Or was it just me who was not adept in the art of understanding human beings?
Well, that was quite a possibility.
Data was so much easier to handle and understand.
But you can not live with data.
You can not interact with data.
You can not become friends with data.
You can not have feelings for data.
No. You need human beings for that. Men and women. Each one with their own thoughts, feelings, personalities, ambitions, hidden agendas, priorities, responsibilities, likes, dislikes and so many other things.
Data was truly easier. Much easier.
And then there was Naira.
Straight-forward, no-nonsense Naira.
I found it equally terrifying and fascinating.
For instance, that time when I met one of her friends during a hangout and later on when I came to know that he was a homosexual, I had commented that he didn’t look like one and she had immediately turned to me, looked me in the eyes and calmly said, “I didn’t peg you to be someone who would judge a book by its cover, Ishaan.”
I felt ashamed. And embarrassed.
Also that one time when the both of us had gone for lunch and I had been uncomfortable because a woman had been staring at us and upon realising what was going on Naira had walked up to the woman and asked, “Did you have something to say to us? If not then please stop staring, you are making us uncomfortable.”
I was horrified. I was sure the woman shared the sentiment.
Not to mention that one time when one of her friends was complaining to her about how their life was an utter mess and nothing was going right and many other stuff that were going wrong and Naira had been listening patiently for the whole time but at the end had just said, “No one can help you unless you help yourself. If you feel things are not going right, then take charge and make changes to make them right.”
I felt inspired. It made me think of things in a new light. Made me want to do better.
And I could definitely not forget the incident one evening when Naira and I were walking down a street and having ice cream and she had suddenly asked me something. “Why is it that you never ask to hangout with me and we meet and hangout only when I bring it up? Don’t you like hanging out with me, Ishaan?”
I was speechless. What was she even talking about? I loved hanging out with her. But it made me realise that I had to say things out loud too. What I liked as well as what I didn’t.
On top of all of that, were her skills as designer as well as photographer.
I was fascinated. No other word could describe it.
In the almost half a year that we had been friends, I had come to know her and respect her. Had come to realise how she would smile when she found things amusing and how she would purse her lips when she was getting annoyed. How she would click her tongue if she was not really satisfied with the design she was making and how she would humm when she thought that a photograph would come off better from another angle.
I had not only encountered how she became happy and excited over things but also witnessed how she became sad and upset about things.
I came to know that when she called up and said ‘Let’s hangout’, it meant we were going to hangout with a bunch of other people, mostly her friends, where she would laugh out loud without caring about anyone. I also came to know that when she called up and asked if we could go for some ice cream, she wanted to stay quiet and be lost in her thoughts, ask me about my opinions about certain things, discuss ideas occasionally, where she would smile up at me and her eyes would hold different emotions.
At first, we met up only on the weekends. As time passed we started meeting on weekends and weekdays alike. Mostly for dinner, occasionally for lunch.
It kind of became a ritual for us to go back to her place if we happened to go clubbing on the weekends. And have breakfast together the next morning. Maybe also hangout in the evening.
It was during one of those mornings that I discovered that the black ink I had noticed on one side of her exposed waist the day we first met was a huge phoenix, running down her midriff up to her upper thigh. I had kind of walked in on her when she was doing yoga, wearing a sports bra and boyshorts, leaving her waist and upper thighs exposed.
Needless to say, I had blushed immediately, apologised profusely and almost ran out of her room, utterly embarrassed.
Later that day, the phoenix along with the sleeve she had on her left arm, made me wonder a lot of things. One being how did I even miss that before? However I chose not to linger on that for long. Instead…
“Wasn’t it painful?” I had asked, somewhat concerned.
“Not as much as you would think. But I guess it also depends on your pain tolerance level.” She had explained, patient as ever.
“Should I get one? Do you think it would look good on me?” I had voiced out. Without much thought to it, might I add.
Her eyes had sparkled at that suggestion, as if she had found a new treasure.
That evening itself, she had taken me to the tattoo parlour she got her tattoos done from.
“No need to worry. They are the best.” She tried to ease my mind, the familiar smile gracing her lips.
And it had been fine, until the brand new needle was brought out, still in its unpacked state, for me to see. And I had freaked out.
Naira sure found it hilarious when I announced that I did not want to get it done anymore. She was quite supportive though. She assured me that it was alright and I did not have anything to be embarrassed about.
