The 'G' Coupe

I looked up to check the compartment number; sure it was ‘G’. Bingo! I pulled open the door and stuck my neck in to make sure that at least one berth was empty. Sometimes folks just take any berth and have to be requested to move to their berths. Oh! This was one of those compartments that have only two berths. Yes, one berth was empty and on the other berth was....... a very gorgeous woman! She looked around 25, had creamy, alabaster skin, and looked as if she hit the gym quite regularly. Aha! This journey was going to be interesting, I thought.  She must have a drop-dead beautiful smile I mused. However, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she was looking at me as if she had seen something particularly distasteful. Hmm, had someone, unbeknownst to me, painted ‘Jack the Ripper’ on my forehead? Did I have something like a booger on my face? I ran my hand over my face, nothing; it came back as clean as nun’s habit. Was I wearing one of those T-shirts with sexually explicit slogans? I glanced down and again- nothing. I was wearing one with Mel Gibson’s comely visage smiling back at the onlooker. Was she a misanthropist? All these observations and judgments had taken less than twenty seconds. Screw her, I thought, and smiled at the double entendre in the expression.

“Hi”, I said, the faint remnants of that smile still visible on my face.

 “We’re just travellers stuck together, and as such, I see no need for familiarity”, she replied icily. ‘Bitch’, I thought, rather peeved at my attempts to charm her getting aborted even before getting conceived. Round One to the Bitch.

“Which berth would you like to have”, I asked.

She replied, “I have the lower one and I’m not moving from here”.

“Wonderful”, I retorted, “I anyways prefer being on top”, hoping that she would get the carnal connection and fume.

She did, and she did! Round Two to the stud! Take that!    

I squatted on the floor, opened my bag, and started to take out my IPod and my constant companion- ‘Shantaram’. The book- Shantaram- had become my personal bible and I never travelled without having it in my bag.

“You can sit here while you remove what you need from the bag”, she said.

“Nah, thanks, the weather is very cold on the lower berth, and I catch a cold real fast”, I replied.

Round Three to the Stud!

I climbed up to my berth wishing that both the berths had been facing each other. At least I could’ve discreetly ogled at her. Sigh, who said life is fair? An overnight journey in a coupe with a gorgeous stranger, stuff that fantasies are made of, and yet she won’t give me the time of the day. I opened up my dog-eared copy of Shantaram and lost myself once again in the fantastic life of Gregory David Roberts. A short while later I heard her dragging her bag out from under the seat, and then a muted “Fuck”. I peered over the edge of the berth and saw her struggling with a stuck zipper on her bag. She must have noticed my shadow and looked up. I raised an eyebrow- just one- an art I seem to have perfected.

“If you are done with the imitation of Miller from ‘Guns of Navarone’, will you help me with this damned zipper?” she asked rather churlishly.

Now, that comment about Miller made me raise the other eyebrow too. This babe was a reader, and that raised my opinion of her by several notches.  That did not however stop me from taking one final dig at her.

“Stuck zippers are my speciality”, I replied with a deadpan expression while climbing down from my berth.

I got down to the culprit bag, got a hold of the zipper, and tugged it hard to close it once again.

“You’re closing it, I need to open it!” she said with a tinge of alarm in her voice. I ignored her, pulled the zipper close, and then pulled it open. This time it opened like a pea pod.

“Viola”, I said triumphantly.

“How did you know what to do; how did you know it’ll work?” she asked.     

“You really do not want to know”, I replied with added stress on ‘really”. This time my smile was genuine.

“So, you’ve read ‘Guns of Navarone’?” I asked her? 

“Ya, I loved Andrea- the tough guy, and absolutely loved the laconic character, and the dry wit of Miller!” she replied with most animation that I’d seen her show since I’d met her.  “Maclean was quite a writer” I said.

“Yes he was, I’ve read all his books”, she replied, and then added, “You can eat down here. The climate will be much warmer, I promise. A bookworm cannot be so bad that I can’t break bread with him, and plus you did fix the zipper”.

The smile that accompanied the remark could launch a thousand ships! As I basked in the warmth of that take-your-breath-away smile, I conceded that she might, might not be such a bitch after all.

