Dating : Vegan Vagina

HOUSE PARTY

We first met at Manisha’s place. Manisha was having a house party because her parents weren’t home. I had just broken up with Rishi and decided I’m never dating younger men again. With a slew of younger men betrayals, I’d had enough. I was done. Manisha knew I had been holing up for a month since the break up and she called saying her party might cheer me up. “You’ll get to meet some new people! Get your mind off that idiot,” she coaxed. “I’m not thinking about him,” I frowned through the phone, “I am thinking about how shit my life is and how I’ll die alone.” “Well whatever, it will do you good to have some fun, drink some booze, la la la.” Manisha had this habit of adding a “la,la, la” when she didn’t know what else to say, and she did it a lot. I smiled, “Fiiine. I’ll come. Although I’m not going to try being nice or any of that.” “Okay, okay see you!” and she hung up.

Manisha’s place seemed to be bathed in some intergalactic theme when I stepped in. Dizzying disco lights and a projector casting twirling mandalas and psychedelic patterns upon the screen. Glasses of half drunk old monk stewed in corners of the kitchen, the living room, in front of bedroom mirrors, even the bathroom. Manisha’s living room had three big family photos, taken in that stiff, fake-happy manner that family photographs are taken. Manisha’s happy go lucky smile could not be dimmed either way; she smiled that same big, happy smile in all her Instagram pictures too, and the thing about it was that it was genuine, and I liked her for it. Manisha’s sister on the other hand had a sort of scowl and a skulking awkwardness. Manisha’s sister Jwaala. I had never really met her and Manisha hardly spoke about her, but there she was thinking what a great big waste of time that family photograph day had been. I grinned, yeah that’s how I’d feel too.

“Hey” someone said from behind me in a low-pitched voice, and guess who it was? Jwaala in the flesh. “Hi,” I said, “you have an amazing expression in this photo,” “I know,” she said with a flat face, “I’m hot like that.” “Haha! Hey, do you know where Manisha is?” I asked, “I don’t know anyone else here and I’m not the most social type.” “Same here,” she said, again in that flat face flat-tone way. “Come, we’ll find her.”

As we walked to the balcony I couldn’t help noticing how pretty Jwaala was, but in a surly underground way. She was wearing an oversize black shirt with Noodles from the Gorillaz on the front. Homely tights underneath that, and her hair tied into a loose ponytail. She had glasses that were rimmed in black. “Are you checking me out?” she asked. “Hmm, observant too,” I thought to myself. “Um no, I’m into guys, plus I have a type.” I said shrugging. “Cool cool.” By then we had reached the balcony where a bunch of people were lounging in an assortment of chairs- wicker chairs, wooden chairs with tall, stern backs, beanies and a big swing. One of the girls was sketching on her white shoe and some other people were talking about rhythm.

“You know, it’s really not so much about learning,” a guy with a moustache and a Che Guevara cap was saying, “ it’s really about feeling into the music. Let the music take you there, let your feeling take you to the melody.”

“Yeah I get that man, but it’s not enough to feel. You have to pay attention to what’s going on. It’s like you’re using both hemispheres of your brain, and that actually means you’re feeling and also thinking at the same time. Apparently, the corpus colossus of musicians’ brains are much bigger and solidified than the average person’s.” This guy had a djembe against his thighs and was striking the drumskin lightly.

“That depends on the musician, I feel,” said the guy with the cap. “I mean it’s interesting to know that but some people just go the organic way and get their creativity out somehow. It’s like there is this burning thing inside, or this need to express, and they just pick the first thing lying there and go at it. And I think that’s so much cooler than someone who’s been tutored at the piano since the age of 8 or something. There’s this uniqueness and freshness in this organic path.”

“Nah man I gotta disagree,” said the other guy. “I think you need the practice to get good. Practice, practice, practice and then let go. Now you’ve got the toolbox in your head and your journey is going to be much easier. Sure he’s got to find his style eventually.”

“Guys, guys, Sam is playing his dj set. Just letting you guys know. He’s killer. Go dance,” said Manisha interrupting them. “Oh hi Anjie.”

“Hey,” I replied. “What’s up?”

While some people drifted off in the direction of pioneer dj and roli synths, some of us chose to hang back and enjoy the relative quiet. A shy looking guy, Jwaala and me. The guy was rolling a doobie.

