Chapter 6: Nandini

# Chapter 6: Nandini

## The Zoya Question

Day eight.

Eight days of baithak. Eight days of marble and tabla and Sultan the cat and the characteristic rhythm that their sessions had acquired — the rhythm, which was: arrive, remove shoes, warm up with tatkar, learn the new element, practise, rest, attar lesson, talk, leave. The rhythm, which was the structure. The structure, the safety. The safety, the thing that allowed two strangers to spend two hours together every day without the awkwardness that two strangers spending two hours together every day should have produced.

The awkwardness was absent because the structure was present. The structure said: we are here for the competition. We are here for the exchange. The structure did not say: we are here because we enjoy each other's company. The structure did not need to say it. The enjoyment was evident in the way he arrived twenty minutes early and she arrived five minutes early and in the way the sessions that were supposed to be ninety minutes had stretched to two hours and then to two and a half hours and in the way the attar lessons — which were supposed to be quick, ten-minute exchanges. Had become thirty-minute conversations about rose fields and distillation and a way that Kannauj's perfumers read the weather by smelling the air.

Today Nandini had a question. The question had been sitting inside her for three days. Three days being the analyst's gestation period for a question, the gestation: time required for the question to move from impulse (I want to ask this) to analysis (should I ask this?) to decision (I will ask this). The analysis had taken three days because the question was not a professional question. The question was personal. And personal questions required more analysis because personal questions carried risk, the risk of crossing the boundary that the structure had built, the boundary between the deal and the not-deal, the deal, which was safe and the not-deal: territory where things got complicated.

The question was about Zoya.

They had not discussed Zoya since the first meeting in the shop. Eight days. In eight days, the woman whose broken wrist had created this partnership had not been mentioned, not by Ishan, not by Nandini, the not-mentioning (avoidance that both of them had performed) without discussing the avoidance, the avoidance (elephant), the elephant sitting in the baithak alongside Sultan, the two of them. The cat and the elephant: coexisting on the marble floor while the humans danced around them.

The session was over. The tukda had been practised. Today's new element was the toda, a longer composition, sixteen beats, the sixteen beats of teentaal stretched into a complex pattern of strikes and slides and pauses, the pauses, the Kathak's negative space: the moments where the foot did not strike, the not-striking being as important as the striking because the silence defined the sound the way the white space on a page defined the text.

Ishan's toda was — his toda was coming along. Eight days had transformed his feet from strangers to acquaintances — not friends yet, not the intimate relationship that trained dancers had with their feet, but acquaintances who recognized each other, who could produce a passable tatkar and an imperfect but recognizable tukda and a toda that was, if she was honest, approximately 40% correct and 60% wrong, the 40% being the achievement and the 60% being the fourteen days of work that remained.

They sat on the marble. Attar time. Today's bottle was jasmine: mogra; the heavy white flower that bloomed at night, the night-blooming; jasmine's romance: jasmine was the flower that performed in the dark, the dark: jasmine's stage the way thebaithak was the Kathak's stage.

He applied the mogra to her wrist. The ritual, the wrist-extending, the drop-applying, the waiting — the ritual had become familiar, the familiar; repetition's gift: the same action performed daily becoming not routine but ceremony, the ceremony: elevated form of routine, the routine becoming sacred through repetition. She shifted her weight. The cold followed.

"Mogra raat ka phool hai," he said. Jasmine is the night's flower. "Raat ko khilta hai. Subah band ho jaata hai. Mogra ko andhera chahiye. Andhera mein khilta hai, andhera mein mehakta hai, andhera mein, andhera mein sabse zyaada sundar hota hai."

Jasmine blooms at night. It closes in the morning. Jasmine needs darkness, it blooms in the dark, it fragrant in the dark, in the dark. In the dark it's most beautiful.

She smelled the mogra on her wrist. The mogra was, the mogra was heavy. Heavier than rose. Heavier than khus. The heaviness, the jasmine's weight; not physical weight but olfactory weight: the scent pressing into the nose with the insistence that jasmine possessed, the insistence of a flower that had been blooming in Indian gardens for three thousand years and that Indian women had been wearing in their hair for three thousand years and that Indian poets had been writing about for three thousand years, the three thousand years of insistence producing a scent that was not delicate but overwhelming.

