Rohan to Rohini (A Feel-Good Story)

Chapter 5: The Green One

On Monday morning, I was making tea for myself. Then my phone rang. It was Meera, almost thirty minutes earlier than our usual time.

I left the tea on the stove, rushed to my laptop, and joined. It was a video call.

“Hi!” she said, with a bright smile.

“Hi,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears, smiling just as brightly.

Meera leaned a little closer to her screen. “Wait. Is that a clip in your hair?” Then her eyes moved to the side of my face. “And are those studs? Are they new?”

Only then did I remember. The clip had been in my hair every morning for weeks, and I didn’t even think about it anymore. And the studs, I had forgotten about them for the first time since yesterday.

My hand went up to my ear. Then I remembered I shouldn’t touch them, and I put it down.

“The clip is my sister’s,” I said. “My hair kept falling on my face when I made rotis, so she gave it to me.”

“Wait. You make rotis?” Her eyes went wide. “Wow.”

“Yes. My mother and my sister both go to work, and they travel far every day. I’m at home, so I do most of the cooking.”

“That’s actually really nice of you,” she said. “Helping them like that.”

I didn’t know what to say. Nobody had ever called it nice. At home, it was just something I did.

“Thanks,” I said.

“And the studs?”

“Yesterday. I got them done with my sister.” I stopped for a second. “Do they look bad?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She was looking at me, waiting, as if she knew I had more to say.

“I’ve started to like the clips,” I said. “It’s comfortable, not having hair on my face all the time. Usually I take it out before our calls. Today I forgot.” I took a breath. “But to be honest with you, I like them.”

Meera smiled. “They don’t look bad at all. They suit you. Both of them.” Then she picked up her coffee again. “And if you like them, don’t take them out for my calls.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

“Sorry for calling so early,” she said. “The client moved the meeting, and I wanted to go through the report with you first.”

“It’s okay,” I said. And it really was.

I listened. I took notes. I asked two questions. For the whole call, I didn’t let my hair fall over my ears even once.

When we finished, I went back to the kitchen. My tea had boiled over again.

A few weeks later, on a Saturday, it was Ananya’s turn to do my champi. But the grey kurta was still wet on the clothesline.

So I put on a shirt and went downstairs with the oil and the towel. Ananya was already on the sofa. She looked at my collar and made a face.

“Now it’s even more difficult,” she said. “Your hair has grown so much. Where’s the kurta?”

“Still wet.”

“No round-neck T-shirt either?”

“I’ll have to dig through my whole cupboard for that.”

She thought for a second. Then she stood up. “Wait. Let me get something for our session.”

She went to her room and came back with an old, faded green kurta. “Try this.”

“That’s yours.”

“I hardly wear it now.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “It should fit you. We’re the same size.”

It had a thin border along the neck, and a small leaf stitched next to the pocket. The sleeves were full. I knew this kurta. I had seen her wear it at breakfast, during films, on lazy afternoons on the sofa. But I had never held it this long.

“Give me a minute,” I said, and went to my room and closed the door.

It went over my head easily. I moved my arms forward to check the shoulders, pulled the sides straight, and looked up at the mirror.

For a few seconds, I forgot to check anything.

I liked the way I looked. Not the way you feel when a shirt fits well. It was more than that. The border on the neck, the little leaf, the way the soft cotton fell from my shoulders. It was like meeting a version of myself that I had been walking past for years without stopping.

Then I heard Ananya outside, and I panicked. In my head, I started preparing excuses. It’s comfortable. It was the only dry thing. It’s only for the champi.

She knocked. “Ready?”

I opened the door. She checked the shoulders. “Is it tight anywhere?”

I shook my head.

“Good. Now come and sit.”

I sat on the floor in front of the sofa. She put the towel around my shoulders, and it sat perfectly around the round neck. She started oiling my hair and talking about her week at the studio, as if nothing was different.

I wished she would say something about the kurta. And I was also happy that she didn’t.

After the champi, I went to the kitchen. Mummy had spread coriander on a newspaper to clean it. I almost explained whose kurta it was. She looked at the neck for a moment, and then pushed the bowl towards me.

“Will you help me with this?”

I sat across from her and started picking the leaves. I had been ready for a question, and no question came. Now I couldn’t stop thinking about her silence. Did she like it? Was she waiting for me to explain? When I reached across the newspaper, the sleeve slipped up my arm. I pulled it down. Then I left it.

Later, alone in my room, I stood in front of the mirror again. This time, I looked at everything together. The clip in my hair. The two small studs. The green kurta with the little leaf. They all went together, as if they belonged to the same person.

Then I looked down. My old grey pyjama. It didn’t match anything. It looked like it belonged to someone else.

I looked up again, at the rest of me. I tried saying it out loud, very softly. “I like it.”

It came out almost angry, as if I was fighting with someone. I laughed at myself. But I had said it.

By night, the grey kurta was dry. I knew it. I could see it from my window, hanging on the clothesline.

I didn’t go to get it.

At bedtime, I took the clip out of my hair, put it next to my watch, and got into bed still wearing green. In the dark, my hand found the little leaf. I smoothed it once and switched off the light.

On Sunday morning, I didn’t take it off either. I made breakfast in it. I watered the plants in it. I sat at my desk and read in it. Every time I passed a mirror, I looked.

In the evening, I made tea. While I waited for the water to boil, I kept looking at the leaf near the pocket. It was stitched a little crooked. I had never noticed that when Ananya wore it.

She came into the kitchen and stopped. She looked at the kurta, and then at me.

“You’re still wearing it? Since yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“You can have it, you know.”

“What?”

“The kurta. You keep looking at it.”

I carried the cups to the living room before I answered. I needed something to do with my hands. She followed me and sat in the armchair with her notebook.

“I love this cloth,” I said. “It’s so soft and smooth.” I stopped. “And I like how I look in it.”

“Yes, they’re so comfy,” she said. “And they look much better than your shirts. Who wears shirts at home, anyway?”

I smiled a little. She looked at me and waited.

There was more. But I didn’t know how to say it, and I wasn’t ready to. I looked down at my tea.

She closed the notebook. “What are you worried about?”

I moved my thumb along the handle of the cup. “That you’ll think it’s strange. Me, liking your kurta this much.”

She laughed softly. “Strange? Rohan, I was just sitting here wondering if I can borrow your phone charger.”

That made me laugh too.

Then she said, more gently, “It’s not strange. It’s yours now. Wear it whenever you want.”

I couldn’t say anything. I just nodded.

She held out her hand. “Now. Charger?”

I went to get it, and I felt lighter than I had in weeks.