regardless, it was one oI those
smells that instantly put you in a good state oI mind, and aIter hours in a desiccated
oIIice, and a good 45 minutes on the subway, that was the only thing in the world I
wanted to smell. I`d come back and Iind that she`d TiVoed the shows I always Iorgot to
TiVo. And some days, iI she got home Irom work early enough, she would cook her
own brand oI quasi-Italian Iare, spiced to my persnickety tastes. A Iew morsels and I
couldn`t imagine how I subsisted on takeout and TV dinners Ior so long.


We watch TV until eno comes on, which is our cue to turn our attention to each
other.
'How`s your day been?
'Terrible. You?
'Same. I twirl Melissa`s bangs around my Iingers, and use a strand oI her hair to
tickle her under the nostrils until she lets out a sneeze.
'Cute sternutation I say. It means sneeze. We just saw it on Jeopardy.
'Shut up. Melissa punches me playIully and Ialls into my lap giggling. I stroke
her head realize that this, right now, is my Iavorite part oI the day. Not the sumptuous
dinner that comes beIore, or the lovemaking that usually comes aIter, but this.
'You know, I get a couple oI weeks oII oI work next month. she tells me.
I smile. I know she`s been thinking about a trip because I`ve seen her bookmark
travel websites on FireIox. I wonder iI we have enough money stashed away to go
somewhere in Europe - the south oI France or one oI those stereotypical places where
millionaires take their playthings. I know she won`t want anything too lavish, but I`d
convince her.
'And I`ve heard you talk about it a lot.
I picture the two oI us standing on the edge oI a cliII in Nice, looking over the
Mediterranean Sea. It is sunset. We can hear birds in the distance and the waves crashing
against the shore below us. I`m standing behind her and our arms are stretched out in the
Titanic pose; I don`t know why we`re in the Titanic pose I can`t think oI a movie I hate
more but it seems like the right thing to do at sunset on the edge oI a cliII in the south
oI France.

'So I was thinking. you could take me to Bombay?
I snap out oI my Mediterranean dream. Bombay. Images oI the place come
Ilooding back to me Ior the Iirst time in weeks. I try to morph each oI these so that I am
not alone, but Melissa and I are in them together walking along the beaches, shopping
at the market places and riding in rickshaws. I purposeIully keep these visions in mind
and wait Ior them to bring a smile to my Iace, to excite me. I wait and wait, but this
doesn`t happen. Instead the images unnerve me, and I become starkly aware oI how
unnatural they seem. They are oII somehow tainted. Like an idyllic black-and-white
photograph suddenly inIused with kitschy colors. I don`t know why it Ieels this way I
can`t make sense oI it. Is this really how I see Melissa? An outsider, polluting my vision
oI Bombay? She can`t be. I look at her and I know what she`s thinking. She`s thinking
this should be the easiest yes` in the world Ior me. But I can`t say yes, not right now
'I don`t know. We should think about this a little more. How about Nice? How
does that sound?
She`s visibly taken aback. 'I guess Nice would be Iun. She doesn`t look
especially enthusiastic and I can sense the disappointment in her voice.
'You mean Nice would be nice? I smile and poke her in the ribs, but her body
squirms away at my touch, and she turns back to the TV. I pause Ior a second beIore
adjusting my position and putting an arm around her shoulder.
'You`re right. she says without looking at me, 'We should think about it more.
We don`t say anything through the rest oI eno. She gets up Irom the couch early,
beIore the musical guest. I would leave with her but it`s The Who so I stay seated and
watch her driIt towards the bedroom. Her movements are not lithe like they usually are;

she seems stiII, uncomIortable. When she gets to the bedroom door, Melissa looks back
at me -
'I only asked because I thought you missed Bombay.
*
The water is welcome relieI to my parched throat. I massage my gullet and tell
myselI that I will never smoke again. She ruIIles my hair like I`m her younger brother or
her pet or something else that she Iinds adorable but not in a desirous way. This annoys
me but I do well to hide it, and I begin asking her questions about herselI, which she
answers in between slow drags oI her cigarette. Her voice is a little throaty, probably
Irom all the smoking, and this makes her seem more mature, sensual. I try to pay
attention to what she`s actually saying, and not get lost in her intonation. She`s Iour years
older than me, I Iind out. And she likes ron Maiden and ed Zeppelin and The Who and
other bands that I pretend to have heard oI and Iake a zealous interest in. We talk, or she
talks, at length about concerts she`s been to and I nod along, overjoyed that she isn`t
talking down to me. Then I watch her throw down the butt oI her cigarette and snuII it
out with the heel oI her stiletto; her right leg pivots Irom the hip and this to-and-Iro
motion mesmerizes me. Suddenly I realize that this means it`s time Ior her to walk back. I
should have known my Iirst conversation with her would only last the length oI a
cigarette, and I`m annoyed with myselI Ior not having milked every last second oI it. She
takes a mint and walks a Iew steps beIore turning around:
'Don`t you want to go Iinish your game?
I turn red. She knows I Iollowed her. She knows I set this whole chance
encounter` up. I stammer through an apology but she laughs it oII. I think she might be