"Yeh — yeh bohot tez hai," she said. This — this is very strong.

"Haan. Mogra tez hota hai. Isliye mogra akele nahi lagaate. Mogra ko partner chahiye: ek halka note. Gulab ya khus ya kewda. Koi halka cheez jo mogra ko balance kare. Akele mogra.

Yes. Jasmine is strong. That's why you don't apply jasmine alone. Jasmine needs a partner: a lighter note; rose or khus or kewda. Something light that balances the jasmine. Jasmine alone — jasmine alone is too much.

Jasmine needs a partner. She felt the sentence. She heard the sentence and she filed it and then she asked the question, the question that had gestated for three days and that emerged now, in the jasmine's aftermath, in the baithak's quiet, with Sultan asleep near the doorway and the tabla silent and the marble holding the cold.

"Ishan."

"Haan?"

"Zoya ko tumse baat ho rahi hai? Competition ke baare mein?"

Is Zoya in touch with you? About the competition?

The question. The question landing between them like a dropped glass bottle on marble. The landing producing a sound that was clear and final and that could not be taken back, the not-taking-back; characteristic of questions: once asked, they existed in the air between two people, and the air held them the way marble held footprints: permanently.

He was quiet for four seconds. Four seconds being, she counted. The pause of a man deciding how much to disclose, calculation, the deciding: *how much truth does this question require?

"Haan. WhatsApp pe. Woh competition ke updates poochti hai. Costume kya hoga. Music kya hoga. Judges kaun honge."

Yes. On WhatsApp. She asks for competition updates. What the costume will be. What the music will be. Who the judges will be.

"Usse pata hai ki main tumhari partner hoon?"

Does she know I'm your partner?

"Haan. Maine bataya."

Yes. I told her.

"Kya kaha usne?"

What did she say?

"Usne kaha. 'good.' Bas. 'Good.'"

She said; 'good.' That's it. 'Good.'

Good. The word. The word, minimum. The minimum response that a person could give to the information that their date had found a dance partner, the minimum: acknowledgment without investment, the acknowledgment saying I have received this information and the without-investment saying I have no emotional response to this information.

Nandini processed this. She processed it the way she processed ambiguous data, with caution, the caution —: ambiguous data could support multiple interpretations, and multiple interpretations meant that no single interpretation was reliable, and no single interpretation being reliable meant that conclusions should not be drawn.

But she drew a conclusion anyway. The conclusion: Zoya was not invested in Ishan. Zoya's 'good' was the 'good' of a woman who had recruited a man for a task and who was monitoring the task's progress without monitoring the man's feelings, the monitoring (project manager's monitoring): is the deliverable on track? Good. Continue.

She did not say this to Ishan. She did not say this because saying this would be. Saying this would be the crossing of the boundary, the boundary between the deal and the not-deal, the boundary that the structure maintained and that personal observations about Zoya's emotional investment would breach.

"Aur tum?" she asked instead. And you?

"Main?"

"Tum; tumhe abhi bhi Zoya pasand hai?"

You: do you still like Zoya?

The second question. The second question being bolder than the first: the first asking for facts (is she in touch?) and the second asking for feelings (do you still like her?), the feelings. Data that analysts were not trained to handle, the handling of feelings being a different discipline, the discipline of empathy rather than analysis, the empathy requiring not the spreadsheet but the heart.

He looked at the jasmine bottle in his hand. He looked at it for six seconds, six seconds being, she was beginning to learn, his standard thinking-pause, the six-second pause; perfumer's habit: smell first, think second, speak third, the three steps taking approximately six seconds because the nose worked faster than the brain and the brain worked faster than the mouth. She extended her wrist. His fingers steadied it. The contact was brief, dry, precise.

"Main. Main nahi jaanta," he said. I, I don't know.

"Nahi jaante?"

You don't know?

"Pehle, pehle jaanta tha. Pehle jab main dukaan mein tha aur Zoya museum mein thi aur hum WhatsApp pe baat karte the, tab main jaanta tha. Mujhe woh pasand thi. Bohot. Woh; woh ek note thi. Ek saaf note. Top note. Jaise bergamot. Pehli baar sunghte ho toh; pehli baar sunghte ho toh sab kuch badal jaata hai."

