Pink Line

PINK LINE

Sheeba waited beneath the enormous maple tree. Every minute that he did not come heightened her irritation at the people staring at the lone girl clearly not waiting for a bus. She watched every bus like a hawk, willing him to step out of one with her being, but no Ali came.

They had agreed upon the time together, a few minutes here and there. However, glancing at her watch told her it was 10 minutes past the designated hour.

‘What if he does not come?’

She willed the thought away from her mind knowing it was just like her to frighten herself. A few yellowing leaves fell close to her. She bent and picked one up and as she straightened, saw him stepping out from an overcrowded bus. She felt her stomach drop. ‘I love him so much!’

Ali walked shyly towards her, his eyes trying to fathom her mood. The next few minutes would decide his fate, the anticipated news having kept him awake most of the night.

‘I hope the test is negative. She is too young! Damn it! I should have been careful. What if...?’

He forced the monologue out of his mind and deliberately kept his eyes on her hair, the black tresses that he loved so much. Her face was scrunched up in the wind so he could not gauge her expression.

‘Hi! How are you feeling?’

She tried a glum smile, not sure what he meant. ‘I am fine. The test came.’

‘Come let us sit on the grass’, he steered her towards the garden. There were the usual students and office workers about but no one occupied the garden, so there was some privacy there.

She brushed a few leaves aside and sat down slowly, trying to come up with the words, as she waited for him to adjust his long legs in a cross-legged position before clearing her throat. It was all she could do to muster courage.

‘The test is positive. I just got it and came straight here. I did not want to go home.’

He waited to see if she had something else to say, his worst fears coming true. Had she glanced at him, the smirk on his face would have shown her that he had known it was so, the minute she had expressed her doubt on the missed period. He wanted to take her in his arms solely because it would have been the right thing to do but he did not even dare to look up, sensing the heaving of her chest. He could practically see her racing heart. His own seemed to be wrapped in icicles, just a dull monotonous thud, otherwise dead.

‘Everything will be all right.’ He stopped then went on. ‘You are not thinking of keeping it, are you? That would be foolish’. Then as if reassuring himself, he went on, ‘There is nothing we can do about it. I have my degree to finish and I have to get my sister married to a good family. My parents have so much hope from me to fulfil their dreams of a house. Being the ‘son’ and all that crap’, he grimaced. ‘I hope you understand.’

All this while she had been nodding at every statement, knowing he was just repeating the obvious. She stole a glance at his face, and then looked away at the main street briefly distracted by the buses stopping to pick up passengers, then looked down and played with the leaf she had picked earlier. Her mind screamed, ‘Yes! A lot depended on sons and it was always expected of them to fulfil all the obligations of dutiful sons and brothers. This was the reason daughters were not wanted much.’

He went on, oblivious to her inner turmoil, ‘I know a person, and he lives in my area. He helped a friend some time back. I can give you his address and you can go talk to him. He has some sort of clinic. But do not mention my name or he will put two and two together. This has to be done in anonymity.’ He made a fist and clenched his teeth. ‘I do not even have money to give you.’

She put out her hand, glimpsing the unspoken pain, her protective instinct once more rising, and ‘Don’t worry about it. I have cash stuffed away. You don’t worry.’ Not meaning it but saying nonetheless, trying to save him the distress.

That protective instinct had always been the basis of her love. The minute she saw him, helplessly looking at the classrooms, trying to figure out which way to go. Her eyes had taken in the tall, lithe physique, the broad shoulders as she caught up with him, waving the paper with his timetable printed on it. She had this urge to untangle the soft tendrils falling on his neck as he turned and his brown eyes met her dark ones. His face lit up when she explained the schedule and gave him the paper, and thanking her profusely was about to turn when he called her back.

‘May I know your name please?’

‘It’s Sheeba. I teach English to 10th grade. Welcome to Linton Hall.’

Weeks later, after they had been going out for a month, he told her that a crunchy financial situation had made him take up the part-time job at the school because his college degree in MFA was costing him and art materials did not come cheap. Till then she had thought him too young to be a teacher. She herself was taking night classes and had this day job, courtesy of her father’s abandonment of her mother.

She had always given him everything; her time, her encouragement for the Artists Foundation, her money, eventually herself. For the first time in her life, someone had listened to her opinions and actually valued them. She felt like a person in this motley group of ragtag artists. Despite her limited knowledge about art, they included her in their discussions as if she knew what they were talking about. She was used to being ridiculed on everything that she did from her own mind, be it writing poems, befriending the neighbourhood kids or trying for the school basketball team.

To show her gratitude she actually started learning about the art world, borrowing books, and attentively participating in all that was being done every day; canvases being made, brushes cleaned, paints mixed, galleries arranged and notified, sales recorded, and donations appealed for. He had taken her out of the world of bigotry and shown a universe of colours, hues, textures, beauty, and best of all equality. Here she was not a girl who had to be told not to do this and that; she was an equal contributing member, accorded dignity and respect without the cultural piety. She forced the images out of her mind and spoke.

‘Don’t worry. I will take care of it. You have an exhibition to prepare for and exams too.’

‘Are you sure of this? I can afford to skip the exhibition and the exams are still a fortnight away.’

‘No, you have worked hard for it. Just give me the address and tomorrow I will go see the man. Today, I want to go home and plan as I have a few sick leaves left to my account.’

He waited, sensing she didn’t want to weaken in front of him. Taking out a pen, he wrote the address on a piece of paper from his wallet, noting the loose change left for the bus ride home. Out of habit, he drew a flower at the bottom of the scrap paper, hoping it would cheer her up, as it used to whenever he gave her lists to buy art supplies. She took the paper, scrutinising the address and the flower caught her eye. Sheeba glanced up smiling, looking deep into his eyes, recognising the hurt, which he could not express and widening her smile, brushed his arm. Then standing up, she flashed her palm in a farewell gesture, turned and walked away.

He kept looking at her receding figure in the distance, recognising her defiant gait that she kept for the streets and ogling males. For a long time he sat in the garden, as the breeze turned icy and raindrops started falling. Then as he stood to go home, his eyes caught sight of the envelope. She must have dropped it. Curious, he picked it up and felt a tube like thing. Reaching in, he pulled out a cylindrical plastic tube that looked like a clinical thermometer. The raindrops started getting bigger and noisier as he stashed ‘the thing’ in his jacket pocket along with the envelope. He had never seen one, so he guessed that the single pink line must denote the outcome. Raising his hood over his head as the rain gained momentum; he stood up for the long walk home.