As we sat discussing books from the action genre, I realized that she knew a lot about books, and was a voracious reader. She knew her Wilbur Smiths and Ken Folletts pretty well. I was impressed even more. She was intelligent, well read, sophisticated, and my constant readjustments of her as a person were going on as we spoke. The coupe attendant interrupted our by now a serious book lovers’ discussion to ask which soup, and what main course we’d like. He asked me first and then said, “And what will madam have”? He’d assumed we were a couple and that sure was a boost to my ego. Queen Cleopatra, my co-passenger, was not so pleased, but then she took offense easily. I asked for hot and sour soup and non-vegetarian main course while she asked for sweet corn soup and vegetarian main course.

“Our tastes are quite on the opposite ends of the spectrum” she observed.   

“I like everything that’s hot and spicy, though sour is only an occasional indulgence”, I replied with a mischievous smile.

I was enjoying this rat-a-tat clash of wits! She would have smiled but she wasn’t done being pissed at me.

“You are a barbarian. You cause deaths of innocent animals”, she accused without rancour.

“I agree, but aren’t plants also living things? Just because they don’t bleed Red blood doesn’t mean they don’t feel pain. Prof. J.C. Bose, and many other scientists have conclusively proven that plants can feel”, I said hoping to impress her with my depth of knowledge.

“You know what I mean but are deliberately confusing issues. You are quite an ornery bugger and just love raking up controversies” she replied. At least I was not the only one dishing out uncomplimentary adjectives.

Our herbivore vs. carnivore debate was interrupted by the arrival of the coach attendant. He handed us the trays with soup bowls, spoons, and various condiments. I discreetly handed him hundred bucks. He protested weakly but pocketed it when I insisted. I thought I saw him bow when he walked out backwards from the coach but then I’ve been accused of mistakenly believing that the entire world was there to serve me.

“Why the devil did you tip him?” she asked.

Here we go again! Some people have problems with being treated like royalty!

“Well, I wanted to make sure he would give us the best food and prompt service. Hopefully, not the food that he’s fished a dead fly, or worse a dead cockroach, out of. Also, did you see how he bowed when he backed out”, I countered.

“This is first class; they dare not do such a thing. And no, he did not bow, you narcissist”. Touché, so much for delusions of grandeur. I mused about the naiveté of young women today. No wonder big I bad wolves like me are always on the prowl! My mind was turning back towards the gutter.

“So as to not offend your delicate sensibilities, I’ll also eat vegetarian food tonight. I guess eating grass once will not kill me”, I said, sticking out what I thought was an olive branch.

“Has anyone told you that you really are extremely arrogant”? she asked. She was also nobody’s pushover, and I respected that. She knew how to take a stand. Gutsy!

“Now what did I do?”, I asked.

“The fact that you think that you are doing me a favour by eating vegetarian food is the height of conceit. Go ahead, gorge yourself on that sin and cholesterol laden flesh.”

“Can I still eat down here, or the offer has been rescinded?” I asked her, trying to needle her further. I don’t know why, but I was getting a perverse pleasure out of shaking down this beautiful, intelligent, but slightly stuck-up babe.

“I am a woman of my word; you can eat down here as long as you do not make those awful slurp-y sounds or make noises while chewing”, she retorted.

“I’ll be at my best behavior ma’am”, I said sarcastically.

Our verbal sparring was interrupted by the arrival of the soup. I asked for the soup and the main course to be changed to vegetarian. I was bloody tempted to make slurping sounds while drinking/ eating my soup but I managed to restrain myself. I noted, with no small satisfaction, that I was making lesser noise with my china than she was. She was not bad, but as always, I was better! The funereal atmosphere was pushed back a bit when she said, “Can we call it a truce and start over?

She held out her hand and said, "Hi, my name is Pushpa”. Pushpa! 

Her pa (dad) must have been ‘push’-ed into a corner to give her a name like that!! What was he, a Rajesh Khanna fan?! Pushpa indeed!

I managed not to choke on the soup and extended my head towards her.

“Happy” I replied, introducing myself.

“Happy? Are you happy that we’ve called a truce?” the ignoramus asked.

“That’s my name- Happy Singh Randhawa”, I replied, a tad offended.

