“This chit of a girl is supposedly Yasmin’s favorite,” the woman who had sold her a bundle of spinach muttered to another pock-marked vendor, “Both of them look equally mad.”[break]
It did not bother her that people talked about her. She did, after all, have startling green-grey eyes. But she was hurt that everyone misjudged Yasmin – the kindest person in the world.
Indeed, she was extremely protective of Yasmin. Putting the spinach securely into her bag, she thought back to the gloomy evening when she had been sitting on the mossy temple steps. She often sat there after finishing her chores. She just liked staring at plump, well-fed women strolling with their rosy-cheeked children, or young couples roaming around, or blonde-haired foreigners snapping photographs.
Amidst all the chaos, she had sighted a tall woman whose neck showed the first signs of aging, and who had perched enormous, slightly comical sunglasses atop her nose. Yet she made a striking picture. She was apparently waiting for someone, for she kept looking this way and that.
She realized that people around her were pointing at the tall woman, some even sniggering. But the woman did not seem to notice anything – so preoccupied was she.
She thought this woman had certain qualities about her: stately, majestic, even regal. She briefly wondered how it would be to own such grace.
And that was when the woman looked directly at her and smiled – a smile that actually spread its warmth over the mousy girl. She turned to see if the queen was addressing someone else. But no, she seemed to be the sole receiver of the smile. So she smiled back, a bit hesitantly, true, but generously.
The woman was now standing in front of her. But she dared not look up. The woman leant over to see her face.
“You look just like him, don’t you?” she whispered. Rima blinked.
“Yes,” the woman continued, “the same chinky almond eyes, though his are black, coal black, not green. And your lips. Do you know that you have the most adorable lips?”
She shook her head, completely unnerved.
“Of course you do, just like him,” the woman nodded. “But most of all, you have identical smiles – the rabbity smile, bunny smile.” At this, the woman threw back her head and let out a full-throated laugh.
She watched her, half fascinated, half frightened. Yet, when the woman held out her hand and asked, “Would you like to live with me?” she didn’t dither. She did not know who the woman was and where she would be taken. But she intensely wanted to find out.
The woman was Yasmin, the well known starlet, commanding considerable aficionados, one of whom happened to be the girl’s cousin, the owner of the lodge where she worked. He readily agreed to let her go along with Yasmin, his wife had been complaining about the lazy girl.
And that was how the nameless urchin came to live with Yasmin. When small, she was not considered significant enough to be named. The fourth among a brood of nine, she had soon been bundled off to the city. There, her cousin and his wife had called her anything they wanted, from Masini – the tiny one – to Boksi, witch.
But that night, when this tiny one had been settled in the posh apartment, Yasmin asked, “What’s your name, my love?”
The girl had shrunk back, too tongue-tied to reply. Yasmin seemed to understand.
“Shall I give you a name?” she asked so tenderly that the other girl could only nod.
“You are Rima,” Yasmin murmured softly. “RIMA.”
There was such wistfulness in Yasmin’s eyes that the young girl instinctively reached out to hug her. Soon, her shoulders were drenched by the tears streaming down Yasmin’s cheeks. Yasmin hiccupped a few times, wept some more, and then fell asleep on her lap. Placing Yasmin’s head on a pillow, she vowed to be the Rima that Yasmin so desperately needed and wanted.
*****
The first letters Yasmin taught her were those of her name – R, I, M, and A. “I should be teaching you the alphabet,” Yasmin mentioned absentmindedly. “But these letters are the best.” So Rima learnt them.
“Good,” the woman nodded. “Now practice writing them backwards.” Rima was a little confused, so she wrote down A, then M, then, out of turn, R…. It spelled AMRI.
“Oh no,” Yasmin reprimanded her. “It’s AMIR, sweetheart. Always.”
Rima learnt to read, then to write. Once, someone delivered a magazine at the doorsteps. Rima flipped through it, delighted to find it splashed with Yasmin’s pictures. But when Yasmin saw the magazine, her face turned so stony that Rima actually dropped the magazine. Yasmin did not say anything. But that evening, it lay in the dustbin, torn to shreds.
The apartment was kept meticulously ordinary. The doorbell kept ringing with moviemakers and critics, journalists and politicians, devoted fans and other kinds, who came and went. While they were graciously entertained by Yasmin’s staff, the actress made maximum efforts to keep herself to herself.
There were no awards or life-size portraits in her apartment. Instead, the walls were lined with her badminton certificates, landscapes painted by a friend, and knickknacks. Yasmin did not throw parties or attend them. In fact, she did not socialize. Her free time was spent jogging around the gardens with a few trusted friends, browsing Internet for recipes, or putting up her feet and listening to old songs. She did not let her apartment remain inanimate; she made it home.
And in this home, Rima thrived. It was this haven which encouraged her to find her own identity, to collect leaves, or paint the ceiling a midnight blue. She discovered that she enjoyed keeping house. But Yasmin never clearly outlined her duties. After all, there was a battalion ready to cook and clean and wash and mend for her.
Still Rima loved doing everything for Yasmin. She even knew what would please Yasmin the most: her smile with the two front teeth revealed just a little, the smile that she had had never cared for or thought much of. Rima smiled a lot these days, for she had every reason to smile. A lonely orphan had been gifted with a wonderful mistress, sister, mother, guardian angel. Yasmin was Rima’s world.
