Saturday was a particularly severe monsoon evening. Dad and I were the last to arrive. I was delayed by work first and then the Bengaluru traffic, which is difficult anyway but unravels into a cheerless safari when it rains.
As soon as we entered, I heard a voice in the mix say that the space sorely needed a woman’s touch. My dad’s face lit up while my step slackened, and my eyes met Andrew’s. It was all a little too much for me. It was not just my first time in Andrew’s apartment, but I hadn’t met his friends before, save for random introductions.
You’re Andrew’s friend now, Myra,I reminded myself.It’s okay to be walking into your friend’s apartment for the first time. There’s always a first.
Andrew had told me it was a four-bedroom unit, which he secured as part of a sizeable monetary deal when he signed off the property. This was seriously big, though; it had acres of space, twice the size of my place. Maybe it looked bigger than it was because of the walls; they were bare.
I thought of Meena. That was a girl who’d have made her mark on the decor, brought in shades of blues and browns, matching dainty lines with robust, earthy hues. She’d have turned it into a multi-star retreat in the middle of town. A perfect picture you might or might not want to own, depending on who you are.
I was not sure, though, if the place needed a woman at all. The walls may have been plain, but there was something intrinsically Andrew about it.
Andrew is essentially a social soul. He doesn’t gravitate towards any one person in his rather wide circle of friends but is there for everyone. In school, he shared strong bonds with a lot of boys, different groups of people – the hockey players, student union mates, the science group and thedebate and drama club. It was the same in college; his social calendar was always full.
Ashish, Neha and Andrew were a trio in law school. Ashish was a barrister now, and Neha had done corporate law; she was working with a pharma company.
While Ashish’s folks lived in Bengaluru, Neha was back in the city for the first time since she graduated. Andrew had been in touch with her off and on over the years. A year ago, she had married a UK-based doctor.
I experienced a side of Andrew that I may have suspected but hadn’t seen. That of the charming host.
Andrew had apparently done a lot of entertaining in the United States. Neha would vouch for it, he said. She had stayed with him a few times when she was in New York, and he would have people over on the weekends for what he called ‘cocktails and crumbs’.
As I worked my way around, taking my father along with me, I saw that the interiors weren’t yet completed. In two bedrooms, the wardrobes had been half-done – in one the polishing was yet to be completed, while in the other, the sliding doors had been lined up against the wall, waiting to be assembled. The carpenter, an alcoholic pal of Andrew’s from school, had taken ill. He was waiting for his friend to recover and complete the job.
That was Andrew. He could wait forever.
The furniture was teakwood, chunky in design, no-fuss pieces, no carvings, few intricacies, perfectly functional. The bar counter was massive, with no particular design element to it save for the space it stood on.
He’d have needed a crane to shift this stuff.
In his bedroom, I noticed the original movie poster ofInvictus; it had been framed but not mounted. Beside it wasa blown-up autographed photograph of Lionel Messi on the move.
‘I had gone to Camp Nou with a friend, and I got it autographed,’ Andrew, who was standing a little behind me, said. ‘He looks much bigger on television. It’s the way he plays maybe. You tend to look up at the skill rather than the physical specimen, but it’s different when you are face to face.’
I nodded.
It was possible that Andrew would decorate the walls in time with a piece or two he had picked up during his travels. I was sure he would put up some pictures of his family, maybe arrange them on a table in an intimate nook of the house. In his bedroom, perhaps, away from the prying eyes of every guest who walked through the door. Not to shroud but to save in memory.
Slowly, he would turn the place around from house to home, not just for him, but for all the Browns before him. A place where love lived. And died.
Bhumika Velu. Catherine Brown. Those names crossed my mind for the first time in a few days. Their stories. An analogy.
There was an antique showcase in a corner of the sitting area. I wasn’t 100 per cent sure, but this piece may have been there in the old bungalow. Refurbished and brought up to date perhaps. Its four shelves now had little knick-knacks arranged on them – spoons, snow globes, plates, stuff he had collected from different parts of the world, besides certificates and awards. There was a hardbound copy of his first book, which he had co-authored –India: She’ll Unmask You– on the bottom shelf.
I was standing beside my father, scanning the stuff, when my eyes touched on a spoon that I had seen in asugar pot not far from where I was standing. There was a ruby-coloured stone attached to the thread. I turned to my father, meeting his moist eyes.
My mother had given Andrew the spoon; it was a silver spoon used in the sugar pot. Every time Andrew was home, he’d insist on using it to stir the sugar in his coffee. If Mummy changed the spoon for whatever reason, he’d go looking for it. So much so that she stopped keeping a spoon on the saucer for him; he’d take the one from the pot anyway. No one knew why he was so attached to the spoon. It was beautiful, but so were a few others that Mummy had. We joked at his obsession, which he shrugged off with, ‘It’s sweet.’ Finally, my mother gifted him the spoon.
My father walked away, joining a couple of older men who were talking cricket. I watched him nod and laugh even though he had little interest in cricket. I turned to join him when I felt Andrew’s arm on my shoulder. I hadn’t noticed that Ashish was also standing by the showcase.
‘My oldest and dearest friend,’ Andrew said.
‘We were in school together,’ I said.
‘I know of you, Myra Rai,’ Ashish said, his smile exploding at his dimples. ‘My brother here used to empty bottles of Davidoff on himself when he’d leave the campus to meet you. My mother wondered if I was drinking perfume.’
Andrew laughed.
‘Andrew was telling us about your crime column. Bloody is how I like my steak, eh?’
