Knives

These flowers too, shall dry
Much like the ink
Of my sorrows and I
Will not live or think
Of you still, and my
Thoughts shall not link
You to the unending sky.

If I could only find
The magic mirror, the paper blade
Quiet of heart, peace of mind
The will to banish, the pain to fade
To have the hope of a kind
Of easy choices to be made.

Moina buried her face deeper into her pillow. She could hear the rain outside, an andante piece created by the whimsy of wind, leaves and darkness. A radio played somewhere. She lifted her head. It was nearly two in the morning. The garden light was on. Electricity must have come back, she thought as she tried to assign a name to the radio tune, but the esraz melted into a gust of wind. She closed her eyes and laid back, the esraz and ghungru smudged together with the sleep in her eyes. She pulled the cordless phone out from under her shoulder and wondered if it had rang.

Moina and her family lived in an old colonial house, one of the last remaining houses of the erstwhile Nawab of Dhaka. All of their lives had unfolded within the tiny white washed house, set amidst the flower gardens and the fruit orchard. The ceilings were high and the walls were a repository of myriad mysteries of electrical wiring and plumbing. A rather prized collection of art hung from nails drilled into those chalky walls – two opulent oils by Sultan, a few Zainul Abedins in the main drawing rooms and a mixed bag of oils, sketches and mixed media by contemporary artists. Moina’s mother, Shonai and her sister in law, Srishti were in charge of reorganising the paintings around the house – they would dip into them like an empress caressing the treats in her jewel box, marvelling at each piece before choosing the favourites.

Their family’s love for the arts began with Shonai’s involvement with local art galleries and they were well acquainted with local artists through her son, Oni’s work in the publishing circles. Their house became a regular haunt for debates on post structuralism and the plurality of realism—and when those topics obfuscated the hardest of minds, usually after a few drinks-- the writer friends simply dissected human nature and the painters sketched the trees in the garden, amidst the choppy dry patches of light and wet pools of shadows. That is how they met Aref.

Aref was a painter of faces, of things that lay between and beneath. He had come to Dhaka for an oil painting workshop from Kolkata and Oni insisted that he stay at their house for the two days and three nights that he would be there. The time Aref spent at the house was mostly taken up by his conversations with Shonai and Srishti, both of whom returned early from work to entertain their guest. Moina would come back from work by the time tea had been served for Aref, Shonai and Srishti. Both days when she returned, she found them sitting in the semi circular veranda, overlooking the front garden. Tea had been served and Srishti was helping to pour a second cup for Aref and herself. A fresh plate of aloo puri had been served, next to some expensive fruitcake made by the wife of some expatriate or the other. Almonds and cashew nuts were set in a bowl next to a table lamp. Mosquito coils were gently fuming at the corners of the veranda.

One of the two instances that Aref would remember about Moina was the first time he met her. She joined them for tea in the veranda, smiling half at him, half at the cake on the table; her hands were holding a teacup at the brim, her right index finger drumming a tune into the china. She smiled at them, her lips curving a full few seconds later than others, making Aref think that she wasn’t paying attention at all. She was clearly not vapid, although she wasn’t saying very much, either agreeing with her mother or not commenting at all. He wondered what she would find disagreeable. His steady thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the need for a cigarette. She is pretty, he thought to himself again.

Moina was not as open to admitting to Aref’s charms. She looked at him while he spoke to her, taking in his build and the slight greys at his temples. He had a high forehead, flared nostrils and beautiful eyes that stared at her with the unblinking innocence of an infant. He was in his late thirties; she assumed, probably married or divorced. She was wrong, of course. He had been neither. He balanced his teacup on his knee, gesticulated while he spoke and had an easy laugh. He had interesting stories of everyday people and spoke about his paintings and passages. He mentioned the names of women, almost distractedly, sometimes halting after saying a name, as if to remember an intimate secret that was making him smile. She saw her mother talk to him and noticed a faint flush to her cheeks, which probably had nothing to do with the chilli in the aloo-puri, wrapped in a tissue, held by Shonai’s delicate fingers. Yes, Moina thought, Aref was an attractive man, as charming as any artist, really.