Ilattered, but I really just want to stick my head in the ground and pretend this never
happened. I walk by her side Ior a while, not knowing what to say and desperately trying
to hide my embarrassment. But somewhere in my mind I make the connection that iI she
knew I leIt my game, she must have seen me play. And more than that, she must have
told me apart Irom my Iriends, all oI us pretty much the same height and complexion. She
must have noticed me. My insides turn warm again a soIt, spongy warmth not like
when I smoked that cigarette.
'You`re so pretty. I tell her.
Fuck. I immediately run the words back in my head they make me Ieel a little sick
to the stomach. But she giggles and ruIIles my hair again and I Iigure that I`ve probably
hit a Iloor as Iar as embarrassing myselI is concerned, so nothing I can say will make
things any worse. We turn the corner to where the peanut-vendor still has his cart set up. I
really want to prolong our time together so I ask her to stay a while and eat some peanuts.
The peanut man looks alert when he sees me again and is delighted when I put two
Iingers in the air. He tears out two strips oI newspaper and expertly Iolds them into
identical cones. He throws the nuts onto a hot-plate and sprinkles some mystery blend oI
spices over them as they roast. She is watching him intently and I am watching her
intently until, out oI the corner oI my eye, I see my soccer mates spying on us Irom a
distance. They are huddled together, whispering to each other. I see Arjun point towards
the two oI us and I look away. Please, please no. The vendor scoops the gently roasted
nuts into our paper cones and holds them out to us. I pretend to stare intently into her
eyes as we eat, when really my Iocus is directly behind her where my Iriends are still in a
huddle. I don`t know what they`re saying to each other but I know they`re talking about
%
me and it makes me nervous. I smile at her and am about to say something irrelevant,
when a chorus oI catcalls breaks out Irom behind her. Arjun seems to be the ringleader
and is gesturing Ior them to be louder. I glare at him like I want him to die. She smiles
and tries to tell me something, but her voice is drowned out by the sound. It is loud,
obnoxious and inIantile. I continue to stare at my traitor Iriends; I want them to
disappear, all oI them. I imagine a shock wave emanating Irom my cranium and
Ilattening every last one oI them beyond recognition. The peanuts crunch under the vice-
grip oI my Iist. I`m about to yell out to them when I Ieel a light Iinger on my chin. She
coaxes my Iace towards hers and suddenly her lips are touching mine. $ilence. I taste her
breath Ior a second: a heady mix oI tobacco and menthol. She pulls away and I stand still,
with my eyes, closed waiting Ior something to tell me that I`m imagining all this. But
when I open my eyes, she`s still there.
She turns around to look at my Iriends. Most oI them are still staring at us, but
they aren`t talking anymore. Arjun has his head down and is absently trying to juggle a
soccer ball with his Ioot.
'That shut them up, she says. She ruIIles my hair again only this time she tickles
me behind the ear as she brings her hand down. 'I`ll see you later, she tells me and I
watch as she skips back towards her apartment. The soccer has restarted, in a way;
they`re kicking the ball around but not with much purpose. This time they don`t stop to
let her pass, and I look on Iondly as she dances through the play, dodging around the
sweaty boys who wish they were me right now. When I see her enter her building, I start
walking again. My Ieet hardly Ieel like they`re moving and my ears are Iilled with static.
I`m in my own world.
%
A rough hand on my shoulder jerks me back into consciousness. It is Arjun. He is
staring at me and I can Ieel his envy surge through my bones. In an instance I Ieel strong,
sharp, and charismatic. I am giddy with selI-importance. I purposely let my eyes wander,
in a winding path Irom the sky to the ground, until Iinally they meet Arjun`s.
'What? I smirk.
*
It is Christmas. Jersey Girl is still behind the counter at the corner store. I driIt
around aimlessly beIore picking up a six-pack, a magazine and a TV dinner. I set these on
the counter and wait Ior Jersey Girl to do her thing, remembering to avoid eye contact
with her so she doesn`t start talking. I wait, but nothing seems to be happening, and then I
look at her and see that she`s baring her lipstick-stained teeth through a wide grin.
'I don`t know iI they do this in your part oI the world, but.
She reaches under the counter and produces a small giIt-wrapped box.
'Merry Christmas.
I take the box; the wrapping paper crinkles under my Iingers and with no warning
I start to Ieel terrible about myselI. I Iish out my wallet and pay, but beIore I can leave
Jersey Girl calls out to me.
'I almost Iorgot. She Iishes around and produces an identical box. 'One Ior that
pretty lady I always see you with.
I stand still Ior a second and think I might cry. But I compose myselI and thank
her again, beIore walking out the door.