“So what do you do?” I asked Jwaala.

“I am a graphic designer.” She said. “I just got out of design college so this first project is more of an internship. They pay donkey balls for this work.”

“You’re really expressive you know that,” I joked grinning.

“So I have been told.”

The shy looking guys had lit up his joint and smoke was billowing through his nose and mouth. He seemed much more interested in the smoke than the two of us, and we didn’t mind.

“I am not really into people,” mused Jwaala. “ I don’t see the point to small talk. And apparently now it’s cool to say that and be like I’m not like other girls and all that. But I never saw the point of moving my mouth and lifting my lips unless I really feel like it, and most often nobody gives me the incentive. I’m not a snob you know, this is simply how I was born, with the sullen eyes of a ghost.”

“I think you have pretty eyes,” I told her.

“Pretty. There is another word I dislike.”

“Well, I guess I meant beautiful. I just wanted to express it more mildly.” I told her.

“But why?” she asked. “ What’s wrong with saying it exactly as you see it? If you think they’re beautiful you should say so, because there’s a big difference between pretty and beautiful.”

“Are you a scorpio?” I ventured.

“Dead on.” She smiled for the first time since we met. “Not that I believe in zodiac signs. It’s entertaining I guess. You?”

“Aqua,” I said.

“Oh-kay.”

AT THE MALL

It was a very bright day with a clear blue sky. Mom had asked me to redeem her voucher at Hometown, Vega City Mall. “I am running behind schedule, girlie,” she said, “I know you hate going out but you kind of have to do this for me.”

“it’s too hot!! The traffic is going to be a b-!”

“It’s actually the perfect time for you to get this done. Afternoons are the best. Less traffic on the roads, less people in the mall. Go!” and she shoved me towards our front porch.

So I took our family scooty, which hadn’t been washed for two months now, and went. The store had just had some festive decorations up and two of the salespeople were taking down the tinsel.

“Omg this place is huge and I’m going to get lost in consumer voyeurism”, I thought. In other words, “window shopping” and forgetting what I actually landed there for. My eyes scrolled across their assortment of towels, bedsheets, bedspreads, mats, cutlery, vaguely familiar wall paintings, dried flower bouquets, humidifiers and sedate Buddha showpieces. I was instantly drawn towards the candles section. Removing the glass lid I sniffed each one slowly and deliberately. Sometimes taking several whiffs to make sure I liked the scent. Lemongrass, rose, lavender, peppermint, jasmine, oudh, raspberry. It was hard to decide which one I wanted, but I wanted one even if I was going to cut that slyly out of mom’s voucher.

“I like the raspberry,” said a voice close to me. Flat toned, low- pitch, who else could it be.

“Hey, it’s you! Fancy spotting you here. Why are you here?” I asked Jwaala.

“Why am I here on earth? A question I ask myself everyday,” said Jwaala narrowing her eyes and smiling.

“Haha. Okay, you know what I mean. What are you doing in a mall? My guess is malls aren’t your thing.”

“No they are not but my mom convinced me to run some errands for her. In return she’s cooking me my favourite dinner- babycorn manchurian. So I agreed!”

“Nice deal. My mom isn’t giving me anything for this but I intend to get a scented candle for myself from her budget.” I winked.

“So you live with your parents?” she asked as we slowly walked around the place, rather aimlessly, just wondering what would catch our eye.

“Well I had been for a year but it got too much so I moved out. I’m actually living alone now. It’s been two months and believe me life has been tough. It’s no better than the familia set up, in many ways worse. I have to cook for myself, clean up after myself, and I get really lonely nights.”

“I think you’re so lucky!,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to live alone, but I can’t fund myself right now, not yet, so hanging on to dear old family.”

“It’s not all that it’s romanticized,” I warned her. “Imagine, you’re in your 20s, single, filling up the scooty with petrol all on your own, ensuring you buy good quality vegetables so that you don’t end up in a hospital, responsible for every item in your house- your plants, your appliances, your bills! Everything feels like a struggle because it’s just one person trying to do it all. What I need is a room mate! Or kittens. And the worst part, you end up binge eating to avoid feeling like a mess which makes you feel even more of a mess! And don’t even get me started on how addicted I am to Youtube and tarot.” I sighed, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. And the heartbreaks hit worse.”

