By Mahika Mukherjee
It was the first rain of the year.
I stood aimless outside a restaurant. The weather forecast had been dead wrong, so I had no
umbrella with me. I reached my hand out, just beyond the tin roofing to catch stray drops. As
if in response the rain intensified, the pelting sound deafening. Still, I managed to hear the
bell of a door ring. A man, a good 4 inches taller than me made an appearance and stood,
looking mildly aggrieved at the desolate road, a remnant after everyone scurried home.
I tried not to look at him. I had a reputation for being nosy and had been keeping myself in
check. But there was something that drew me to him. The line of his back, despite being
hidden by an overcoat, reminded me of a time where things were simpler. And when I met
his eyes, deep-set and always smiling, I involuntarily called out his name.
He looked confused, then aware. In that moment I wondered whether he wished he never saw
me at all. But he gave me the smallest of smiles, an upward tick of the mouth and I knew that
my presence was not hated.
“Hi,” he said, his voice softened by the years. It was in stark contrast with the brass-like tone
he had in my memories. I felt myself take a shaky breath in, but was unable to respond. There
was no need to. He had already looked away, his smile wider now, as if to say he understood.
It made me blush, and I was back to being the bright-eyed 16-year-old in his memories. It
seemed that nothing had changed me.
We stood like that for what felt like an hour. He would pretend to study his watch while I
studied him, the new firmness in his posture, the worn but expensive clothes, his clean
stubble. I would pretend to be interested in the lint on my sleeve as he looked me over. I
don’t know what impression I made. My shoes were scruffy, my sweater drab and my skirt
old.
With sudden gentleness, he brought a hand to my shoulder, a nudge to make me look his way.
“How have you been?”
The roar of the rain made it difficult to talk.
“As good as I can be.”
“You look different.”
I tried not the let it sting. “It has been years.”
He nodded and looked off into the distance. “Short hair suits you.”
We talked like that for ages, talking and then looking away. Like we couldn’t face each other.
I knew that I made a dull conversationalist, and I was waiting for a variation of goodbye.
To my surprise, he said: “Do you want to go to my parents’ house to talk?”
There were many ways I could have rejected his offer. In fact, I had a few queued up on
reflex. No, I have to meet my friends.
You’re joking, right?
I don’t want to ruin your family time.
But as he checked his watch again, I realized that we met by coincidence. And coincidences
don’t happen twice.
I nodded to him in reply. He gave me a real smile now, the kind that reminded me of summer
and offered me his hand.
“Don’t you have an umbrella?” I asked, placing my hand in his. He had slight calluses.
“The rain was unexpected.” He looked at me as if to say, like you.
I managed to pocket my phone before he pulled me. We were running through the rain, arms
raised as if that would shield us. We were breathless by the time we made it to his car, and
when he put the AC on I shivered with cold. When was the last time I ran? I didn’t know
why, but it seemed important in the moment.
I turned to him and said, “I haven’t run on purpose since I ran for class president.”
He searched my face for something, and it seemed like he found it. He laughed soundlessly,
like a character in a silent film. “You seemed less talkative than before, but I guess I’m
wrong.”
“Oh no, you’re right,” I corrected him. “Let’s see how much I talk to your parents.”
This elicited another bout of laughter. But I wasn’t lying. I couldn’t bring myself to talk
nowadays. Even in the car, shut off from the rest of the world, I couldn’t find the words to
say. And sometimes there was no point to say what mattered.
I motioned at him to turn the AC off. He looked confused, as if he couldn’t see that the water
clinging to my eyelashes, the tiny tremor in my hand. Oblivious as always, I thought, and
then hated myself for thinking it.
I turned it off myself.
His parents’ house looked as I expected. They stayed on the ground floor, with lace curtains
and throw-pillows on the sofa. I hated every inch of it. It reminded me of a retirement home.
It reeked of powder and old people.
His parents did nothing to hide their surprise.
“How is it that you are here?” his mother asked after a hug. She was as fluffy and cloud-like
as I remembered.
“I met with an acquaintance.” My voice was firm, unyielding. I wasn’t being hostile, but she
took a step back.
His dad shook my hand in an equally disappointing fashion. A limp shake that left my mouth
with a bad aftertaste. He had a growing balding spot. I knew his son would follow in suit in a
few years. His hairline was on the decline.
“Ah!” his mom said, clapping her hands. “I should let you both change. Your clothes are
soaked.”
I nodded. “Can I borrow something to wear?” I asked him.
He blushed, running a hand through his hair. “Sure. Let me check…”
In the meantime I sat on a wooden chair, while watching his mom cook. His father had
retired to his room, saying that he wouldn’t eat tonight.
