She walked in home drenched in the revelry of the night that
had been. Reeking of whiskey and the warm yet comforting stench of tobacco. The
doorbell rang about ten times, interspersed with her loud giggles and the sound
of keys struggling to get into the keyhole.
I could hear her heels click against the tiled floor outside the door
occasionally slipping in gay abandon, after which her palms thump the door
repeatedly. “Open the door, Banana!”
I rush across the house, look through the peephole, open our
bright blue door. There she stands. All dressed in a thin black shrug, her blue
heels, her eyes just the right tinge of pink filled with a flurry of excitement
and coquettishness, telling tales of what went on at ‘Bonobo’ that night. She darts inside, only to flop on the couch
and remove another bottle of wine which I look at disapprovingly but eventually
share. She then hugs me and tells me it is all going to pan out the way I
imagined it would, no matter what or who stands in my way. I’m touched and I
extend my arms for her to fall right into them. We’re not into long pensive
hugs with the same sex. So she is upright again. We talk into the remaining
part of the night, until we feel the sun shining through our French windows,
imploring us to call it a day.
The next day is heavy on both our heads. The world swirls in
our apartment along with the sugar in our freshly beaten coffee. Back on the
couch we were. She looks at me with those dreary, tired eyes and says “Banana,
just so you know, all those things I said last night? Well they’re all true. I’m
here ok?” Umm, awkward silence time.
“I know you are. Let’s go get some lunch?”
“Sure. Just dress properly ok. I know we live next to a
trash can, you don’t have to look like
one.”
“Bugger off, I’ll be ready in 10.”
Roommates. I can’t even begin to describe what they’ve meant
to me over the years. After an initial hiccup with two who used to use my bed
for nefarious doings behind my back, I’ve had all the luck with the rest. They
become a part of you that can’t really be detached. Atleast mine haven’t been
able to. Back in Delhi, I was healing a broken heart. Here in Bombay I was
resurrecting a flailing career. The few
moments of happiness and contentment in
both places, would never have seen the light of day had it not been for the
lovely women I shared my home with. Cheems saw me through the depths of
listlessness and disillusion. She did what any true friend would do for another
friend getting over her biggest break up- introduce the victim to new steaming
hot men with an IQ of -2, the one thing Delhi can triumphantly boast of. A few months later, the favour was duly
returned when she was boyfriendless and had her head stuck in a tub of
ice-cream. I call it the Ostrich effect and as women we truly believe it is the
solution to all out break ups, till the time the nasty vindictive temptress
starts making her way round your waistline.
Bombay was a whole
different ball game. My bond with Pee emanated from my utmost disgust with a
philistine city that seemed to lack a soul. She was the first person I had an
intelligent conversation with and that was enough reason for me to share a home
with her. Simple as that. Her drunken nights followed by my nocuous workdays
kept up the entertainment quotient, most of which was expended on a bottle of
wine. And the cycle continued. In a city
where most people experience their
dreams come alive, I watched mine slip through my consciousness. I stopped
writing and as I sat in a corner of my room watching my books and my diary
collecting dust, I imagined them gently weeping.
I would watch Pee come back home every night discussing
feverishly her advertising ideas, pitches, who said what, what art meant to
her, whose work she could kill for and whose the industry could well do
without. As I listened to her, I realized I had lost that passion, my passion.
I had nothing to say, nothing to compare myself to, no benchmarks to set myself
against. For the first time in a long time, I felt uninspired. Death for a
writer.
Pee finally sat me down and spoke to me about how I
needed to get my mojo back. “Honey you
stopped loving yourself ages ago. From what I hear, you were quite the ballsy
b**** and had boys by their you -know –whats. Where did all that go? And why
the hell do I have to know you know when you’re this depressing?” Only someone
really close can talk to you like that and get away with it. It was at that
instant that I decided to stop moping, pick myself up and follow my heart.
Vikram had moved in by then and the ‘let’s get banana moving’ campaign was on
full swing. With long debates and discussions into the wee hours of the morning
to reading every single one of my articles to even getting my culinary-artistic
high with Masterchef every night, I seemed to have atleast a few happy memories
to look back at.
In a world where single people living in alien cities, away
from the warmth of home, is as common as a roadside tea stall, is it really
that important who we live with? My roommates were my substitutes for family.
They’ve hugged me when I’ve cried, they’ve pulled my hair back when I’ve puked
(ok this was at 21. Totally allowed), they’ve stealthily put blankets over me,
when in my sleep I’ve kicked mine off in Delhi’s biting winter, they’ve nursed
me back to health when I’ve felt like a Somalian refugee. But most importantly,
they’ve laughed with me and spread the kind of joy in my life which is quite
irreplaceable. And yes, they will still need me and they will still feed me,
when I’m 64.
What’s been the payback? Well, just the same. And I’d do it
again. A million times over.
