Meera Rajagopalan
In the hands of a lesser writer, this might have been the big reveal, you know? But me, I don’t prefer gimmicks. I want my work to speak for itself, the typewritten words oozing meaning, the way my tongue seems incapable of doing. Speaking has not been my tongue’s strong suit. But then, one organ, one job. What’s this double career that is demanded of the nose and tongue, and ahem, the male thing—they should protest, I say! Give us one job, and that’s it. Overburdening some organs, while others, like the ear, have but a simple job and are even bejewelled for it. (See what I mean? It was good, right, how I was able to join in different concepts, and made it observational and funny?)
Of course, I digress.
Yeah, the big reveal: Atlas’s mother was dead. Most writers would probably set it up as if it were a regular dinner, careful to not let out any details about her death, and at the end of it, mentioned, casually, “He had been doing this since she passed on, five years ago.” Pschaw! That is just plain cheating. Yes, clever, but plain old cheating.
So, Atlas’s mother was dead, died in her sleep five years ago. (Natural? No idea.) And he had dinner with her once a month. Was he delulu? Not at all. Regardless, he persisted in this monthly ritual. Obviously, it wasn’t his actual mother, but he set a place for her on the table, served the food that he lovingly made, and spoke to her. How do I know, you ask? He told me this when we were dating. Without batting an eyelid. That he couldn’t come on a date that night because he would be spending time with his mother. I should have screamed and headed out of there immediately, but let me tell you a secret about writers. You will see them miserable, and will want to help them. Don’t bother. We writers thrive in misery—masochism-adjacent, I call it. So I stayed in the relationship with him. It made him a lot more interesting, and as we say, “No experience is completely wasted—it is just used in our stories.”
Anyway, today, I’m thinking of him and what I escaped. We’re still friends though. We’re having lunch here at home, and then we go to a movie-the latest Vijay Sethupathi one. We are not together, thank God. I have moved on (difficult), and so has he (definitely not difficult). I have ordered something off Swiggy. Can’t be bothered to cook. Except the rice. I’ve kept that all by myself. Please be impressed.
Atlas, dear Atlas. He was like a force of gravity if you dated him. We met, of all places, at Sangeetha Veg Restaurant. You know, the usual: Crowded as hell. Waiter squished us together in the same table. No luxury of solitude in a Bhavan-style restaurant at lunchtime. We both had meals. He was impressed with my capacity for food. I finished the entire Tamilnadu meals in one go. He couldn’t. I borrowed his dessert also. Just as we started talking, we were slowly edged out of our seats. In hindsight, it was a prelude to our time together, but then, it was heady, this being thrust together and mixed, like we were in a high-speed mixie. We continued talking outside, and then in his car, and then in his house. Would have been a nice meet cute, if it had lasted.
I’ll be honest: There is something attractive about a man with money. That too, self-made. With a story like his, to boot. The only problem? Time. The entire six months I was with him, he was busy. Calls. Emergencies. Missed deliveries. Customer complaints. Accidents of drivers. When he was not attending calls, though, he was completely with you. Like you were the only person in the world. He would be shouting and screaming on the phone, and then when the call was over, just switch on a different mood, like it was but a different movie on Netflix. I suppose, in the end, he had to put out so many fires in the office, he couldn’t put out mine.
Atlas, Atlas. I once asked him about his name—it is usually the icebreaker, but I brought it up days later. Sometimes, I wonder why. Perhaps it was because he had the natural aura of mystery about him—his family, his absence, his seeming incapacity transforming into this high-powered business acumen his family was now dependent on, like a poramboke land becoming the hottest mall in town, and I hate to admit it, his monthly dinners with his mother. I had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
A normal name (Meera—never trendy, but always around, so every generation knows a couple Meeras), a normal childhood and parents (staying together, proper division of labour, decent ideas about girl education), and a career that would have been rebellious had I been a couple of decades older. (To be completely honest, my career was not “writer,” it started off with journalism, and is now more Insta content, but I’ve tried really hard to call myself a writer, so no one can take that away from me.) I go as far as knee-length skirt, tried alcohol and stuff and don’t enjoy it, even if I have a couple of drinks every now and then. Everything about me is mid. And everything about him was OTT. I suppose I didn’t want to reveal that I was super taken in by him, his story, his work, his aura. Hence the nonchalance.
Anyway, name. He said he had no idea. “Why are you called Meera?” he asked, as if that was in any way interesting. I just shrugged. “Then me too,” he said and shrugged.
This is one of my problems. The rambling. The trying to sound intelligent, make things more interesting. Perhaps because of aforementioned midness.
Back to the dinner. I asked to be in the dinner when we were dating, and he just flat-out refused. No explanations, no apologies. It was just a simple, matter-of-fact, non-pausal, I-know-you-can’t-do-anything-about-it no. I’d even tried to make it sound normal, so he didn’t feel he’s a weirdo. “Perhaps I can meet your mother,” I’d said.
