Pasbaan : The Protector

Chapter I : Mulaqaat ( The Meeting )

I tighten my hold over the white dupatta out of annoyance. The long piece of cloth sits comfortably on my head and is one of the reasons I prefer it over the new fancy expensive head coverings that have recently bloomed in the market. The other reason being, the white goes well with almost every dress in my new wardrobe, much to the annoyance of my Khala Ammi. She is like most, her age and of her tradition, of the view that young girls must dress in bright and happy colours that would keep them close to good fortunes.

Lately, I think she has come to see my perspective on pale colors - that they happen to be more comfortable to the weather in our city. Cold mornings, hot and humid afternoons, warm evenings, and equally warm nights that cool as dawn approaches with Fajr Azaan. I am not one who is punctual of the morning prayer. I have tried, not just for the delight of Khala Ammi but for my own selfish reasons.

I take a look at my wristwatch. It is 2:24 pm.

My eyes continue to scan the rows of books covered in dust. I move to the next shelf.

It was only a week ago that I saw the little yellow book here next to copies of Romila Thapar. I am positive that I would find it here for the simple fact that there are few who visit this imposing structure or, to be precise, this section.

As one enters the premises, through the heavy black gates that remain open six days a week from from 8 am to 8pm (with the exception of Thursday), he is greeted with luscious grass and a single row of trees, behind which appears the grand white structure with twenty six stairs leading to huge wooden doors. Built in 1936, its thick walls with delicately carved patterns of zelij and geometric designs that have come to be associated with Islamic Arcitecture make one wonder of the talent of 20th century artisans. Under the first of three archs lies Mina- the black and white fat cat. Her prime duty is to keep the mouse population away from the thousands of books and rare manuscipts found here. Her talent, though, is to make visiting strangers stop and admire her grace and green eyes.

My eyebrows knot, and I walk up to the front desk of the library, only to find it empty. The young, friendly fellow, Venkat, who sits here with head bent over a huge register, is currently missing. Not sure of whether he is grabbing a bite of his lunch or is making photocopies in the tiny room (at the far left) labelled in bright blue colour with the words " STAFF ONLY", I return to the history section.

I am about to pull a chair and drink a sip of water when I hear the words," Relax your shoulders and raise the book a little higher," followed by the ringing of a phone. An iPhone.

I am curious and decide to have a look. Six shelves away, in the political science section, I find a girl, younger than me, carelessly holding the copy of Percival Spear, a pile of books before her, a seemingly expensive camera and a man with his back to me. She is dressed well, in a red crop top, waist high jeans, hoop hearings, and hair in a high bun that make her face seem more angular. She is beautiful, and they most obviously were in the middle of a photoshoot. She seems surprised to find me here - in a quiet, empty, and understaffed library on a Saturday. It is the only day of the week that I can make a trip to Asifiya Library, a place I have grown to love in the past six months.

I greet her with a smile and politely ask for the book.

" This one?"she asks before handing me The History Of India, Volume two. I nod, accepting it, thanking her and before walking away, complimenting her. Her smile widens.

I walk back to my section and pick up my handbag and mobile phone. I once again hear the man's voice.

" What do you mean you gave it to her? It took me twenty minutes to find me a book that matched this top of yours."

I roll my eyes. I am tempted to give him an earful about his rather rude tone and that a public library isn't a place for a photoshoot, but I am running late. Amina does not like tardiness.

Venkat is back at the counter and makes an entry into the register. Not wanting to make him feel that I have questioned his efficiency, I ask him if photoshoots are permitted. He is confused, and I tell of the young man. He gets up from his seat as I make my way out of the door, petting Mina on the way out.

******

On the coffee table is a large tray comprising of different snacks- store brought Palak Pakori ( Spinach fritters ), banana chips,Instagram brought home made chocolate and a bowl filled to the brim with soft looking rosagulla that had arrived from Calcutta this morning.

On the far right is a plate of steaming hot chicken samosas that Taiba, Amina's mother has specially prepared me. It has my compete attention.

" I am only going to eat two of these. I started a new diet two ago, "I tell Amina, who is seated on the adjacent sofa.

The thing with South Asian culture is that we love our food, and we love to serve it to our guests. From Taiba Aunty's view, there isn't enough on the table, which she has called " small," when I pointed to her that it  was all occupied. She is toiling in the kitchen to prepare  for us a lavish lunch.

Amina and I met in school during 11th grade, but we became friends and best friends years later during our graduation program when we would snapchat at  one am, complaining about syllabus, boys, parents and everything in between. All we would do was gossip for hours and eat good food.

" You don't look like you need a diet," she says, biting into the pakora.

I stick my tongue at her pointing towards my thighs, and she does the same. Both of us have always had a weird relationship with our bodies. We realized over the years that somehow, with words of our relatives, what beauty was sold as and our own complexes, even though we tried we struggled to love our body for what it did and who we were. No matter how many body positive movements came about, calling our stretch marks as tiger stripes or scars as battle marks, there was a long way to our healing and acceptance. Today, it certainly wasn't. Today was for a small win of controlling a binge on  pakoras and samosas, which, much to my dismay, I was about to lose.

Today was also about Amina wanting to break important news to me. She closes the door to her bedroom and pulls out her mobile phone. She opens the gallery and shows me a picture.

" Possible fiancé", she says, and my eyes widen with excitement and fear.