Though, later on she had also teased me saying maybe I could try piercing my septum. That, I definitely did not even want to think about trying.
*****
It was a weekday, almost midnight. I, along with some of Naira’s friends, had planned on meeting outside her apartment building, to surprise her. It was her birthday.
Honestly, I was surprised that her friends invited me. They were good people, of course, but not close to me. I could only think about one quite obvious reason they would want me to be there for. Naira.
Umer, one of her friends, had told me that it would make Naira happy if I was present. I agreed to go.
As I waited for the others to show up with balloons and cakes and whatever else they planned on bringing, I thought back to the conversation Naira had with me not very long ago, about her family.
It just so happened that my mother had called me when I was with Naira. No. That was not the first time that I had received such call in her presence. But it was the first time that Naira decided to say something other than just staying silent or continuing the conversation from when we were interrupted.
“Ishaan, who all are there in your family?” She had asked.
That was not unexpected. A lot of people liked talking about family or cousins. Hardik was one of them.
But Naira was not.
I knew that Naira was Radhika’s cousin. But Naira never really talked about her family or cousins.
After I told her about my immediate family, Naira nodded once and fell silent.
I waited.
It was one of those days when Naira was quiet. And I kept company.
I knew Naira had something on her mind. So, I waited.
It had been a bright day and the setting sun had rendered the sky colourful with shades of pink, orange and red.
After what felt like a long time had passed, Naira broke the silence.
“I didn’t get to spend much time with my mother. From what I have heard, though I was born healthy, my mother’s health deteriorated soon after. I once heard some relatives talking about how my father actually married her for wealth. I also heard she ran away with him when she was just 16 but after realising what kind of man he really was, she came back home. All in all, she was already pregnant with me and maybe depressed too. She didn’t last long after my birth. Maybe a month or two.”
I knew she was not done.
“It was all fine. I didn’t even know my parents were missing from my life. From what I remember, my grandma took care of me for the first couple of years. But then she had a stroke and the left half of her body was paralysed. With that and the gossip about my mother among the family members and servants, my grandpa decided it would be best to keep me away from home. So, I was sent to boarding school when I was a little over 3.”
Naira then turned to look at me with a wry smile.
“It was for the best, I guess. Got to make a lot of friends and learned to live independently. Having stayed all of my school and college life away from home, it got a little weird whenever I went back home. So I decided to move out when I got the job.”
With a shrug, she turned to look at the sky.
“Sometimes I just wonder, what would it be like if my mother was alive, or if I had siblings? When you talk to your mom, or when someone talks about their family. I know I can’t exactly miss what I never had. I just wonder.”
That entire conversation had been running on my mind since then. And I wondered too.
Call me immature or weak-hearted, stupid or an utter moron, but I still wondered.
And that’s why, after Naira cut the cake her friends brought for her, wished her a successful and happy life and many more such birthdays, gave her gifts and hugs and smeared the icing of the cake on her face, and she turned to me to demand her gift with a raised eyebrow, a teasing smile and an outstretched hand, with open palms, I told her I would take her somewhere on the following weekend, as her birthday present.
*****
I was not totally sure why I was doing whatever I was doing, but I was sure that I wanted to do it.
So, with that surety, I had booked a cab that Friday evening and was waiting for Naira to come downstairs so that I could take her to give her the birthday present I had promised earlier in the week.
The place I was taking her? My home.
It was not a spur of the moment decision. Absolutely not.
It was more like the desire to make Naira feel what it would be like to have siblings. To have a place that truly felt like home.
When that thought first occurred in my mind, I had called my mother to discuss it with her and ask her opinion. I knew she would agree.
My mother was what one would call a typical housewife who loved cooking and feeding and taking care of her kids. I would not be surprised if she ever said that she wanted more kids of her own. Besides, I was aware that she wanted to have a girl child but was blessed with two boys instead. Or maybe cursed? Depends on the perspective, I guess.
I also knew that a lot of my friends in my school days were my friends because they would get to visit my place and eat delicious meals.
Well, it was what it was.
And the plan was in motion. With high hopes that my over-enthusiastic mother and polar-opposite younger brother would make Naira feel not only welcome but also a part of the family.
What could go wrong, anyway?
Or that’s what I thought.
*****
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