Chapter 16: Dinner at Mansi's (November)

November. Day 120 of the anomaly. The 120th day without meaningful rain. The 120th day of brown Sahyadris. The 120th day of the ecosystem's coma — the coma deepening because the coma was not stable, the coma was progressive, the progressive-coma being the condition where each day was slightly worse than the last and the slightly-worse accumulated into: significantly worse.

Chitra was in Kothrud. The Kothrud flat — Charu's parents' flat, the flat that was the refuge. Chitra's ejection fraction had stabilised at 43% — not the 41% of the crisis, not the 55% of before, but 43%, the 43% being the compromise that the relocation had produced: better than Mulshi, worse than normal, the better-than-Mulshi being the evidence that the EMF reduction was helping.

Bhushan commuted. The commuting being: Kothrud to university daily, university to Mulshi for fieldwork twice weekly. The commuting that was the life of a man who had lost his home to the anomaly — the home that still stood, the standing being physical but the living being impossible because the living required: the EMF levels that Chitra's heart could not tolerate.

Tarun came to Pune on a Friday. The Friday being: the dinner, the dinner at Mansi's place that had been arranged two weeks ago and that the two-weeks of anticipation had produced the particular nervousness that the nervousness of a man approaching a dinner that was not-just-dinner, the not-just-dinner being: the intimacy that the dinner represented.

Mansi's flat was in Koregaon Park — the Koregaon Park that was Pune's particular neighbourhood for young professionals: apartments, cafes, the particular urban lifestyle that attracted the demographic that Mansi belonged to — educated, employed, independent. The independent being: the quality that Tarun found particularly notable because the quality contrasted with the particular dependence that his investigation had created — dependence on sources, on editors, on the story. Mansi was independent of all of it and the independence was: attractive.

Her flat was a 2BHK — twice the size of Tarun's Bandra 1BHK, the twice-size being the Pune-Mumbai real estate differential: Pune's rents being half Mumbai's, the half producing the space that Mumbai denied.

She opened the door. Wearing: a kurta, green this time, the green being the particular choice that Tarun noticed because green was the colour that the Sahyadris had lost and that Mansi wore as if the wearing was: the preservation of what was lost.

"Aa. Andar aa." Come in.

The flat smelled of: cooking. The cooking-smell being specific — jeera rice, the cumin tempered in ghee producing the particular aroma that Indian kitchens produced during dinner preparation. And dal — the dal being the tuvar dal that Maharashtrian kitchens made with kokum and the kokum giving it the particular tang that distinguished Maharashtrian dal from North Indian dal.

"Tu cook karti hai?" Tarun — the question that was genuine surprise because Tarun's own cooking was: Maggi, the Maggi-only repertoire being the Mumbai journalist's culinary limitation.

You cook?

"Haan. Nagpur mein seekha. Maa ke saath." The explanation that contained the biography — the biography of a woman who had learned to cook in her mother's kitchen in Nagpur and whose learning was the skill that survived the migration to Pune and that the surviving-skill was: the connection to home.

Yes. Learned in Nagpur. With my mother.

They sat on the floor. The floor-sitting being Mansi's choice — "Dining table hai but floor pe khana zyada achha lagta hai" — the choice that was the particular Indian informality that floor-sitting represented: closer to the ground, closer to the food, closer to each other.

I have a dining table but eating on the floor feels better.

The food was: jeera rice, tuvar dal with kokum, bhindi masala (okra, the okra cut thin and fried crisp), papad, and pickle — the lemon pickle that Mansi's mother sent from Nagpur in glass jars every three months.

"Nagpur ka aachar," Mansi said, placing the pickle jar between them. "Yeh available hai. Yeh kabhi khatam nahi hoga." Nagpur pickle. This is available. This will never run out.

The joke that referenced the food scarcity — the scarcity that had made certain foods precious and the precious-food being the context in which Mansi's home-cooked meal was: luxury. Luxury not because the ingredients were expensive but because the ingredients were available and the available was: the new luxury.

They ate. The eating being: slow, conversational, the particular Indian dinner-conversation that happened between bites and that the between-bites pacing was the rhythm of intimacy.

"Tarun, tu kab se journalist hai?" How long have you been a journalist?

"Paanch saal. Xavier's se graduation ke baad directly Herald join kiya. Raghav ne interview liya tha — ek sawaal pucha: 'Tujhe kyun lagta hai ki journalism matter karta hai?' Maine kaha: 'Kyunki log stories se samajhte hain, data se nahi.' Usne hire kar liya."

Five years. Joined Herald directly after graduating from Xavier's. Raghav interviewed me — asked one question: 'Why do you think journalism matters?' I said: 'Because people understand through stories, not data.' He hired me.

"Sahi kaha tha." You were right.

"Aur tu? Pregnancy centre kaise?" And you? How did you get to the pregnancy centre?

"MSW — Master of Social Work — TISS se. Tata Institute. Mumbai mein do saal. Phir Pune aai. Centre open kiya with a colleague — Priti. Humne apni savings lagayi. Pehle saal — clients nahi aaye. Doosre saal — word of mouth. Ab — teen saal ho gaye. Centre chal raha hai. Theek se nahi — but chal raha hai."