The woman burst out laughing! She tried to hold it back but it did not work. Her laugh was kinda like a liqueur chocolate, sweet, but with a husky, sensuous undertone.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, rather crossly. The shoe was on the other foot now; it was my turn to get angry now.

“Nothing; I thought happy was an adjective”, Pushpa said.

“It is a noun also, at least where I come from”, I countered.

“And where do you come from, Happy”, she asked with an emphasis on the last word.

“I’m from Punjab. And where are you from, Pushpa”, I asked.

“Only a Punjabi could have a name like that. Happy indeed! I’m from Mumbai”, she replied, still smiling.

“How can a Mumbaikar have such an outdated name?” I asked her.

“No, it’s not (outdated)! I know so many people with whom I share my name. My dad loved Amar Prem- the movie”, she replied with a bland face.

Bingo!

Wait a second. Was I trying to fight with her, or to seduce her? I asked myself. Realizing the error of my ways, I changed tack.

“So, what made you think that I’ve read Guns of Navarone”, I asked her.

“I didn’t, but I thought that the question would be a good way to find out if you really were a bibliophile, or were just pretending to be a reader”. Hmm, smart!

“Oh! So what do you think” I asked.

“You are the real deal” she replied.

“How is this book Shantaram? I have heard a lot about it but its sheer size deters me from picking it up” she asked.

Now she had hit a spot! She thought Shantaram could be tedious! I could not wait to enlighten her. I started of describing the plot, the protagonists, and the main character, and she listened patiently, interjecting only with pertinent questions from time to time.

By the time the attendant came with our dinner, she knew enough about Shantaram to promise me to buy and read the book. The atmosphere had also warmed up and our new found bonhomie had melted away the prickly note that we had started off on.  We exchanged notes on ourselves while having dinner. I came to know that she had been working with a biotechnology company as a researcher in Delhi, and was now on her way home in Mumbai to join a top college for her MBA. She’d gotten offers from many other colleges but her longing to be back home had compelled her to settle for the Mumbai college. Plus she wanted to get back to the NGO that she had worked with while in Mumbai. The NGO worked with orphans and mentally challenged children, and her account of her activities there warmed my heart.  

I told her that I was into the family business- agriculture. I told her that we had a farm in a village near Jalandhar, a small city in Punjab. I also told her about my family- mum, dad, my six brothers and two sisters. She almost had a heart attack when she heard of my ‘pack of eight’ siblings.

“No wonder, India is sitting on a population bomb”, she thought out loud. Her smile took out any malice from the words.

“What can I say? My dad was, and probably still is, as virile as a mountain goat! Had my mom not gone and gotten herself a surgery to prevent getting pregnant again, me and my siblings would have made up a cricket team all by ourselves!”, I replied on a humorous note.

“But why so many children? They could have stopped at three, maximum four?” she asked.

“A farm is always short of hands, and the more from the family the better. Also, friendships and enmities in rural Punjabi families go on for generations. Having more boys means a home grown army ready at all times. Even if one of us is killed in a fight, there will still be half a dozen to extract retribution”, I explained.

Now that floored her! She evidently thought such stuff happened only in ‘C’ grade Bollywood movies. Sure, I was hamming up thing to impress her, but the reality was not too far from what I’d told her. We did not have any enemies, at least not that we knew of, but that was only because of my old man. His innate goodness, politeness to a fault, readiness to accept mistakes, helpful and selfless nature had ensured that the entire village, and the people from surrounding villages, respected him. Of course, the fact that he was one of the tallest and broadly built men that I’ve known also helped, but within the family, he was nothing but a gentle giant.   She was all goggle-eyed and could not stop a stream of questions about village life and I obliged happily.

As the night went on, she told me about her family. Her dad was a well established Chartered Accountant. He handled the accounts for some bigwigs of Bollywood; that really impressed me! Punjabis have always had a fascination for Bollywood and its stars. Her mom was a practising gynaecologist in one of those boutique (read five star) hospitals in Mumbai. Her only sibling- poor girl- was a younger brother who was doing his B. Com and planned to follow his dad by becoming a C.A. They lived in Bandra, which I knew was one of the most expensive localities in Mumbai. Anecdotes about her family revealed a close knit family, and a home filled with love and laughter. I could not help thinking that she would fit right into our home. My mom would probably be horrified at the sight of this bag-of-bones girl (very weak, would be her opinion) but she would love this babe, no doubt.  

