Jaishree Misra - Secrets and Sins

Even though he did not know whom she was referring to as ‘they’, Aman had obediently made as much of a din as he could, shouting and clanging for all he was worth, all the while keeping an eye on the red miniskirt as it flashed around the quadrangle. Its pretty owner appeared to be quite definitely in charge of events as they unfolded. Aman recalled how, finally, about an hour later, a great cheer had broken out among the protestors as the Bursar emerged from his office. He wore a harassed expression on his face as he beckoned to the miniskirted girl. When she disappeared into his office along with a couple of others, the remaining protestors seemed to lose both interest and momentum and Aman heard the word ‘pub’ mentioned as, one by one, people started to put their placards down and drift away. Only Aman continued to stand there, shivering in his too-thin jacket as the sun set over the roofs of the college buildings and the evening drew in.

When she emerged from the Bursar’s office an hour later, the girl looked startled to see him still standing under the tree, holding the dustbin lid and ladle she had given him.

‘Goodness, you’re not still protesting, are you?’

‘Well, I’m not shouting any more but I had to return these to you,’ Aman said, handing her the dustbin lid and ladle as though they were prize possessions. She took them from Aman, looking around at the empty quadrangle with a huge frown.

‘Don’t tell me they left you here by yourself to decamp to the pub? What utter bastards!’ she declared, looking in concern at Aman’s thin, shivering frame. He nodded dumbly and was astonished when she proceeded to take his arm. The discomfort of the cold autumn evening was instantly forgotten as she beamed up at him and squeezed his arm. ‘Well, our victory makes it all worthwhile, eh? We won! The Bursar’s going to take the matter up with the uni’s governing council so it’s only a partial victory at this stage. But well worth a celebration.’ She took her hand from his arm and added, a little more shyly, ‘Hey, thanks for joining in. Can I buy you a drink for your pains? Least I can do. I’m Riva, by the way.’

Aman leant back on the headrest of his aircraft seat, remembering that long-ago time. No doubt anyone who knew him then would declare that he had changed unimaginably – and not necessarily for the better! Fame had converted his boyish shyness to ‘aloofness’ and his open, trusting nature to cynicism. Even the susceptibility he once had to the sort of kindness Riva had shown him was now transformed into the deepest suspicion of people’s motives. But, back then, he had been so easily touched by Riva’s friendship and the manner in which she had firmly taken him under her wing. That day outside the Bursar’s office, she had marched him into the smoky warmth of the Hare & Tortoise and introduced him to everyone as though he was her best friend. The others had been faintly curious but eventually accepting of him, despite his being a bit of a fish out of water: a teetotaller, fresh out of India and completely clueless about some of the jokes they tossed about so nonchalantly. Looking back, Aman realised that they had all been nice enough – all except for Ben. Aman had soon worked out that the fellow was already madly in love with Riva and consequently jealous of the attention she was showering him with. Ben wasn’t to know that she was only feeling sorry for the lost soul Aman had been back then! In fact, it was probably pity that had led to her first sleeping with him four months later too. But, mere weeks after that, she had gone off him again, and slipped back into her own circle of friends; people who were like her and with whom she would naturally feel more at home.

Aman chewed on a slice of lemon, trying to recall the names of all the others…Susan was Riva’s best friend, a gregarious redhead who had been to the same school as Riva and had joined Leeds Uni too, but in the History department. Her name had stuck in Aman’s head for some reason but, try as he might, Aman could not now remember the name of the medical student Susan had been going out with…a tall, gangly, serious type who talked a lot about joining Médecins Sans Frontières when he had completed his MBBS…Jack? John? No, it had gone…

With all those young faces now floating around in his head, Aman tried to settle into his aircraft bed. But, after half an hour of trying to fall asleep, he was still awake, wondering if, like Riva, Susan had gone on to marry her college sweetheart. They had seemed a well-suited pair, the chatty redhead and her medical student boyfriend who had such a grave and serious air about him. Aman had heard them talk about joining VSO together…Perhaps they had, and were now working side by side in some corner of the world, helping the poor and dispossessed. Some couples were like pieces of a jigsaw slotting in perfectly together, Aman thought as he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

The sudden clear knowledge of Joe’s infidelity came like a physical blow to Susan’s stomach. The unease had been growing for days but she had so far had nothing definite to put her finger on. One could not possibly make an accusation, or private judgement even, on the basis of such vague observations as a spouse’s far-off look, for heaven’s sake! Not if she did not want to be seen as completely paranoid.

There had been other things, though. Until last month, Joe’s BlackBerry had been an instrument carelessly strewn about the house, often beeping insistently while Joe raced about the house searching frantically for it, or nearly getting chucked into the recycler along with the Sunday papers. Now, however, Susan had observed the damn thing become a permanent accessory to her husband, looped around his neck on a cord, and glanced at frequently and surreptitiously. If Joe had been seventy, Susan would have understood the neck-cord thing but he was thirty-five, for God’s sake, and far from requiring memory aides! Before the suspicion had crept in, sitting like an unmoving lump between them, Susan had quite casually asked Joe about his sudden attachment to his mobile phone. He had looked confused for a moment – clearly not realising he’d made it so obvious – before speaking quickly, thinking on his feet. He was considering dispensing with wearing a watch, he said, and had Susan noticed that youngsters never wore watches any more? Their whole array of technological needs was now being met by their phones, apparently. Susan had at first accepted Joe’s explanation without question, even agreeing that most of her older students had in fact dispensed with wearing wristwatches.

What was more difficult to ignore was Joe’s more recent tendency to veer from overblown expressions of love to irrational snappishness, as though Susan had simultaneously become both her husband’s most loved person, and his most hated. There had even been that ghastly scene last month when they had been driving up the M4 to visit her parents in Stoke Poges. Joe had been silent for much of the journey, responding to Susan’s attempts at conversation with monosyllables or grunts. He had also been driving unusually fast and, when Susan had reminded him that they were in no particular rush to get there, he had slammed on the brakes and swung onto the hard shoulder in a quite terrifying manoeuvre, only narrowly missing a coach travelling on the inside lane. The angry blare of the coach’s horn was still ringing in their ears as Joe turned on Susan in a fury to yell, ‘Do you want to drive then?’ Startled by the unexpected aggression, Susan had silently swapped places with her husband and taken the wheel, unwilling to let Joe drive when he was in such an agitated state. Joe had calmed down just as rapidly, soon reaching out to cup his hand over Susan’s on the gearstick and mutter an apology. But, needless to say, the lunch at her parents’ home had been awkward.