“You want a room mate? I’ll be your room mate,” she said quietly.

“Huh? Really? Wait let me think about it, you’ve got me all confused now.”

“Yeah sure lemme know. I really want to stay in relative solitude and you seem nice,” again that rare smile of hers sprung out.

“I feel the same about you. I’ll call you,” I said.

This time we exchanged numbers before getting on with our duties.

AT HOME

“People are just not real,” Jwaala was saying as the ginger-cardamom vegan tea simmered on the stove. “It’s like everyone is in a constant competition with one another, like they think that’s the meaning of life.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said from the living room sofa. “It’s hard to have conversations when people are so self-centred and competitive. They don’t leave room for empathy, understanding and peace. It’s all about “how am I projecting myself?” “how do people view me?” “do I look hot?” It’s just taken over our generation. Honestly, I can’t even put up a photo of myself on Insta without making sure I look hotter than I actually am, which is just sad. “

“You are hot,” said Jwaala, “But that’s not the point. Out generation is screwed up. But then we’re also living a much more privileged life than our foremothers, shall I say?” I heard the tea hiss as it reached boiling point. As Jwaala poured it through a sieve into our tea cups it sputtered at the sudden movement.

Jwaala was a feminist and a vegan. Those were the first two things she made sure she told me about when she moved in. Said she didn’t want any misunderstandings between us. “So you must be an animal lover then” I had said. “I don’t like dogs but cats I love.” She said. “Well I like pretty much any animal under the sun,” I told her “and yet I eat some of them.” “Hey well that’s your call, I’m just letting you know what I am about,” she said. Fair enough. I could always sense a defensiveness about her, as though she was expecting someone to hurt her, but it was endearing to me.

It had been five days since her arrival and being around her felt like the most natural thing in the world. Her black hair, her glasses, her coconutty smell, her bunny floor slippers, her large and undeniably goth pin-ups of Grimes, Steven Wilson and Bauhaus. Her ginger cardamom vegan tea.

On the seventh day we went and got a house plant, Song of Jamaica it was called. We had previously wanted a fiddle leaf fig but it wasn’t available, and the monstera was too expensive. House plants purify the air of benzene and other -enes” was how she put it. Clearly neither of us had paid any attention in chemistry class but I liked green things, and the plant would be a little reminder of the much wilder, lush beauty off city limits.

AT THE CAFÉ

We were sitting in her favourite little café. Miyazaki café it was called. They served vegan food that Jwaala claimed would blow my mind. The small restaurant was clearly started by a die-hard Hayao Miyazaki fan for there were Totoro cushions, Ponyo shaped ashtrays, waitresses dressed in pretty pastel colours, short aprons and tiny skirts, a Whisper of the Heart poster on a wall facing adjacent to a mural of Princess Mononoke, cups with No Faces on them, and plates with Miyazaki’s soot monsters sheepishly hanging about, as if scuttling to the edges.

“I think the restaurant owner was overzealous,” I observed. “Combining so much Miyazaki memorabilia with vegan foods that are not even strictly Japanese. What would the meticulous design student say?” I asked her with a smirk.

Jwaala had her head deep in the menu like a hawk. “I don’t care.” She said, “their food is amazing and I love Mr Japanese art genius.”

She ordered beetroot dumplings and a vegan matcha “milkshake” while I ordered a farmhouse pizza and a mint cooler. While we waited for the food we started to speak about happiness.

“Happiness is a thread,” Jwaala was saying, “You think you are securely in it, that it will protect you, but that’s just an illusion. Happiness is a thread that is drifting by, and by some accident, some aligning of the Gods, you get ahold of it, but that won’t last forever, you’ve gotta hold on to it. Not too tight, because then it runs away from you. You gotta feel into its nature, how will it change and how can you change with it so that you can continue to remain happy. It’s very subtle but it’s about listening to that thread. If you are overwhelmed by the thread or you force your fears and desires on it, it runs away. You have to work with it, all the time. And that’s why I am not happy, because I am shitty at balance.”

“I think everyone struggles with balance,” I said. “Some people are better at pretending they’re happy. Some convince themselves they are -fake it till you make it. And some are happy but in a simplistic way that you may not want to be. I mean is happiness for everybody?”

“I don’t think happiness is for everyone,” said Jwaala, “definitely not for me.” Once again I sensed a deep wound in her that she wanted to ward people off from.