Dinner had long been over, and now dessert was being served. My dessert was right in front of me, chatting away nineteen to the dozen, but somehow, I’d lost the urge to seduce her, not for a one night stand. This woman was compassionate, erudite, witty, elegant, and so many things more. To my dismay, I realized that I was falling for her. As of now, I would gladly have killed anyone who tried to touch her. So much for my Don Juan fantasies!

“So, have you gone to college, or did you start helping out at the farm right after school”, she said, breaking through my reverie.

It was time to shock her again, I thought mischievously.  “I did my Masters in crop ecology from Punjab Agricultural University, and then did my MBA in Agri-business Management. Oh, and I started helping at the farm as soon as I started walking”, I told her. Now that really opened up her sleepy eyes!

“Wow! I’m impressed”, she said, “how about your siblings?” she asked.

“PAU offers Masters and Doctorate programs in seven disciplines in agronomy. My elder brothers and I have at least a post graduate degree in different departments in agronomy. Two have doctorates. The three youngest are following in our footsteps. By the time they’re finished with their education, each one of us will be an expert in a different stream of agronomy. Both the sisters are practicing doctors, married to doctors, and settled in USA” I replied.

That must have brought some stereotypes tumbling down, I thought with no small amount of satisfaction. At least my family pedigree was as good as, if not better than hers. But that also brought into play a factor that I’d been avoiding till now. Sure enough, as if on cue, she asked me, “Are you married?”  

“No”, I replied, adding, “the three eldest are married, one immediately younger than me is also married. He met a nice girl in the university, but me, and the two youngest ones are not.”

“Isn’t your mom after you for getting married?” she asked.

“Yes, she is; I think she is afraid that I am gay”, I replied.

“Well, are you?” she countered.

“No, but I have a few friends who are”, I replied.

“What about you?” I asked her. I’d never, ever, in my entire life, wanted to know the answer to a question so badly, and yet, dreaded it so.
"Gay or married?", she shot back.
I was hoping she was neither, but I asked her only about her being married.

“I’m engaged; he, Rohit, is the son of family friends. We’ve known each other since childhood”.

I felt as if I’d been shot with a ‘triple ought buck’ from a 12 gauge shotgun. My gut seemed to have vaporised and I was struggling to breath. As she went on describing her fiancé, talking about his Harvard education, his sophistication, his knowledge, his business acumen, the more morose I became. She must have seen the look on my face and asked, “Are you alright”.

Not wanting to let her know how much I’d been devastated in just a few minutes, I just said, “Gas. I guess I should visit the loo before I sleep, lest I pollute the atmosphere with my SBDs!” feigning a cheerfulness that was at total contrast to the blackness that I was feeling in my heart.   

“What are SBDs?”

“Silent but deadly farts”, I said with a forced smile and walked out of the coupe.

I scooted to the loo and just sat there. I don’t know how long I was there, but insistent knocking on the door forced me out of my marathon of self-pity.

“Bugger Off”, I yelled, “can’t a guy even poop in peace?”

“It’s me”, Pushpa called out.

“Who’s ‘me’?” I shot back, recognizing the husky, contralto voice, but pretending not to.

“It’s me Pushpa. I got worried. You’ve been gone for half an hour!”

“Why should you worry? We’re just travellers stuck together, and as such, I see no need for familiarity”, I flung back her words at her knowing that I was being unfair, but the need to hurt overpowered my manners. Had my old man heard me talking rudely to a woman, he’d have broken down the door and slapped me.

“Can you come out and fight? I don’t like yelling through closed doors”, she said.

“Who’s fighting?” I retorted, adding “I’m nearly done. You go back, somebody might steal our stuff; I’ll join you in a bit”. I just wanted her to go, and yet wanted her to stay.

“Such things don’t happen in first A.C., and anyway, I left your hundred bucks bowing attendant standing outside the coupe and keeping an eye on our stuff. I’m going back, please come soon”, she said before walking off.