We made an odd picture, his mom and I. She was humming with warmth, looking over the
boiling rice. She seemed to have forgotten my lukewarm introduction, because she offered to
make me tea. I accepted.
I looked into the pooling depths of the glass. An unwanted face stared back. I frowned, and
she did too.
A hand was on my shoulder and I jumped.
It was him. He was holding out pajamas and an oversized t-shirt. I nodded and let him show
me to his room.
I locked it for a good measure and then looked around. I felt like a voyeur, like I was looking
at his life as I shouldn’t. It was clear he’d cleaned up before I entered. The bedsheet wasn’t
snug but lightly smoothened out by hand. I laughed to myself.
His clothes hung off me, making me look smaller than I was. It was surreal. I was in
someone’s house with someone’s family in someone else’s clothes. I felt like I was living
someone else’s life too.
Dinner was a quiet affair. His mother was polite as always.
I always liked her, but had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t share the same sentiments. She felt
like a cloud in the shape of a woman, like a cup of tea on a Sunday. She gave me another
serving of rice, and I couldn’t help but smile.
It had been a while since I’d met my own mother. I made an effort to call every weekend, but
travel and work made it close to impossible. It had been a while that I was in a mother’s
presence, and it made me feel more child-like than ever.
She asked him about his day, and I could see him pick and choose what to say, a side-glance
at me. I wanted him to know that I pointedly did not care, and so I ate my food with decided
concentration.
I helped with cleaning up, despite his mom’s countless rebuttals. But I could tell she
appreciated it. “No one helps me wash the dishes here.”
“Do you not have a full-time maid?”
She sighed. “We manage without one. My husband doesn’t like others staying at the house.”
I nodded. He seemed like a sour person. “Not much you can do then.”
“No, not really.”
We silently washed the rest of the utensils. I was biting my inner cheek in anxiety. I needed
to leave now.
I told her as much.
“At this hour?” she sounded incredulous.
“It’s 9,” I said to soothe her. “It will only take an hour or so.”
“Then I’ll get my son to drive you.”
“Auntie,” I held her arm. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take the bus. He’ll come back home too
late.”
“Then spend the night here,” another voice said.
I turned to face him. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s hardly an issue. Ma?”
She smiled. “Sounds like a good arrangement. Let her sleep in your room, I’ll make the sofa
comfortable for you.”
There was much protesting from my end, but it was done. Instead of collecting my stuff and
leaving, I slipped off to bed.
I slept fitfully. I always have. The sudden change in environment did nothing to help me.
Instead I found myself rousing every hour until I eventually got out of bed. It was a solitary
walk from the room to the kitchen. I felt like a thief, or a burglar.
Their kitchen didn’t have much to offer in terms of drinks, but I did find some canned beer.
There was a moment’s hesitation, but I made a grab for it. They wouldn’t miss one can.
I heard a shuffling sound behind me and startled.
“You scared me,” I whispered.
He laughed softly. “You scared me.”
“That’s fair.”
He leaned over me and grabbed a can himself. “How about we have a drink together?”
I nodded and walked over to the dining table, lighting a tiny lamp near the counter on the
way. “You know alcohol doesn’t help with sleep, right?”
He pulled out a chair for me. “I am already awake.”
He did look awake, despite his hair being mussed up. He sat and had trouble with opening the
can. I had to open it for him.
“So, how are you?”
I smiled. “We’re starting from there?”
He leaned forward. “Then who were you meeting?”
I was initially confused, but remembered my answer to his mother. “A colleague.” Thinking
about my meeting left me tired. But not the type of tired that pulls at your eyelids, but the
kind that knots up your muscles, your back. The crease on the forehead.
He looked perplexed at my expression. Oblivious. It was once endearing, and even a little
relieving. Who liked their every thought read out loud on someone else’s face? Now it only
accentuates the gap between us. I almost feel sad.
“Do you still play the guitar?”
His face cleared at the question, and then screwed up in thought. “I haven’t played in a
while.”
“That’s a shame.” It really was. That was my favorite facet of him in the past. A short boy
playing the strings with intensity.
“I can play for you,” he said, softer now. Like a confession.
“No,” I whispered, “I don’t think you can.”
The rain was pattering out. It would end in a while, and in a few hours, before the sun made
its venture over the horizon, I would slip out before the house stirred awake. I would walk out
to the silence of the night, and I wouldn’t think about him playing songs we used to sing.
I took another sip of my beer. And now there was nothing between us but silence.
Mahika Mukherjee is not a reader or a writer, but a secret third thing. She would tell you, but it is a secret after all. You can read her musings at mahikamukherjee.com, and her evolution blog at mahikamukherjee.com/evolving-stories.
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