Before: before I knew. Before when I was in the shop and Zoya was in the museum and we talked on WhatsApp. Then I knew. I liked her. Very much. She, she was a note. A clean note. Top note. Like bergamot. The first time you smell it, the first time you smell it, everything changes.

"Aur ab?"

And now?

"Ab. Ab main baithak mein hoon. Rozana. Tumhare saath. Aur — aur main Zoya ke baare mein sochta nahi hoon jab main yahan hota hoon. Jab main tatkar kar raha hota hoon: tab main tatkar ke baare mein sochta hoon. Jab tum attar sikha rahi hoti ho, nahin, jab main attar sikha raha hota hoon. Tab main attar ke baare mein sochta hoon. Aur jab hum baat karte hain, tab, tab main baat ke baare mein sochta hoon."

Now, now I'm in the baithak. Every day. With you. And, I don't think about Zoya when I'm here. When I'm doing tatkar; I think about tatkar. When you're teaching attar: no, when I'm teaching attar, I think about attar. And when we talk; then; then I think about the conversation.

The confession. The confession, she recognized it; not a confession of love or of changed feelings but a confession of presence, the presence: when I am here, I am here. I am not elsewhere. I am not with Zoya. I am in this room, on this marble, with you.

Presence. The data analyst's mind processed this. The processing —: presence was a variable. Presence indicated engagement. Engagement with the partner indicated, engagement with the partner indicated that the partnership had exceeded the deal's parameters, the parameters —: dance instruction and attar instruction. The partnership had produced something beyond the parameters. The something —: enjoyment. Connection. The particular connection that two people developed when they spent two hours together every day exchanging skills and stories and the silence that sat between skills and stories.

"Main bhi," she said, and the sentence escaped her the way the question about Zoya had escaped her, without the analyst's permission, without the filter, the filter having been disabled by the jasmine on her wrist and the confession in the air and the marble's cold under her thighs.

"Tum bhi?"

You too?

"Main bhi; main bhi yahan hone ke baare mein sochti hoon jab main yahan hoti hoon. Jab main TCS mein hoti hoon.

I also. I also think about being here when I'm here. When I'm at TCS, I think about being here.

The exchange. The exchange: the exchange. Crossing. The boundary had been crossed. Not by a declaration, not by a confession of love, not by the word that changed relationships from one state to another. The crossing had been made by two sentences: I don't think about Zoya when I'm here and When I'm at TCS, I think about being here. Two sentences that said: you are the place I want to be. Not she. Not there. Here. You.

The jasmine sat on her wrist. The jasmine was heavy and strong and it needed a partner — a lighter note to balance it, the lighter note, which was thing that made the heavy thing bearable, the bearable that was balanced, the balanced that was: two things together that were too much alone.

Sultan woke up. Sultan stretched, the stretch, the cat's full-body yawn, the yawn that started at the front paws and travelled through the spine to the back paws, the travel, the stretch's journey, the journey that cats performed with the unselfconsciousness that humans could not replicate because humans were always aware of being watched and cats were never aware and the never-awareness was the freedom.

"Waqt ho gaya," she said. But the saying was different today. The saying was, the saying was reluctant. The reluctance, new. The reluctance, the product of the crossing: I have crossed the boundary. I do not want to leave the territory I have entered. But the structure says leave. The deal says leave. The schedule says leave.

She left. She walked to the gate. She walked through the courtyard past the neem tree and the dry fountain.

At the gate, she stopped.

"Ishan."

"Haan?"

"Mogra akele bohot zyaada hai, tumne kaha. Mogra ko partner chahiye."

You said jasmine alone is too much. Jasmine needs a partner.

"Haan."

"Zoya — Zoya mogra hai?"

Zoya. Zoya is jasmine?

He looked at her. He looked at her with the six-second pause. The six seconds passing while his nose worked and his brain processed and his mouth waited.

"Zoya; Zoya bergamot thi," he said. The thi being past tense. Was. Not is. Was. She pressed harder. The ink spread into the fibres.

She walked down the lane. She walked with jasmine on her wrist and the past tense in her ears and the boundary's debris behind her. The boundary having been crossed, the crossing: irreversible, the irreversible, characteristic of confessions: once said, they could not be unsaid, and the unsaying was impossible because the air held the words and the words held the truth and the truth was: something had changed.

Fourteen days to go.