The Vanilla Night

     On the corner of the curb, there was a red telephone box. A PCO really. But someone had the bright idea of painting it red. It didn’t bother anyone. Who used the PCO anyway? Well except...

I would walk into the dirty phone booth, whenever I needed to talk. There were those around me but none I felt were truly mine.

It was after ten when I cracked open the door and stepped inside. My airway felt restricted as if all the feelings that I held within me in a tight grip were choking me. I had to get it all off my chest. It is ironic how safe I felt in that box, despite knowing the other person had no ties to me.

From inside the booth, on the curb, just at the edge of the city’s red light area, I could watch as the sex workers started showing up one after the other. I remember the first time I found myself here. I had the eerie sensation of stepping in through some portal into another dimension, where though there were people, none sought to hide their vices and desires in the gauze of being a gentler and poised species. They acted and spoke just as they deemed fit, just as they were. It was liberating and scary to witness these people, not hiding parts of them. I wished the same for me.

As I stood in the booth, hand on the receiver, I looked at the now familiar area and continued to feel a longing to be truly myself.

I fished a coin from my pocket and picked up the receiver. The coin went in its slot. I paused a second, as the line beeped. ‘Dial the number’, it seemed to tell me. And so I pressed ten random digits on the keypad. Ten random digits, hoping they made up an existing phone number. They didn’t. The recorded message told me with much glee as if rejoiced at my loneliness. I tried again but was met with the same result.

This wasn’t unusual. Sometimes even though the call went through, no one picked up. Could I really blame them? Who could pick up calls from an unknown number after 10? But sometimes, they would pick up. On times like those the feeling was similar to winning a lottery. I would start my rant; ignoring the person on the other side of the line that would throw questions at me.

‘Who is this?’

‘What is this about?’

‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’

That used to be my favourite reply. ‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’ 

It was almost as if the person understood my frustration and my emotions. And wanted to know who such a troubled person was. 

Of course, a few cursed.

But I was beyond caring. I didn’t care if I had to dial several other numbers just to get everything out. All I cared about was that someone listened. I had managed to create a mirage where I could express myself not to the four walls of my room but to a breathing human on the other side of the line. If it meant I could talk, without being demanding and needy then I took it.

It was better than driving myself crazy thinking of the condescending faces of my sister and friends as I explained my troubles. It was better than imagining myself as a burden to them. Better than them thinking of me as a needy, desperate child.

‘She wines like a child! I am tired of her complaining.’

My sister’s words still rang in my ears. That was how it started. I had shut myself off from her and my friends, instead choosing to express my sorrows and joys to strangers.

I was about to dial another number when the knock on the glass startled me. I turned to find Gulabo waving at me. She beckoned me outside and obediently I replaced the receiver and walked out. 

Gulabo was one of the sex workers. She was a year or two younger than me and yet wiser; it was true, wisdom had nothing to do with age. That’s another thing I can’t remember now; how Gulabo and I became friends. I am usually good at remembering how it started, a friendship, a relationship, who said what, but lately it’s all becoming a bit fuzzy. Perhaps that’s what happens, when you feel a burden to others, you start losing them only it begins in your mind first.

I came out of the booth to Gulabo who was seated on the sidewalk, her legs outstretched. She was wearing a hot pink dress that barely graced her knees. And heels that were so thin, I almost missed them.

“Come,” she said patting the sidewalk beside her.

I sat down beside her. And then scooted a little closer to her, resting my head on her shoulder. I sighed.

This is another thing I failed to make sense of. How did this girl make me feel so comfortable when around my family I could squirm and stay alert as if I was surrounded by a bunch of strangers? But here with a stranger, I could let down my guard.

Perhaps that was because it cuts deep when your family attacks you under the guise of concern.

She straightened herself, drawing herself up, pulling her legs closer to her chest, so that her shoulder rose, and my neck wasn’t stretched much. Her dress hiked up in the process.

“No luck?” she asked as other girls, women and a few men walked up and down the street. Some gathered in pairs or groups. Each trying to catch someone’s eye. Someone to spend the night with, someone who would let them return to themselves in the morning. A safe bet, a gamble really.

I didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you call that guy… what was his name M?”

That’s what we called people in my life. We gave them little code names and she didn’t press for details. I liked that. The familiarity and the strangeness, a duality, always understanding our need for anonymity.