*****
It did not take Rima long to learn why Yasmin was criticized so much. She was uncomplicated, straightforward, down to earth. She had risen in the industry through her own efforts. Luck and talents were all she had. So all the spoiled stars resented her.
“She’s a weirdo,” they hissed, “She’s bald.”
Others, envious of her complexion, spat out, “She’s undergone three cosmetic surgeries. And don’t ask me in which places, I’m not the sort to gossip.”
An obviously gay designer spiced up the conversation. “Do you know that she actually lives with a girl?”
Rima felt their fear at Yasmin’s simplicity, honesty, and natural elegance. Their cribbing was directed at every single flaw they could invent – her family, her past, her credentials. And most of all, they gossiped about her ritual – the four p.m. ritual.
The four p.m. ritual was quite simple. At the exact time every afternoon, Yasmin had a bowl of fruit salad. Had she not been a celebrity, her habit would not have been noticed. After all, people like to have their meals at a fixed time. But then she was a celebrity, and everyone noticed.
It did not matter if she had been shooting seriously just a moment ago, or if she was in the middle of a photo shoot, or a journalist was waiting for her answers. She just excused herself, held the bowl, and began to savor the salad in tiny bites. Sometimes, she ate the salad even in the midst of a meal.
The first week, Rima had only watched as the kitchen help prepared the ingredients, poured the salad into a steel container and set off at around three p.m., mumbling about eccentric women. Then, that Friday, she hesitantly asked Yasmin if she could take over the task.
Yasmin smiled. “You like to?”
“I would love to,” Rima answered truthfully.
“Then you’ll do it,” Rima decided. “But be careful, darling. It’s very, very special to me.”
“Then I shall make it special to me, too,” Rima said earnestly.
Rima did make it special. She shopped for the best fruits. Yasmin required only two specific fruits for her salad, but it was quite a task to find them both in the same season. She took extreme care of everything. The fruits were evenly cut and juice poured over every slice. Yasmin did not like anything else added to the salad, not even cardamom.
Once, Rima asked, “Do you want a dash of honey?”
Yasmin threw her head back and laughed her rare full-throated laugh. Then she fell silent.
“No, I don’t want honey,” she said seriously. “I’m honey personified.”
*****
Every afternoon, at the stroke of four, Rima stood before Yasmin with the salad bowl. If there was traffic jam, Rima left the taxi and ran to reach the shooting spot. She was never late. And Yasmin appreciated this. While handing back the bowl, Yasmin looked at her affectionately. “It tasted the best ever.”
Rima basked in Yasmin’s happiness, though she knew that the rest of the world grudged her even that morsel of peace.
“Have you seen her face as she gulps down the salad?” An up-and-coming vamp sneered. “She puts on this saintly expression.”
A baby-faced singer added, “She must be taking drugs. That’s why she never lets anyone else taste it.”
It was not as if Rima was not curious about the strange ritual. But she knew that whatever was the reason, it meant everything to Yasmin. So she never questioned it, nor doubted it.
*****
Yasmin behaved strangely that day. She cancelled all her appointments. When Rima queried about it, she looked away.
“I’m staying home. Today is... the day.”
When Rima entered her room with the bowl that afternoon, Yasmin was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She appeared ashen; her usual glowing countenance had faded away. The hair was unkempt, her eyes were rubbed red.
Rima placed the bowl near Yasmin and moved away, worried that she had intruded upon Yasmin’s private sphere. But the star patted the cushion next to hers. “Sit.”
“They all say I’m crazy, don’t they?” she looked directly at Rima. She averted her gaze. But Yasmin’s voice was steady. “I don’t mind, Rima. It’s true I’m mad, after all. But you ….” Her voice broke. “You understand me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Rima choked. “I understand you.”
Yasmin clutched at her, dewy tears brimming on the edge of her eyes. “I couldn’t live if you were not here, Rima. Your smile makes me courageous enough to face just one more day.”
“I know,” Rima said soothingly, “I know.”
Yasmin’s shoulders stopped heaving, though the tears still threatened to spill over.
“But you don’t know, Rima. How could you?” she sighed. She rummaged for a while, finally thrusting a sheet towards Rima.
When Rima hesitated, Yasmin pushed it into her hands. “Now you’ll know,” she murmured. “I want you to know.”
Rima’s fingers shook as she held the paper. It was yellow, like an old newspaper, though the neat writing stood out. The date was of a day almost exactly six years earlier. It read:
Yasmin,
This is at such a short notice, but could you please come over to my wedding tomorrow? Don’t you dare say No. You know I couldn’t survive the day without you. I’ve sent the card along, and I’m just adding the note to make sure you come. I would be lost without you. I promise to tell you all as soon as you arrive about our whirlwind romance and the fairy-tale wedding, as Naina says. Be there at four, exactly. I need you so!
Yours
Apple Mango In Raspberry juice
P.S.: You’re my honey. Always.
A lump steadily forming in her throat, Rima looked up – first at the woman so totally sane in her obsession, then at the bowl waiting for her: filled with apple and mango slivers and dipped in raspberry juice.
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