The Girl Who Could Make People Naked- Femina

Continued...

The first part of a short story by Manjula Padmanabhan

HE'LL be there," said Gautam's sister, smiling as she plaited her hair. "Don't worry!" Gautam felt the skin on his face stretch and thin out like an expanding gas balloon, with the walnut of his brain exposed to view, floating within it. Was he so transparent? "I'm not worrying," he said.

"Of course you are," said Sagari. "Look at your face. All wound up! Like a... like a... "She swung her hair forward over her left shoulder, her fingers plucking and taming the black delta of hair into a taut braid, the plump links glistening like paired beetle-wings. Outside the window of her room, the heat prowled and hammered at the glass, willing the air-conditioner to relent and let it in so that it could devour its human prey on this burning morning in May, in summer, the season of annihilation. "What?" said Gautam, interested. "A clock, I was going to say," said Sagari, "but who winds clocks these days?" Her left hand held the end of the plait close to her waist, while her right wove a gold fillet into the end of it, containing it. "So I don't know what you look like any more." She laughed at his reflection in the mirror. Her little brother, cho chweet! She could still see the traces of puppy fat on him, a lingering roundedness near his chin, stubbled now. Stubbled! "Better shave, Gogi. You look like a porcupine more than anything else. And what will she think of you then, your special friend"

Gautam leapt up in frustration.

"It's not fair!" he said. "I never teased you," But he rubbed his chin anyway. Sagari turned around. She made her mouth prim. "What was there to tease?"

But Gautam didn't rear back as he was expected to do and her darting finger had to stop short of his nose. He stood his ground and looked down at her from his 17-year-old height, his face heavy even in its baby way. Something in his expression hurt her. "Oh!" she said, her voice shrilling, "you'd look so cute!"

"You are crying," said Gautam, his voice thick. And he left the room. But an hour later, when everyone was gathered down by the door in readiness, there was no trace of tears. Sagari was giggling with her friend Kussum, both of them insulated against the heat within the dense fog of their perfume. Already they had plunged into the ferocious light, laughing and exclaiming, Sagari holding the remote-key aloft like a wand. The little red Zen responded with it ersatz chirrup as they ran, hobbled by their high heels, across the cement driveway, till they gained the safe custody of the car and of its air-conditioner. Gautam was deputed to drive them, while his parents, one aunt and her daughter took off ahead, in the 'Amby' with the cloth-covered seats, driven by the company chauffeur.

The groom's house resembled a collision between an oil tanker and a Spanish villa. There was a sentry at the gate. Under the portico there was a liveried valet to park the car. "...just like a five-star!" whispered Kussum to Sagari, clearly awestruck. Sagari shook her plait over her shoulder and smiled distantly. Gautam, just behind her, saw her thoughts running ahead of her, already in possession of this valet, these steps, this door with its newly antiqued brass studs. Their parents had just disembarked and were waiting for Sagari.

Continued...

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