“Well, Alexander McQueen said that he finds beauty in melancholy, that he is a sad sort of a person. So why can’t sadness be rich and beautiful?” I asked her

“And look where he landed up,” Jwaala frowned with narrowed eyes. When she did that she reminded me of a cat that was about to get her claws out and hiss.

“It’s about how you handle it, where you channel it. Granted there are geniuses who were grandly gifted in their craft but seriously lacking in some human component like being friendly, or they had this addiction they couldn’t cure-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” That flat tone again.

“Okay…” I said hesitantly, wondering how I had hurt her. “The food’s here! Let’s eat.”

HOME AGAIN

It had been a month since Jwaala had moved in, and things were great between us. Her few mood swings I could brush off, because she was entirely affectionate to me the rest of the time. She pampered me with vegan kitchen creations, that she swore she would make for no one else. “You are the exception,” she said, “Manisha and mom know I hate cooking,”

“Is it luuurve,” I joked, winking, and put my arm around her

She stiffened, but then decided to nestle her chin in my neck, eyes closed. She didn’t say a word but I could feel her soft, feminine energy, so viscerally her.

She had gotten me hooked to her tea, and was pampering me with tofu wraps, vegan omlettes (which in my head registered as nothing but besan ka chilla but I didn’t say that in order not to offend her), buddha bowls, pastas, ramen bowls chock full of veggies and mushrooms, colourful fruit drinks, home-made kombucha.

“You clearly love your fancy food,” I told her. “Do you not like Indian ghar ka khana?”

“I do,” she said with a loving smile, “but I just have a block about cooking it. I think my mom’s the best cook there is, and she’s given me a total complex. And I was raised in different places so I do have an international palate I guess…”

“International palate my ass!” I threw myself on her relaxed form in the sofa. Our bodies for the first time pressed into one another’s. Her face close to mine. For a moment we both looked at each other in wonder, before she kissed me and I kissed her back. Then the sudden awkwardness. Her sullen eyes now filled with vulnerability and openness. She caressed my cheeks with her lips, and moved her fingers down my button down shirt into my chest. I felt something new, and for the first time didn’t feel very assured.

“Have you done it with a girl?” she asked me softly

“No,” I said, my voice a whisper, “I told you, I’m straight.”

“Are you though,” she said softly as her fingers began to unbutton my blouse and she started to plunge her hand down my pants.

“Mmmm,” this feels nice, I said, kissing her back, more passionately this time. We undressed each other slowly and with it my fears and uncertainty melted away.

“You know it’s not rough, like with men,” she told me, “it’s gentle. My love is gentle. And when you go down on me, later, let me tell you, you’re going to love the taste.

“Don’t all vaginas taste like fish?” I asked her innocently

“Not mine,” she said, “mine’s vegan!”

BALCONY

One morning I woke up to the sound of scratching. It was a persistent sound that seemed to come from the living room. Slightly alarmed and concerned, I got out of bed and walked in its direction. The sound was really coming from the balcony. It was Jwaala, furiously scratching out the enamel from the balcony door. A huge portion of the door now stood naked and silver, yellow chippings and shavings strewn across the floor. There were about five kingfisher beer cans, some crunched up, on the floor.

“What are you doing and so early in the morning?” I said irritably.

I went over to pet her head when she pushed me away so hard I fell against the leg of the living room sofa.

“What the — -”

“Get the fuck away from me,” she said. Her voice sounded like a different person’s, neither flat-toned nor loving.

“What is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”

“GET. AWAY. FROM. ME” She screeched.

I felt very disturbed and a little scared. I decided to give a call to her sister, my friend Manisha and tell her what had happened. Would she know? Even a hospital. I was worried for Jwaala, but when I went to my bed to get my phone it wasn’t there. I tossed my pillow and bedsheets on the floor, looked near the mirror, in the kitchen, under the bed and the sofa. No sign of it. I went over to the balcony where the rabid scratching hadn’t abated and tried to speak as normally as possible.

“Did you take my phone?”

“Yes”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to send me to a mental hospital.”

“I’m not going to do that. But I am concerned.”

“I can’t take chances. Sorry.” She sounded cold, with a different voice, “Now get the hell away from me.”

