On Zeta

It was supposed to be an eventful day. Those days, every day was eventful. It would sound childish, but it was because of her. It was childish, because I was merely a child at the time. I have had an implacable difficulty at choosing where to start. So, I’ll start in the middle.

I was on my way to see her. She was not supposed to be home. That’s how I had planned my visit. I didn’t want to be one of those friends, who disappear when you’re recuperating. I’ve been told that such situations are the litmus tests for friendship. I have never failed litmus tests. You cannot fail litmus test, by the way.

I didn’t want to be one of those passengers who wouldn’t come to visit the crash victim, despite being the distraction that caused the accident. I have no problem with guilt. I made an exception for her.

It was a 5 minute walk. It could have taken less than that, if I were walking at my usual pace. Avoiding a confrontation with guilt is a lengthy exercise. It’s hard to see the logic in facing your problems. They would all go away, anyway. Sooner or later. But we have to be brave, bite the bullet and all that.

With an impeccable streak of failures in scheming socially acceptable situations, I expected Zeta to answer the door. To be clear— no, her name is not Zeta. Her name doesn’t add anything to the story, so why bother?

Her mother answered instead.

Have you ever had those times, when you plan for things to go badly, but they don’t and you’re disappointed about it? I’m sure you’ve had those. But I have had them worse and too often.

“Hello”

“Come in. She will be back from her walk any minute now”. Mrs. Gamma has always been courteous to me. This evening, was a dull display of her courtesy. She didn’t ask me if I needed water. That never happened in my neighborhood. You go in, you’re offered water, and that’s usually topped up with some tea.

I woke my phone up from its sleep. The news is an amazing way to handle misery. You can read about a beheading. Or you can read about a rape victim. Or at the very least, you can read about how climate is deteriorating. News is a buffet of misery. Pick one, and taste it, and you’d feel better, almost instantly.

She walked in, when I was reading about a suicide. The girl in the news, had killed herself, along with her (alleged) boyfriend, by jumping in front of a speeding train. It was more melodramatic than sad.

“Hi”

“Hey”

I never say the same greeting. I think it’s rude if you’re not at least working hard on your greeting. How on earth are you going to carry on with the rest of conversation, if your greeting isn’t novel?

Here’s the thing — She was beaten with a cricket bat, by two men. I was 15. So, was she. And these two men, were sent by a 19 year old. So, this 19 year old, ‘liked’ her. The rest of the story is sad and you already know it. It’s a drab story, and I’m the only one who adds melodrama.

“I didn’t expect to see you this soon. You’re not the type.”

OK, look, I like honesty. I love it. Everyone does. But you don’t have to be like this to someone, right off the bat. That’s what I thought then, and the bat reference made me cringe a bit. I decided to keep quiet.

Now that she was seated, Mrs. Gamma brought out a cup of tea. For her.

“How was the walk?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

Mrs. Gamma left after that chit chat. They always trust me. That’s how I’ve been raised. I would be the first one in the crowd to be trusted. I could be trusted, because I nodded a lot. Most of the people who nod a lot are called the yes-men. Not me. People don’t know that I’m a yes-man, because I nod to everybody. The yes-man-ness gets diffused if you do it too often to too many people.

So, I had to say something.

“How are you?”

She nodded, and sipped. If only things would have been different, I’d be pissed. She doesn’t have any long term injuries. She shouldn’t act like this to me, even though she thinks that all this is my fault.

“So, when would you be coming back to school?”

“Why do you care?”

I was patient. That’s the only thing that was admirable about me back then.

“Look Zeta, I am sorry. I don’t know what you think—”

“You know exactly, what I think”

She knew me well. We hadn’t spent that much of time together. We actually weren’t even a couple. Before that evening, the last time we were together was when I ran away while she was being maliciously beaten by two men.

I didn’t run away per se. I was right around the corner, pretending to be on an intense phone call. I saw them coming, while she was busy telling me how her day was. I’d seen those those two with him.

I had a simple explanation for why they were coming toward us. They were probably going for their practice. It was already dark that evening, and we didn’t have any well-lit playgrounds in the neighborhood. I knew that. I made a reasonable assumption that I didn’t know the neighborhood well enough. And it was all just a big coincidence.

I told her that I’d to make a call. I could have made the call, standing right beside her. But I needed some privacy. At least, that’s what I thought she would assume when I walked out of her sight.

“No, I don’t know. That’s why I am here. You don’t reply to my texts, I even — ”

“Texts? I hate typing. You know that. And all you had to was call. It’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?”

I usually like being cut off in the middle of my sentences. It gives me the etiquettical high-ground. And that evening, what Zeta was doing, would have been fine, except that, she had the moral high- ground, the Mt. Everest of high grounds (apparently).

And calling is not the same thing. There’s a whole dimension to talking that repels me. Even when you’re talking on the phone you’ve to make those hand gestures, to an invisible person, so that your voice has the right inflections. You’ve to smile while saying something cute, so that your tone modulates to the person on the other end can hear you smile. Type, and you get rid of all these things. So, yes, calling isn’t the same thing. But, Zeta won’t understand all these!

She was making me uncomfortable that evening. I was less uncomfortable, when I walked away from those three, that evening. She wasn’t crying for help. She would never do that.

That doesn’t stop others from helping someone in trouble. But, you’ve to understand I was pretending to make an urgent call. How could I perceive the need for help, if she doesn’t say that out loud?

“I should have done something. I’m sorry. That’s all I want to say. I don’t know what you’ve told everyone else, but —”

“I’ve told them nothing about you. You were long gone when all these happened. You had been called off on an urgent business. I thought that’s the version you would have liked.”

I was relieved by what she said. She understood me so well. I miss her for that.

I nodded. I realized after two nods, that I shouldn’t have nodded. She was probably expecting another attempt on an apology. But, after two nods, there was no way back. So, I said, my favorite silence filler.

“OK”

“OK?” That was her first facial animation I’d seen that evening.

“Yes. I’ve to go. Bye.” I got up and started towards the door.

“Are you really going to run away from this one too?”. She had to turn a little to say that. I was surprised that she turned at all. Or said anything more.

“I’m sorry about everything. If I’d to do all this again, I’ll do it differently.”

“I know you will do the exact same thing again.”

“You are disgusting”, she said after a pause. Each of those words were intense. I could smell her sourness.

I smiled. It wasn’t a complete smile, just a general horizontal widening of the oral orifice. I turned away before she could notice it.

I’ll never know if she had noticed me smiling. That was last time we ever talked. We went to different schools, in different towns after that year. I’ve kept track of her though. I know what she does and which city she lives in. We’ve mutual friends on Facebook. So I know how she looks too. She’s prettier now. None of her mutual ‘friends’ would agree with me on that. I wish I could tell Zeta to ditch such friends and keep me instead.

I smiled that evening, because, that was the only time I had been called disgusting. Barring that evening, I’ve never let anything get that far. Disgusting is a strong word. No one uses such strong words for me, or against me. No one hates me, or loves me. Through the years I’ve learmed to be a nimble citizen of the Mediocristan of the Emotional Globe. Except Zeta, no one perhaps will ever know that I’m disgusting. She was the first and the last.