I felt as if she was walking out from my life. I’d always lived life larger than real life, had always thought that nothing except the well being of my family could affect me, I’d had my share of crushes and flings, but here I was, reduced to a bumbling wreck by a woman I’d met a few hours ago. A surge of self hatred went through me and that was the best thing that could have happened to me at that moment. It gave me strength, and put steel in my spine. I walked out of the loo, as composed (apparently), and as inscrutable, as the Sphinx.

“Something about this outside food gives me the trots”, I told her as soon as I walked into the coupe.

“How are you going to survive in Mumbai?” she asked.

“I’ll be o.k. I’m staying with family friends, so home food should keep my tummy fine”, I replied.

“I guess I should conk off now”, I told her and climbed up into my berth.

She must have sensed that something was amiss and just wished me good night. As I put on my headphones and turned on my IPod, my mind automatically led me to the Sufi music playlist. I lay there, staring into the darkness, trying to come to terms with the tumult in my heart, listening for answers in the soulful music of those looking for their God. I’d found and lost my goddess is less than a night. Night gave way to the early light of the day and I was no better off than I’d been a few hours ago. The journey that had seemed too short to know this woman had suddenly become interminable. Having nothing else to do, I got done with my ablutions, and was looking fresh as a muffin just out of oven by the time Pushpa woke up. The ‘hundred buck attendant’ had found me an empty compartment where I could change after taking a shower. This act of selfless service had earned him another hundred bucks! Things always look better after you’ve been to the loo, and had had a shower. I was getting a bit of my mojo back!     

“Good morning!” I said chirpily as I walked into the coupe. A still sleepy, even huskier voice replied to my greeting. Her tousled hair and sleepy eyes made me fall in love with her all over again. Someone had once told me that only if you could love a woman when she’s just woken up should you consider getting hitched to her. With Pushpa I could check all the squares but what was the point? As the attendant knocked on the door, came in, and asked us if we were ready for tea, I asked him to serve it in twenty odd minutes; enough time for Pushpa to brush her teeth and freshen up. I shooed her off the berth and lay down in her berth myself. I could still smell that peculiar but very nice smell of hers on the sheets. I wanted to breathe her in as much as I could because I knew I wanted to never forget her smell. I don’t know when I drifted off to sleep but was woken up by Pushpa’s voice. She was asking me to wake up, rise and shine. I woke up, rubbed my face and sat up. I was determined to be stoic and to let her know nothing of what I was going through. Thankfully, tea was served and that lead to some distraction.

“So, how long are you going to be in Mumbai”, she asked me.

“A couple of weeks” I replied. I wanted to keep my responses close-ended so as to preclude the possibility of further small talk.

“Are you going to meet me?”, she asked. God! This babe was persistent!

“I’ll be busy, and I’m sure you will be too, what with catching up with your family and your fiancé”, I prevaricated.

She must have gotten my drift and kept silent after that. The rest of the journey passed in relative silence. As soon as we entered the outskirts of Mumbai, she started pulling out her baggage from under the berths and so did I. As the train chugged into Mumbai Central and stopped, we walked up to the doors of the compartment to de-board. I saw her waving at someone and followed her line of sight. I could see a distinguished looking gray haired man standing with a lady who could have only been Pushpa’s mom. The mother daughter duo looked so alike that it was uncanny. I knew then that Pushpa would age very gracefully; another check mark that wasn’t going anywhere, at least where I was concerned. And then I saw a young guy standing next to them. Tall, but not as tall as I was, overweight, with slicked back oiled hair and spectacles straight out of a Christopher Reeves Superman costume. My chest was bigger than his tummy, and my tummy was smaller than his chest. I must have weighed at least ten kilos more, and I sure could have floored him with one punch. This guy was my competition! This guy?! I could not believe that a woman as beautiful as Pushpa had agreed to marry this nerd! I knew it was just my jealousy fuelling my rant, but this guy was pathetic!    

We got off the train, I shook her hand, and walked away without a backward glance. I wanted to turn back to see if she was still looking at me, but I dared not. If she were, she would see my heartbreak reflected right on my face. I did not want her to know. What was the point?