“He has way too much workload. I don’t want to add to it. Besides he is the government, what’s the stress of a petty educator in front of him?”

Gulabo nodded.

“I did call him.” I continued after a pause. “In the afternoon. Our call was interrupted.”

“Didn’t he call back?”

“He did. I was working then.”

“Wrong timings.”

Gulabo waved at someone across the street.

“What about the other guy? He busy too?” She asked. 

This was one thing I liked about her. The lack of judgement for the number of male friends I had. When I first told her about it, I was prepared for her to do the whole eye roll and look me up and down like so many have done before, ‘how can she have so many male friends! She has to be in some sort of relationship with them. Look how comfortable she is with them? No one is this comfortable with guy friends.' But Gulabo had simply shrugged and said okay.

I sighed. It was the same story with everyone with some tiny changes.

“He started a new project. You know it's an on-again off-again thing. I am not sure if I can just call him at the end of the day to talk about everything that happened so far. The few phone conversations we had were either planned or initiated by him. I don’t want to be needy or desperate, especially when it is clear that this is just a fling.”

“Darling, but you are needy!” She laughed.

I straighted myself, my head bowed I started fussing with the cuff of my sleeves.

“Hey”, she began, forcing me to look at her, “You are needy. We all are. So what? If he can ask for your time and you when he feels like it, shouldn’t you be able to ask that he may sometimes listen to your crazy stories? You can make demands Vanilla, don’t let them take you for granted.”

That’s what she called me, Vanilla. I had argued with her, ‘I’m not basic!’ I had almost yelled even though a voice within me agreed with that reasoning. But she had reasoned and insisted and argued until I allowed it.

‘You are vanilla. You are strong and pungent and sweet. And hella expensive. You’d rather have food from a hawker with a person that listens than, in a five-star restaurant where you have to hide shades of yourself. And you morph and change! See vanilla ice cream is boring, but when you are your own quirky, witty and reckless self, it’s vanilla with toppings and suddenly it's extra special. You have so many toppings but you are trapped in the cycle ‘What if they don’t like it’, but what if they do darling?'

I smiled then. Not fully understanding it. But that night I cried in bed as I understood it. How a stranger I had spoken to only on two distinct occasions understood me better than those who spent years with me.

         “You can state your demands” she continued, “and your needs clearly. Heck! Even I get to do that.”

         I recognized the sadness in her words. And so I hugged her.

         “You don’t have to do this”, I repeated for the millionth time. And she ignored it for that very time.

         “You can vanilla. You deserve that!”

         She was adamant and forceful, strong and opinionated. Her energy felt like a campfire, warm and nurturing.

         I shook my head. “No,” I said. “No, then it will become this thing where demands are made and things are expected. There would be a constant pressure to live up to this version of me they create in their head. It will get messy. I don’t want to lose myself just because I feel lonely.”

         “Is this about the last break-up?” she looked at me curiously and I knew she did not expect an answer from me. Of course, it was.

         “It has been months, you have to get over it.” She shook me a little. “You know why this happens? Because you never ask for anything other than ice-creams and chocolates. That’s not how relationships work. You have to tell them what you want. You have to...”, she grabbed my ear and gave it a little pull.

        “Ow!”

         “…grab them by their ear and say, ‘listen shit, I want these things too…it’s business….well not business but….” She stammered. And I vigorously nodded to let her know that I understood. I did not wish her to go down the path where she tried not to describe relationships in the only way she knew.

         She stopped talking. I interlocked our fingers giving hers a little squeeze and she smiled a half smile. A smile that spoke of the crushed and dead dreams of a fairytale love story. But do dreams really die?

         “It’s okay,” I said for the sake of us both.

         We sat like that in silence our senses both heightened and numbed by the onslaught of lights, sounds and colours.

         Then suddenly a bike stopped right at our feet. I tensed up, sitting straighter and making myself rigid. What was going to happen now?

         I said I have been here on numerous occasions. But never on those occasions have I had a similar encounter before. I have been twice catcalled and the stares have been constant but nothing similar has occurred before.

         You see, it wasn’t the prostitutes that frightened me—it was the people who sought them, those who came with desires to fulfil and egos to feed, hidden behind unclear motives. Those people scared me. But then, I realized I had stumbled here too. Was I afraid of myself? In some ways, I was. I wasn’t sure if I knew my own motives any better than theirs.

