Sodium in Water

– Do you know about the Turing Test? (She)
– Yes. (Me)
– Then let us modify the test a bit and enact the same.
– What do you mean?

Sitting by the window on her bed, it was almost 11 in the night when I tried for the seventeenth time not to look at her. To look into her eyes was to look at the sun. So I stared at the moon outside the window. I looked at the moon yet I saw her, without looking at her, everywhere. I saw her as if she was imprinted on the insides of my eyelids. And her words – Her words, her voice, intoxicating as ever, were as meaningful as they could be. So, it was the combination of my desire to look at her directly, hear her talk and hear her argument that I asked the above question turning my gaze from the moon, which was her, to her, who was the sun.

– In the Turing Test, a human judge tries to differentiate outputs of a machine from that of a human for the same function and set of inputs.
– I know. And if the judge cannot differentiate, the machine is said to have passed…
– … the Turing Test. Yes. What’s the modification?
– Let this test not be for a machine but for different nouns and adjectives that the story I am going to tell you will bestow upon me.
– What story?
– Listen to me very carefully. You are the judge.
– Okay.

. . . . .

Zeba had always been my partner in crime, in all the crimes. Once, on our way to school, I told her

– Let us shoplift.
– What? Have gone insane?
– It’s fun. Let’s do it.
– Fuck you. I won’t.
– Please.

We shoplifted a pair of ear-rings worth 1200 INR from the Sunday flee market. Two teen girls, on their way to home from a flee market after having shoplifted, with happiness and satisfaction quite visible on their faces, are bound to garner attention from the boys passing by. Or did I say it wrong? Well, let me rephrase it – Two girls are bound to garner attention from men. So, a motorcycle passed by and with it went away Zeba’s stole. When I looked at the stole in the left hand of the man sitting on the back seat, all I could see was a grin, wide grin.

We never went to the Sunday flee market again. We were 16.

Often, I thought it must be fun to symbolically uncover a woman’s body on a busy street by snatching her stole. Otherwise, why would one take the pain to plan with the motorcycle rider to drive close to the footpath, decide a specific speed at which it would be easier to carry out the task and the danger of falling down in case the girl holds on to her stole. But the man was happy, very happy. It was quite visible on the way he grinned back at us.

Is it also fun to throw catcalls every time you see a girl? It was summer and we were on our customary yet much sought-after visits to our respective grandparents’ homes. Zeba was in Bhilai and I was in Allahabad. She pinged me on my watch and

– Hey, let’s count how many catcalls we get today.

That was her idea of spending a day, having fun.

– Sounds good.

That day I went to watch a movie alone followed by a walk along the newly constructed bicycle lane. At the end of the day, my score was 13.

– 13? Mine was 11.

We were 15.

Eight months after the Sunday flee market, he came, slapped my butt and ran away. If I remember correctly, as soon as he did so, I went numb, almost non-existent, dead, as if struck by a heavy hammer at the back of my head. I think my heart stopped too for a second. When I came back to senses and realized that I was still alive, Zeba, who was walking by my side was weeping and for some strange reason was holding my hand so strongly that it actually hurt.

– Zeba, please leave my hand.
– Let’s go home, please let’s go home.

I knew him. Even with his Filter-Mask (recently made mandatory by the government to protect us from pollution and death, just like helmets) on the face, I recognized him. He worked in a sweet shop down the lane as a helper. Next day onward, Zeba went to the coaching classes alone. My father shouldn’t know about the incident, my mother told me.

Your sub-conscious mind registers things that you are not even aware of. For the next four nights, I revisited the same incident in my dreams. Every time, I noticed new information. The first night, it was the color of his shirt. Next night, it was the watch on his right wrist. On the fourth night, I heard him say while slapping me – ‘Bitch’.

. . . . .

She did not shed even a drop of tear while she told me the story. She looked straight into my eyes all throughout. I could very well say with utmost confidence that she remembered each and every detail of the events she had described and that she did not have any intentions of forgetting them ever.

. . . . .

I loved Chemistry. Especially, the lab sessions. Although we were not supposed to experiment much, I loved the restricted course of our endeavors. I had once, out of curiosity, sneaked out a small block of sodium from the laboratory. In the backyard of our house, I dropped the block in a bucket of water and stood far away from it. Zeba, as expected, was by my side. I remember my mother rushing out to the backyard after the explosion and us laughing out loud.

Do you know the exact chemical reaction that happens when you drop concentrated sulphuric acid on your skin? I guess not. I am not aware of it too.

So one day, when he came out of the store, I followed him into a narrow deserted alley just next to the shop where he worked. It must be a short-cut to his home. I didn’t know his name. So, I cat-called him, addressing him as Handsome. He stopped and found me almost 2 feet away, face to face. I opened the lid of my bottle and threw the concentrated sulphuric acid at his face. Since he started shouting, I had to leave the place. However, I made it a point to go near him, near his face, his fucking burning face, and shout at the top of my voice – “Bitch!”

. . . . .

– I made a mistake.
– What? (I couldn’t speak. My voice trembled.)
– He was a man. I should have called him Dog.

I pulled her towards me and hugged her like I never had hugged anyone in my life. Almost 2 minutes passed when she freed herself. There was a smile on her face and that smile pierced through my forehead and across my brain.

– So, you be the judge.
– What are you saying?
– Modified Turing Test, remember?
– Sweetheart! Let’s not do it now.
– Am I a criminal?
– What?
– I told you the story. Now tell me. Am I a criminal?

I stared at her blankly. I could not form words even inside my head.

– Am I an agent of justice?

The smile was still there on her face.

– Am I a victim?

I tried to hold her hands but she moved them away.

– Am I just another girl?

I…

– Or am I a bucket of still water, with sodium dropped in it?

She stared straight into my eyes and my soul. I guess she sensed my desire to look directly at her. I could never imagine the effects many similar events had on her because I never had to go through them.
I wanted to say

You are the Sun.
In the warmth of your rays, hope flourishes.
In your light, I see the world.
As you burn away, a star, a God
I long to burn away with you.

But words couldn’t escape my mouth. After a while, she came close to me and embraced me. I couldn’t see her crying, but I could feel the increasing moistness on the right sleeve of my shirt.

Everything went silent at that particular moment.

I kissed her hair.

—
Afternote:
1. The sub-plot of Turing Test is inspired from a similar sequence from the movie The Imitation Game, Copyright – The Weinstein Company
2. Click to see what happens when you drop Sodium in Water