As the place began to fill, Rustom came up beside her. “Is this one free?”
She nodded.
He sat down. “That Mr. Toddywalla is a real character, isn’t he?”
“Oh, is that his name? Yes, he is very funny.”
“Even if the recital is so-so, you can always rely on him for entertainment.”
The lights dimmed, and the two performers appeared on stage to scattered applause. “By the way, I’m Rustom Dalai,” he said, leaning closer and holding out his hand while the flute received the piano’s silver A and offered its own golden one in return.
She whispered “Dina Shroff” without taking his hand, for in the dark she did not immediately notice it being held out. When she did, it was too late; he had begun to withdraw it.
During the interval Rustom asked if she would like coffee or a cold drink.
“No, thank you.”
They watched the audience in the aisles, bound for the bathrooms and refreshments. He crossed his legs and said, “You know, I see you regularly at these concerts.”
“Yes, I enjoy them very much.”
“Do you play yourself? The piano, or — ?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh. You have such lovely fingers, I was sure you played the piano.”
“No, I don’t,” she repeated. Her cheeks felt a little hot, and she looked down at her fingers. “I don’t know anything about music, I just enjoy listening to it.”
“That’s the best way, I think.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant, but nodded. “And what about you? Do you?”
“Like all good Parsi parents, mine made me take violin lessons when I was little,” he laughed.
“You don’t play it anymore?”
“Oh, once in a while. When I feel like torturing myself, I take it out of its case to make it screech and wail.”
She smiled. “At least it must make your parents happy, to hear you play.”
“No, they are dead. I live alone.”
Her smile collapsed as she prepared to say she was sorry, but he quickly added, “Only the neighbours suffer when I play,” and they laughed again.
They always sat together after that, and the following week she accepted a Mangola during the interval. While they were in the lobby, sipping from the chilled bottles, watching moisture beads embellish the glass, Mr. Toddywalla came up to them.
“So, Rustom, what did you think of the first half? In my opinion, a borderline performance. That flautist should do some breathing exercises before he ever thinks of a recital again.” He lingered long enough to be introduced to Dina, which was why he had come in the first place. Then he was off, gambolling towards his next victims.
After the concert Rustom walked her to the bus stop, wheeling his bicycle. The departing audience had their eyes on them. To break the silence she asked, “Are you ever nervous about cycling in this traffic?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been doing it for years. It’s second nature to me.” He waited for her bus to arrive, then rode behind the red double-decker till their ways parted. He could not see her watching him from the upper deck. She followed his diminishing figure, her eyes sometimes losing him, then finding him under a streetlamp, travelling with him till he became a speck that only her imagination could claim was Rustom.
In a few weeks the concert regulars came to regard them as a couple. Their every move was viewed with concern and curiosity. Rustom and Dina were amused by the attention but preferred to dismiss it in the same category as Mr. Toddywalla’s antics.
Once, on arriving, Rustom looked around to find Dina in the crowd. One of the first-row sisters immediately came up to his elbow and whispered coyly, “She is here, do not fear. She has just gone to the ladies’ room.”
It had been raining heavily, and Dina, soaked, was trying to tidy herself up in the ladies’ but her tiny hanky was not equal to the task. The towel on the rod looked uninviting. She did the best she could, then went out, her hair still dripping.
“What happened?” asked Rustom.
“My umbrella was blown inside out. I couldn’t get it straight quickly enough.”
He offered her his large handkerchief. The significance of this proposal was not lost on the observers around them: would she or wouldn’t she?
“No, thanks,” she said, running her fingers through the wet hair. “It will soon be dry.” The concertgoers held their breath.
“My hanky is clean, don’t worry,” he smiled. “Look, go in and dry yourself, I’ll buy two hot coffees for us.” When she still hesitated, he threatened to take off his shirt and towel her head with it in the lobby. Laughing, she accepted the handkerchief and returned to the ladies’ room. The regulars sighed happily.
Inside, Dina rubbed her hair with the handkerchief. It had a nice smell to it, she thought. Not perfume, but a clean human smell. His smell. The same one she perceived sometimes while sitting next to him. She put it against her nose and breathed deeply, then folded it away, embarrassed.
It was still raining lightly when the concert ended. They walked to the bus stop. The drizzle hissed in the trees, as though the leaves were sizzling. Dina shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“Just a little.”
“Hope you’re not getting a fever. All that soaking. Listen, why don’t you put on my raincoat, and I’ll take your umbrella.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s broken. Anyway, how can you ride your cycle with an umbrella?”
“Of course I can. I can ride it standing on my head if necessary.” He insisted, and in the bus shelter they undertook the exchange. He helped her into the Duckback raincoat and his hand grazed her shoulder. His fingers felt warm to her cold skin. The sleeves were a bit long, otherwise it fit quite well. And nicely heated up by his body, she realized, as it slowly got the chill out of her.
They stood close together, watching the fine needles of rain slanting in the light of the streetlamp. Then they held hands for the first time, and it seemed the most natural thing to do. It was hard to let go when the bus came.
From now on, Rustom used his bicycle only to get to and from work. In the evenings he came by bus, so they could travel together and he could see her home.
Dina was happier meeting him without the bicycle. She felt he should give it up altogether, it was too dangerous in the city traffic.
“I’m going to get married,” announced Dina at the dinner table.
“Ah,” beamed her brother. “Good, good. Which one is it, Solly or Porus?” — these two being the gents he had most recently introduced.
Dina shook her head.
“Then it must be either Dara or Firdosh,” said Ruby, smiling meaningfully. “They are both crazy about you.”
“His name is Rustom Dalai.”
Nusswan was surprised; the name did not belong among the numerous candidates he had brought before Dina over the past three years. Perhaps it was someone she had met at one of the family gatherings he so detested. “And where did we come across him?”
“We didn’t. I did.”
Nusswan did not like the answer. He was offended that all his efforts, all his choices, were being spurned by her for a total stranger. “Just like that you want to marry this fellow? What do you know about him and his family? What does he know about you, your family?”
“Everything,” said Dina in a tone that made him anxious. “I’ve been seeing Rustom for a year and a half now.”
“I see. A well-kept secret,” he said, affecting sarcasm. “And what does he do, this Dalai fellow, your Rustom-in-hiding?”