MSW from TISS. Two years in Mumbai. Then came to Pune. Opened the centre with a colleague — Priti. We invested our savings. First year — no clients. Second year — word of mouth. Now three years. Centre is running. Not great — but running.

"Tu brave hai." Tarun — the observation that was the compliment, the compliment delivered without performance because the delivery was: honest.

You're brave.

"Brave nahi. Pagal. TISS se degree leke pregnancy centre kholna — log bole 'hospital join kar, stable salary milegi.' Maine kaha nahi." The self-deprecation that Indian women used to deflect compliments — the deflection being the cultural habit that concealed the pride.

Not brave. Crazy. Opening a pregnancy centre with a TISS degree — people said 'join a hospital, stable salary.' I said no.

"Nahi bolna bravery hai." Saying no is bravery.

The sentence that changed the air between them. The air changing being: the shift from friendly to charged, the charged-air being the particular atmospheric condition that preceded: the crossing.

They finished dinner. Mansi made chai — the chai that was: not ginger-cardamom like Charu's, but elaichi-only, the elaichi-only being Nagpur's particular chai style and the style being: lighter, more fragrant, the fragrance of cardamom without ginger's heat.

They sat on the balcony. Mansi's balcony overlooking Koregaon Park's lane — the lane that was quiet at 10 PM, the quiet being the Pune-quiet that Mumbai never achieved.

"Tarun?"

"Haan?"

"Yeh jo ho raha hai — anomaly, drought, food crisis — tujhe dar lagta hai?" Everything that's happening — the anomaly, drought, food crisis — are you scared?

"Haan. Bahut." The admission that the television appearance did not show. "Geological level pe kuch ho raha hai jo hum samajh nahi pa rahe. Aur — main story likh raha hoon but story se fix nahi ho raha. Dar lagta hai ki — ki main witness hoon end ka."

Yes. Very. Something is happening at a geological level that we can't understand. And I'm writing the story but it's not fixing anything. I'm scared that I'm witnessing the end.

"End ka? Kiska end?" The end? The end of what?

"Pata nahi. Western Ghats ka? Normal life ka? Sab ka?" I don't know. The Western Ghats? Normal life? Everything?

"Sab ka end nahi hoga." Mansi — the statement that was the conviction. "Main har din pregnant women ke saath kaam karti hoon. Women jo new life la rahi hain — drought ke baavjood, crisis ke baavjood. Agar women babies la rahi hain — toh end nahi hai. Beginning hai. Difficult beginning — but beginning."

Everything won't end. I work with pregnant women every day. Women bringing new life — despite drought, despite crisis. If women are having babies — it's not the end. It's a beginning. Difficult beginning — but beginning.

The perspective that was: the counsellor's wisdom applied to the existential crisis. The wisdom being: life continues. Life being the counter-argument to the anomaly. The anomaly said: everything is dying. The pregnancy centre said: new life is arriving.

"Mansi?"

"Haan?"

Tarun kissed her. The kissing being: gentle, the gentleness being the particular caution of a first kiss between two people who had been circling each other for weeks and whose circling had produced the tension that the tension resolved in: the kiss.

Mansi kissed back. The kissing-back being: the response, the response that said "yes" without the word "yes" and the without-word being the communication that the communication was: physical, direct, the directness that words could not achieve.

They separated. The separating being: the breath, the taking-of-breath that first kisses required because first kisses were the particular experience that demanded oxygen.

"Yeh story mein mat likhna," Mansi said. The joke that was the particular humour of a woman kissing a journalist and the journalist being: the person whose profession was writing and whose writing was the question — will this become a story?

Don't write this in the story.

"Yeh story nahi hai. Yeh — yeh real hai." The distinction that Tarun made — the distinction between story (the investigation, the anomaly, the public narrative) and real (this, the balcony, the chai, the kiss, the woman).

This isn't a story. This is real.

"Real achha hai." Mansi — the three words that were the acceptance. Real is good.

Real was good. Real was: the balcony in Koregaon Park, the elaichi chai, the woman who said "agar women babies la rahi hain toh end nahi hai," the woman who kissed back.

Real was good. Even when the world was: anomalous, drought-stricken, collapsing. Real was: the counter to the collapse. The person-to-person connection that the ecological disconnection could not reach.

Tarun left at midnight. The leaving being: the particular reluctance of leaving after a first kiss, the reluctance being the desire to stay and the staying being: not yet. Not yet because the not-yet was the pacing and the pacing was: correct.

He walked to his PG in Kothrud. The walking through Pune's night streets — the streets that were dry, quiet, the brown-dust Pune that the anomaly had produced. But the walking being: light. The lightness of a man who had been kissed and whose kissing had produced the particular buoyancy that kissing produced.

The anomaly was real. The crisis was real. The geological mystery was real. But so was Mansi. So was the kiss. So was the beginning.

Real was good.