Miss Timmins' School for Girls by Nayana Currimbhoy Page B

“panch ganis” that surround the village. The nearest of the volcanoes was a long plateau called table-land. During the day, table-land filled the horizon to the right of the bazaar like a resting lion, its back parallel to the sky. That night, it became a giant cake, with the clouds hovering like white icing on the top.
    I guessed she’d had a miserable childhood. But so, I figured, had I. As we walked past the Muslim cemetery on the way to table-land, I asked her what was the best memory of her childhood.
    â€œMy skates,” she said warmly. “Every evening in Nasik, in the mission compound, I would sail through the air. I went fast, I could swoop and swirl and whiz. People from the mission would often sit around and watch me. I think I did that for two whole years.
    â€œThe skates were great,” she said, in a rush of remembering. “We went back to England for furlough when I was seven. I learnt to skate there, and they bought the best pair of skates in the shop just before we came back to India.” She usually referred to her parents as “they.”
    â€œAnd when did you stop?” I asked, wanting to hold that memory complete.
    â€œWell, you see, I started sneaking out of the compound.”
    She would. “It was more fun on the road,” she said, shaking her head ruefully, her lips turned up in a cheeky smile.
    â€œDid they yell at you?”
    â€œThey were quite sorrowful. They thought I was being deceitful. And then of course I had an accident, and broke a hand and a foot.”
    â€œAnd then?” You had to pry it out of her; she never volunteered too much.
    â€œAfter that I started cycling,” she said, matter-of-factly.
    As we walked up to table-land that night, Pin darted suddenly through a gap in the hedge into the Woggles’ garden. I stood outside, too timid to breach a property line at night. She came back a few minutes later with a handful of the jasmine that grew on the creeper behind the garden gate. She held the flowers in her cupped hands, and we walked slowly up the winding road, burying our heads in their fragrance.
    This was my first time on table-land at night. It was easy to walk in the dark, because the ground was hard and smooth. Its top felt like it had been sliced with a sharp knife. The wind churned the drizzle and spat it at us in angry bursts. We kept our raincoats on and sat on some rocks beside the pond. “Why is Merch called the Mystery Man?” I asked her. She threw a few aimless pebbles into the pond. “Now you see him, now you don’t,” she said. She turned to me and brushed back the hair scurrying around my face. Then, without a warning, she pulled me to her and kissed me on the lips.
    She pulled back, smiled at me, and started kissing again, her tongue slowly massaging mine. I had read in some faceless love story that a girl is never completely surprised by her first kiss. It can be sooner than she expected. Not ever unexpected. But for me, that kiss on table-land was a bolt of lightning flashing down on from the sky.
    In my dreams, I saw always, my clear dewlike face, being held in the moonlight by a lean man, usually called Rahul. Kissing another woman on a wet night, kissing the Prince on table-land, no. The kiss was unexpected and completely undreamt. But the plunging in my stomach was the same as in the kisses of my dreams. Her tongue coaxed mine out, and slowly my lips, my tongue started dueling and dancing along with hers. We broke apart, and she kissed the rain off my face, licked my blot with a flat tongue, and then went back, again into my mouth. I cannot say how long I stayed. I remember licking a raindrop from the tip of her nose.
    But then the devil of confusion and panic possessed me, and I tore myself away and ran and ran and ran all the way down the slope and through the bazaar and down to my room. I did not look back, but I knew she did not follow me that night. The hard rain started up