The Girl Who Could Make People Naked- Femina

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The first part of a short story by Manjula Padmanabhan

HE'LL be there," said Gautam's sister, smiling as she plaited her hair. "Don't worry!" Gautam felt the skin on his face stretch and thin out like an expanding gas balloon, with the walnut of his brain exposed to view, floating within it. Was he so transparent? "I'm not worrying," he said.

"Of course you are," said Sagari. "Look at your face. All wound up! Like a... like a... "She swung her hair forward over her left shoulder, her fingers plucking and taming the black delta of hair into a taut braid, the plump links glistening like paired beetle-wings. Outside the window of her room, the heat prowled and hammered at the glass, willing the air-conditioner to relent and let it in so that it could devour its human prey on this burning morning in May, in summer, the season of annihilation. "What?" said Gautam, interested. "A clock, I was going to say," said Sagari, "but who winds clocks these days?" Her left hand held the end of the plait close to her waist, while her right wove a gold fillet into the end of it, containing it. "So I don't know what you look like any more." She laughed at his reflection in the mirror. Her little brother, cho chweet! She could still see the traces of puppy fat on him, a lingering roundedness near his chin, stubbled now. Stubbled! "Better shave, Gogi. You look like a porcupine more than anything else. And what will she think of you then, your special friend"

Gautam leapt up in frustration.

"It's not fair!" he said. "I never teased you," But he rubbed his chin anyway. Sagari turned around. She made her mouth prim. "What was there to tease?"

They were ushered into a glass cabinet the size of a ballroom. Inside it, some 20 guests representing Their Side, sat on peach brocade furniture, with the frigid air puddling at their ankles. They looked up, their faces set in the genteel hostility traditional to in-laws as the host rose with arms outstretched to greet the bride-to-be. The two-ton Austrian chandelier, vouchsafe of the clan's business in glassware, hung like a glittering threat above the company. Gautam's family advanced in wedge formation, nodding, folded hands upraised, teeth bared in ritual smiles. Sagari stooped as she bent to touch feet, her sandalwood silk dupatta falling prettily, gold sliding down her fair arm, chinking at the wrist. She was led towards a cut-glass divan, on which she sat with head bent as the groom, in his raw silk ensemble, fussed with her parents prior to sitting down himself. Then they held court to all the gathered relatives who assayed them, comparing their skin-colours, their clothes, their relative heights and pronouncing on the likelihood of attractive children.

Gautam turned his head away, wishing he hadn't come, wishing he could shrink himself to the size of an ant and scurry away. He turned. And Bahaar was by his side."Hi," she said, smiling into his eyes. She was his height. "I knew you'd come. I arranged it."

"What?" he asked. The loud room misted around him. There was only this intoxication before him, of black curls and voice. A voice like burnt rope and ripening mangoes.

"For you to be here," she said, taking his arm. She led him to where a pair of seats was obscured behind a fringe of potted ferns.

"I have certain powers." He could smell her, a scent like powdered rubies. "The last time, when we met, I stole your handkerchief. Remember?" He didn't. "That's all I needed, because in this weather, it has your sweat on it. Sweat is very good for establishing psychic connections."

Gautam had no idea what she was talking about. He felt he might lick her forehead in a moment and wondered if it would taste as much of cappuccino as it looked. He wondered if human skin could be flavoured. "Have you ever wondered..." he began.

"If human skin can be flavoured?" she ended. "Yes," she said, nodding quickly, "it can be, but it takes an effort. And not any flavour. Animal flavours are easier than vegetable. Honey is almost impossible without including an aftertaste of bee." He saw with fascination, that when she looked into his eyes, she could see every thought of his, strung out like washed shirts flapping on a line. He felt wonderfully cleansed.

The loud room misted around him. There was only this intoxication before him, of black curls and voice. A voice like burnt rope and ripening mangoes.

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