Helpless, confused and angry I returned to bed. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss and cause her to topple over. Suddenly I remembered the scars on her left hand. Had they been cuts? Why hadn’t I asked her about it? I had been so wrapped up in us I hadn’t contacted Manisha in months. Was she suicidal, borderline, what? I got up to get my laptop and check up on the symptoms but she had taken away the adaptor. She had also pushed our bookcase against the main door after double locking it. What was she upto? Should I be worried for myself?

I went quietly into the kitchen to keep a knife with me, just in case. There on the counter top she had arranged all the knives and forks in ascending order of size and height. There were new knives too, intricately carved ones with sharp glinting silver tips, ones I hadn’t seen before and weren’t mine.

“Planning on killing me?” she suddenly asked from the doorway.

“NO!” But I picked up a knife just in case.

“Don’t worry, I’ve tried killing myself several times. My family wouldn’t let me. Now I don’t think it’s worth it.”

“Then what is with the knives.”

“Some healthy self-torture,” she said moving swiftly towards them “Get out of my way.”

I jumped back, knife still clutched in my sweaty palms.“I can’t deal with this anymore.” I told her. “I don’t know how to protect you.”

“Nobody asked you to.” She chose a knife and she went back into the balcony. The scratching resumed.

I lay in bed for hours, eyes wide open, frozen. The knife for the first time replacing the smartphone as my bedtime companion.

OUT IN THE OPEN

When I next woke it was dusk and I had a headache. I reached out for the knife, it was still there. So was my phone. There was a text from her-

“I am really sorry for what I did. So embarrassed. You shouldn’t have seen this. I was drunk. Sorry my love. I went out to the café to have some soup. Come when you wake up? I’ll be there, reading or watching the stars come out.”

A rush of gladness and relief filled my heart. She was back to being herself. But “embarrassed”? This had been so much more. A pang of concern and anxiety remained within me. I dressed quickly, barely remembering to lock the front door, and ran towards Miyazaki café.

Jwaala was sitting at the outdoors table today. She was wearing a forest green top that was braided where the arm holes started. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks were pink. She had taken off her glasses and her black hair hung loosely. Most people I knew looked worse when they had cried, but not Jwaala. Somehow, she looked ethereal.

“Hey,” I said sliding a chair out and sitting opposite her.

“Hey,” she said morosely. “I’m sorry.”

“You gave me a real scare.” I said. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing’s okay. I should’ve told you this. I didn’t want to lose you. I was diagnosed with manic depression a few years ago. According to my therapist it’s combined with schizotypal personality tendencies. That’s why Manisha didn’t want me to move out. None of my family did. I can’t stand them anymore.”

“Manisha said nothing to me…”

“I’m sure she tried. I blocked her contact on you phone.” She looked at me with puffy, misty eyes.

“What!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you think you should return to therapy?” I asked “It’s pretty serious Jwa.”

“I know.” She said. “I’ve tried escaping this mind so many times.” She showed me the scars under her hand. Fresh, livid ones now visible, almost sizzling to my sight. “You never even asked. Anyways living in my head is pure torture. If I was happy why would I try jumping off roofs?”

I put my hand on hers and looked into her eyes. “Look, I care for you. What I saw today was really disturbing. You are such a talented, honest, unique person. But you need to take better care of yourself. Or at least let your family help. They love you. They must be worried sick. Have you spoken to them?”

“Yes, today.” She sighed. “I’ve been ignoring their calls and messages. If they seem too worried, I send one word replies like ‘fine’, ‘ok’ and ‘bye’. I know I’ve been bad. “

“Listen, I haven’t even called Manisha yet. I trust you. I want you to do it yourself.”

“I did. We had a heart to heart. Nobody is going to put up with me like them. Even if they can be incredibly judgmental, with pity in their eyes. They know my spells better than anyone. I told them I’m coming back home.”

I took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. Sadness and relief mingled uneasily in my chest. “I think that’s for the best. I love you but I do not know how to handle you when you are like that.”

“It’s my pain to bear. I don’t want to push it on you. You saw enough. I love you more, I want to be mature about this.”

“Come here” I pulled her to me and hugged her. I ran my fingers through her hair. We just stood like that for a long time. Beside us a cartoony-looking wooden table, dead stars blinking down at us as if they still existed, and a pan-flute instrumental of “Name of Life” wafting into out bittersweet atmosphere.