Melissa leIt me last month. We never made it to Nice. Or Bombay, Ior that
matter. One evening, I came back Irom work to see her sitting on the couch in her
pajamas, spooning applesauce out oI a jar.
'Didn`t you go to work? I ask her.
'I don`t Ieel that great.
I sit on the couch next to her and turn the TV on. I have to turn the volume up so I
can hear it over the sound oI Melissa`s metal spoon scraping against the sides oI the jar.
'The TV`s a bit loud, she tells me.
'You`re being a bit loud too.
Melissa gets up and goes into the kitchen. I hear the clank oI the glass jar on the
counter. She comes back sucking on the end oI the spoon like it`s a paciIier.
'This isn`t working anymore. She says this matter-oI-Iactly, as iI she`s telling
me about something she saw on the news.
'What isn`t working anymore?
'This.you and me.
I don`t say anything. Neither does she. I could say the silence seemed to last
Iorever, but it did not. In Iact, it lasted exactly thirteen seconds - the last thirteen seconds
on the Jeopardy countdown clock that I watched tick down beIore getting oII the couch
and walking over to Melissa.
'Why do you say that?
'Why are you even asking me? You know your head`s not in this.
We let our Iingers interlock, out oI habit. I look at Melissa she is stone-Iaced,
and her eyebrows aren`t scrunched up. Our eyes meet, and something happens that used

to happen a lot more oIten when we were happier it`s this thing when one oI us knows
something, and the other knows the same thing, and then we look into each other`s eyes
and we both know that the other knows.
'I`m sorry. I tell her. I embrace her and she lets her head Iall on my
shoulder. I bury my Iace in her hair, and we stand like that, rocking back and Iorth, Ior a
Iew seconds. She insists on sleeping on the couch that night, even though I tell her she
can have the bed. Over the next week, she whittles down her presence in my liIe, until
one day, she`s gone. All oI her her clothes, her shoes, all gone in a wisp oI jasmine that
lingers around the house Ior days, until Iinally, my apartment smells like wet sneakers
again.

Jersey Girl`s presents Ieel light and airy as I Iiddle with them in the pockets oI my
peacoat.I collapse on the couch in my apartment and tear oII the wrapping paper. They`re
both identical I 3 NYC` key chains one blue, one pink. I go out into the balcony and
Iling the pink one as Iar as I possibly can. The blue one, I slip back into my pocket. I look
around the house and realize that I have work to do. Just some last rites on the apartment:
empty out the Iridge, get the utilities cut and so Iorth. My mother bursts into tears on the
phone, when I tell her I`m coming back. Part oI me is overjoyed and part oI me Ieels like
I`m giving up. But I`m too tired to think oI what this means Ior me, that I`m leaving New
York. Right now, everything in this city reminds me oI Melissa and I know that can`t be
healthy. I make a checklist and go through it robotically. I have managed to Iit my
worldly possessions into 2 large suitcases. The gloves that Melissa gave me, the
numerous scarves, jackets and wool caps that I`ve accumulated over my winters here are

in a trash bag; I have requested they be turned over to goodwill. When cleaning out the
Iridge, I Iind some herbs and sauces that I do not recognize. They all seem exotic and
smell Iresh. I look up a recipe, go into the kitchen and cook myselI one last meal,
liberally using the herbs and sauces just to get rid oI them. The result is an orange-green
glop that looks pretty disgusting but tastes all right. I leave the dirty dishes in the sink Ior
the next tenant to deal with.

My ride to JFK gets here at 4 am. I wait until I`m in the cab beIore calling
Melissa, knowing that it will go to voicemail. I leave her a perIunctory message, saying
goodbye and reminding her oI my e-mail address. I had told myselI I wouldn`t look out
the windows, but there`s really nothing else to look at in a cab so I occupy my mind by
keeping count oI the street signs we pass. I don`t read what they say, or look where they
point to; I just count them. The number in my head increments as I get Iurther away Irom
Jersey Girl and the corner store, Irom Melissa, alone in her bed, or maybe not alone, Irom
the dirty dishes in my apartment sink. My counting eventually puts me to sleep, and my
driver has to shake me awake when we get to the airport. I stumble through check-in and
security, still halI-asleep, with my mind elsewhere. I am thinking oI Bombay. I don`t
have a job yet, or a house oI my own. My old bedroom is now a storeroom where my
parents leave worn-out appliances old televisions and washers that need Iixing up. They
called last night to tell me they put a steel-Irame bed in there and they`d help me clean
the place out when I arrive. I think about what my room looked like when I leIt, and
wonder iI my parents saved any oI my old movie posters.

As we coast along the runway, I comIort myselI with the thought that I won`t ever
Ieel homesick again. At least, I hope not. There are things about New York that I will
miss, but I haven`t been away Irom them long enough to know how I`ll miss them. Over
time they will Iade into some recess oI memory, and iI I`m happy enough, maybe they`ll
stay there and maniIest themselves only in ways that will make me smile. Maybe New
York was supposed to happen Ior this very reason so I could think about it and smile
while digging my roots back into a city that`s right Ior me. Or maybe New York was
never supposed to happen. Maybe New York was a mistake that I will only Ieel the
extent oI the next time I Iall in love with a place or a person. A stewardess hands me a
moist towelette and I bury my Iace in it. The wetness permeates under my eyelids and
wakes me up, as the jet engines begin to whirr. dont know about New York. I don`t
even want to think about it anymore. I just look Iorward to landing, and sniIIing the air
and knowing I am home.