If You Weren’t Such a Good Boy, You’d Remember
BY SUDHA BALAGOPAL
our mothers packed snacks for our annual trips: sesame laddus, banana chips, masala puris. On the train, we shared the treats while best friends, Amma and your mother―so close they borrowed each other’s saris, blouses, sandals, purses and jewelry―chattered. Amma said, a hand cupping her protruding chin, that Appa depended on her, “He cannot manage without me, but what to do? My parents want to see me, too,” while your mother peered into the grimy mirror above the windows, combed her glossy, hip-length hair, and said, “My husband travels so much for work, I’ve learned to manage without him.” She knotted her hair into a bun, put on lipstick, turned her head this way and that. “Even my neighbor, such a nice man, told me a wife shouldn’t be this lonely.”
our mothers preferred a coupe for our travel. After school closed for the summer, we―your mother, you, Amma and me―took the Howrah-Mumbai Mail, a train that covered the distance of twenty-one hundred kilometers in thirty-seven hours. My Amma booked the tickets two months ahead to secure the compartment. I looked forward to visiting my grandparents in Mumbai, as I’m sure you did yours, but I cuddled a secret―I looked forward to sharing the enclosed space, sitting by you during the day, sleeping on the berth across from you at night.
our journeys were magical. The first year, I noticed your limbs sprouted thin-long from your torso and your voice hadn’t fully broken, but you fingered the faint mustache tickling your upper lip as if you were older. “What a nutcase!” I tossed my words out of the window while gazing at flooded paddy fields, at water buffaloes rolling in muddy ditches, even as I hoped you’d slide over and share my view. You didn’t hear me because your mother asked you to unfurl her bedroll right then. You obeyed.
our train halted at Jabalpur station the following year and I hopped off despite Amma’s dire warnings. I scowled as she praised you: “Why can’t you be like Vikram? He listens to his mother,” walked over to a magazine stand and flipped through pictures of skinny models wearing outlandish outfits. Next thing I knew, you’d pulled my arm and shoved me into the already-moving train, the magazine in my hands. “Stupid girl,” you said as if you were my uncle―we were both fourteen―and climbed in after me. Inside our coupe, I caressed the impression of your fingers on my upper arm.
our awkwardness had melted by the time we turned sixteen. I offered gruesome details about dissecting a frog by way of conversation. In exchange, you spouted passages from your English text, Twelfth Night. You’d grown taller, more muscular. When the train pulled in at Katni, I rose, told Amma I must stretch my legs. She huffed. “What if the train leaves as you’re wandering?” At your mother’s nod, you stood to accompany me. Amma’s frown relaxed. On the railway platform, you and I shared crispy pakoras wrapped in newspaper, bit into the sharp, fried green chillies, laughed at the tears they wrought, drank strong chai served in clay cups. While I searched for a rubbish bin, you found my hand, made my heart somersault. “Can’t leave you behind,” you said.
our final journey before the last year of high school began somber, the mothers uncharacteristically silent. I tried to decipher an unexpected void, a hollowness under my diaphragm, as the hubbub of the station surrounded me, as the ticket collector walked by with his clicker, as vendors swarmed our windows pushing their wares―cold drinks, chocolates, potato chips. At night, while everyone slept to the rhythmic cadence of our transportation, I remained awake. I stepped into the corridor of the rocking, speeding train, stared into the darkness through the glass, then gasped when you hugged me from behind. My legs wobbled. You turned me around and in that rattling, hurtling train, you kissed me. My first, precious kiss.
our paths diverged after that, not because I enrolled at a college in New Delhi or because you stayed back in our home town. On my first day at college, I leaped for the phone when you called. But then, you instructed me not to call but to send you letters at a friend’s address. I fumed. The second I got home for semester break, I abandoned my unpacking, disregarded Amma’s angry, “Where are you going?” and charged to your house. I rang the bell. A shadow darkened your window. I rang the bell again, and again, until your mother yanked the door open. “Go away!” she yelled. “Ask your Amma why she said I could borrow saris and sandals but not her husband. Pah!” She slammed the door. I glanced up, noticed your torso outlined behind the curtain. I walked away, didn’t look back.