I had just enough self-respect to not ask “Why?” but definitely less self-respect than to hide myself in his apartment and observe the dinner. Shamefully, I let myself in (he was generous with his lock passcode like that), and waited in the shadows. You’d forgive me if you knew him. It was impossible not to be curious.
At around 6 p.m., he came in. Now, I’ve not described him yet. He has one of those bodies that seem more attractive the richer their owners are. Medium height, sort of dark, a two-inch beard, a smallish nose, searching eyes, full lips. He didn’t work out too much, but had a healthy enough lifestyle that he did not have a paunch. Not too hairy either. All in all, quite pleasing on the eye, hands, and lips. Maybe this will go earlier in the story.
He went into his bedroom and emerged in a light grey tee and shorts. His apartment, if you are wondering, was chrome-grey. No other way to describe it. All modern gadgets and remotes to control everything (except me, of course!). Screamed bachelor pad. He cooked very well, too. Today, he strode into the kitchen with purpose. Not the way I usually ambled in to mine, wondering what to make. He went straight to the fridge, got out the onions (yes, he kept onions in the fridge, why couldn’t I have a quirk like that) and tomatoes. Then he opened his pantry, and got some ingredients out. In about fifteen minutes, the apartment was filled with the magnetic aroma of Chicken Chettinad. He did not even switch on the chimney, letting the aroma swirl around and settle in every nook and cranny of his apartment, other than his bedroom, which was, I noticed, shut tight. In an hour, the aroma arrested my senses. (How did he never smell of this, even up close, if he cooked like this?) Seemingly satisfied, he placed the two dishes on the table. He brought out two placemats and kept them opposite each other in his four-place dining table (expandable to six, but probably never was). He then set two places, replete with side plates, a bowl, and glasses for water.
Slowly, deliberately, he undressed. I was aghast. Did he intend to eat naked? With his mother? Even if she were not, well, really there? Thankfully, he swept up all his clothes and threw them in a hamper, moving to the shower. He switched on the chimney, and left. He emerged ten minutes later, and thankfully, went to his room to get dressed.
The dinner was pretty unremarkable, actually. If I squinted really hard, I could almost see a woman sitting opposite him.
“How are you, ma? Been some time.”
“Here, have this chicken. I made just like you like it.” He poured a karandi of it on the plate opposite his.
It was endearing, really. I could get used to this long-term, I remember thinking then. What’s a little delusion once a month?
He chuckled. “Aamam ma. I learnt it when I was away, just experimenting with different ingredients till I could get it right.” A pause. “Yes, yes. I could have just asked you. But your husband… plus, where’s the fun in that? What’s not got through effort, also goes without effort ma.”
There was a bit of silence after that. Was he actually seeing her like a hallucination? Was she saying something?
Suddenly, he laughed. “You’ll never stop talking about this. No, ma, not looking right now. Just because you have grandmother needs, I can’t go settling down.”
A beat. Could have been my heart’s. I might have blushed.
“No, no, she is not. She is the saada, the coffee pouch ma.” A couple of beats.
“Coffee pouch means, you know, in perfume stores, they keep the pouch to smell in between fragrances, so you bring your smell back to normal? That.”
A pause that could have been an eternity. My face, flush. My heart. Beating like crazy. My feet, lead.
“Yes, of course she knows. She knows she is the normal and I’m not. She tells me every day how lucky she is to have me. She’ll not be surprised, I guarantee you. After her, I’ll look for someone extraordinary. Doesn’t your son deserve someone like that?”
A laugh. “Of course you would say that. Listen, I know what I am doing.”
“Let your words come true!” He clinked his glass with hers, one in each hand of his.
Suddenly, it was as if my feet were demagnetized. I sprung free. He was still talking to his mother and did not notice me. I looked around, grabbed the nearest statuette (yeah, I got it right without spellcheck), and slammed his head with it. Once. Twice. He turned and his eyes bore into mine.
Long story short, I am waiting for our monthly lunch and movie date. I hate wasting one person’s food, but the conversation is scintillating, I tell you.
Now that’s how you make a big reveal.
Meera Rajagopalan is an author and social entrepreneur. Her debut book, The Eminently Forgettable Life of Mrs Pankajam (Hachette), was shortlisted for the AutHer Awards. This was followed by Control the Shift (self-published). Her short fiction tends to veer around issues of identity, and has appeared in anthologies including the recent Helter Skelter Anthology of New Writing Vol. 6, and Amaryllis’s Have a Safe Journey, and in Out of Print, Gulmohur Quarterly, Muse India, and Indian Review, among other literary magazines. She is co-founder of Club Artizen, an enterprise dedicated to enhancing artisan livelihoods. Her website is www.meerarajagopalan.com. Instagram: @iammeerar