         Gulabo’s voice brought me back to reality.

         “Not in the market today love.” She said.

         The man asked again and then turned towards me.

         I think I turned pale then. But colour returned to my face a second later, when Gulabo stretched her left hand between me and the man.

         “Neither is she!”

         Her voice was still sweet and sultry but it had an edge which the man failed to pick up on. He continued to haggle and plead and threatened, naming absurd prices which even in the given situation, I doubted he could pay.

“Absolutely not!” Gulabo said firmly and then proceeded to stare the man down until he backed off, started his bike and left.

         “Wow!” I gave a low whistle that made her giggle.

         “That’s how you take a stand.”

         “Teach me” I urged my hands joined together and we burst out laughing.

         When the laughter died, I spoke first. “You know”, I said, “we are somewhat similar.” I didn’t look at her but I could sense her incredulous look. “We both come here”, I continued, “You for money…” It felt wrong saying that; I waited for her to react. But she simply shrugged.

         “True.”

So I continued- “And I came here so I could be listened to. We both are here for a need to be fulfilled. Sometimes it is fulfilled, sometimes there is also satisfaction. Either way, we both are longing for some things, some thirst to be quenched; and looking for a very permanent satisfaction with our armours strapped tight.”

         “That’s so wise!” Gulabo said after a second as if swallowing everything I had said. I didn’t think it made that much sense. But I blushed at her compliment.

         “So why aren’t you out tonight?” I asked as she fiddled with the straps of her heels.

         She stayed silent as she fixed whatever was wrong with her strap before answering.

         “I am done with this life. I used everything I had and bought a place in a decent neighbourhood. I am leaving tomorrow. This is my last night here.”

         Right then, hearing her say those words, was like the sun parting the clouds on a cloudy day and shining through.

         “Then why are you here…?”

         She looked at me, twisting and untwisting her fingers. “I had to see you before I left. And say thank you. If it hadn’t been you and your ridiculous optimism I would have never thought of getting out.”

         I beamed, trying to contort my face to tell her how proud I was of her. She smiled clasping my hand in her. And then she smiled from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling with something too big to be called hope.

         “No one has ever done this in like decades! Do you know how big that is?”

I nodded tearing up as she continued to speak.

“Which gives me hope and I say this with that very hope that…”

But my phone rang, interrupting us. I fished it out of my pocket and saw the ID.

Gulabo read the name and then looked at me.

“Is that…?”

I nodded, my eyes closed as if that could make it all go away.

“Oh my god!”

And just like that my phone was snatched away from me and put on speaker.

“Hey?” I heard his voice. “Hey?”

When I didn’t answer Gulabo poked me in the ribs.

I gave her what I hoped was a stern look all the while he continued to speak.

“Hey, I had a feeling you would want to talk…so I called. Am I being too forward? I guess I am...It's okay I guess if you don’t want to talk….I’ll…um... disconnect the call I guess. I can…yeah, I should leave…”

Gulabo beamed, urging me to speak. I finally conceded.

“No!” I yelled just as the call had gone silent for a second too long.

She handed me the phone and I took it.

“Give me a minute”, I said to no one in particular as I took the phone off the speaker and put it to my ear.

I stood up and Gulabo followed my suit. She caught hold of my arm just as I was about to walk away. She held out a piece of paper.

Curious, I took it and read the address and the number written on it.

“That’s me”, she said as I looked at her questioningly, “Call me? Come to see me? I don’t have any friends on the outside other than you.”

I nodded vigorously and she beamed.

I put the call on hold, still nodding at her as I said. “I’ll see you.”

Hands behind her back, she shifted to her toes and then back to her feet, rocking back and forth, unable to contain her excitement. “Please do. I’m very excited…” She opened her mouth to say something. But then hesitated.

“Gulabo?” I asked.

But she shook her head, extending her hand to me instead.

“Tara.”

I grabbed her hand and then pulled her into a crushing hug and said as I let her go.

“I’ll see you around Tara.”

I watched as she crossed the street. Then with one last glance at me, she yelled, “Take the shot Cookie! You deserve it. If I get a happy ending then so do you.”

I gave her a big thumbs-up before turning and heading the other way.

“I’m so sorry….are you still here? Please be here…” I spoke.

I heard a chuckle first and then him. “Of course, I’m here. What’s going on…?

I took a deep breath:

        “I have to tell you something…”