The second incident that Aref would remember about her is the last night that he stayed at their house. Aref got up very late at night and had come out of his room to look for some water. He switched on the light in the upstairs pantry and startled Moina, who had been standing there in the blue shadows familiar to her. She was wearing a t-shirt and pyjamas, holding a few raisins in her palm. “Oh god! It’s you?” she blurted out. Aref was embarrassed and apologized, “Yes, me. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. Sorry. Did I frighten you?” Both of them were caught in a stupor of half consciousness, the garb of the sophistication that shone earlier in the evening was left behind in their bedrooms. She thought absently that Aref was the only house guest she knew who would be out of the guest bedroom at this hour, most guests were quiet as mice and slept like trees. Did trees sleep, she wondered. She was thinking of the second cycle of plant photosynthesis that happens at night when Aref said,
“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
-“Yes, yes I heard. So back to your studio, then?”
-“Yes. Some quiet time to paint, I think.”
-“Good, good.”
-“Your mother has asked me for that sketch of mine that she liked so much the other day and I’ve decided to give it to her.”
-“Oh which one, the one you drew at the workshop?”
-“Yes the sketch in charcoal.”
-“Oh that’s a beautiful one. She’ll be very pleased.”
-“Yes, that would be nice.”

He was hoping to hear that she would like that as well, but she had finished the last of her raisins, so she picked up a few more from a jar in the pantry and made her way past Aref. “Well, goodnight, then.” she said. He swerved and let her pass. She realized that she had never known a man to sleep in a kurta before. She liked that.

And so it came to pass that their house had a signed Aref Akhter hanging in the semi circular veranda. It was a charcoal sketch of the mango tree in their orchard. The tree stood out from its background of guava and jackfruit trees nearby. It was a beautiful sketch, full of whimsical strokes and trails of thumbs brushing the charcoal deep into the paper. The mango leaves looked wet and full, the way it had looked to Aref, but not to anyone else in the house. Aref’s sketch was judged and studied for colour and size while it’s neighbours were chosen and the frame maker was called for measurements. Dawood, the manservant was in charge of dusting the painting, along with the few others hung around it. Once in a while, guests would stop to admire their collection. Some would comment on how marvellously lucky Shonai was to have a signed Aref Akhter. His new series had done quite well at an exhibition in Kolkata and some of them were showing in Delhi. He even had a column written about him in India Today magazine. Another guest said that there had been a picture of him having wine with Arundhati Roy. There were rumours of Aref moving to Delhi among some speculation around the identity of his muse. And then, some guests would look at the painting because they genuinely liked it.

Let me tell you a little about Moina. The most obvious thing about her was her physical beauty and tremendous energy. Around 5 feet 3 inches, medium build, a pretty face, although some might say her nose was a little blunt. She was 28, a graduate in education development and worked for an NGO promoting literacy for underprivileged girls. She also got involved in the local theatre the year her father passed away. She mostly worked backstage and recently, she had a non-speaking role. Her friends who were miles away were the ones who she loved the most. She showed the most of herself to those who were not nearby. Perhaps she felt safer that way. Within her very being, was a sense of absenteeism, almost as if it were diluted in the ink that set her apart from her friends and colleagues at the Agency. It was as if the lines that set her apart themselves would sometimes disappear, taking Moina with them, until she was almost invisible in her absences. She was what they called, a talkative child, who had finally outgrown her precocity. Much to their relief, she had grown up until she had removed parts of herself from their line of vision.

One night she came out into the veranda in her pyjamas. Unlike other days she was not rubbing her tummy distractedly or picking at a palm full of dalmoot. Her neck was stiff and her back rigid. In one hand she held a cordless phone. She sat down on the peacock backed wicker armchair and looked at the number pad on the phone. She stared at it for some time, in the dark. Then she leaned towards the netted windows and by its faint light, she dialled an overseas number. She clenched her free hand into a tight ball and held it under her chin, listening to the phone ring. Once twice thrice and then a machine picked up and she left a message, “Hi, it’s me. Calling from…well, calling just to say…to say hello. So please give me a call back when you can. You have my number. Bye.” She drew her knees up to her chest, clenching the phone in one hand. Her eyes are fixed on the floor; she is trying to remember something, her eyes unfathomable. A past conversation? A poem?

An hour later, the phone rang and she picked it up at the first ring. Breathlessly she said, “Hello?”
-“Hi. So what’s up with you?”
-“Nothing. Nothings up.”
-“I just realised, it’s very late for you by the time I come home from work, isn’t it?”
-“Yes. Yes it is. But it’s okay, really.”
-“Ah, I see. So what were you doing today?”
-“Nothing. Just waiting for you to call.”
-“Oh. And what if I didn’t call you. Then would it--?”
-“No, no, not at all. It would have been fine, I mean, I mean you don’t have to call, you know?”

The man on the other side of the phone sounded relieved and reassured. They spoke for a while, Moina growing increasingly quiet and politely interested in his day. They end the conversation with the man saying, “So well anyway, let me let you get back to sleep.” She hung up the phone and sat in the straight-backed chair for more than an hour, not moving but to occasionally clench her toes. There was a storm somewhere. The next morning saw her walking past carrying Auden’s “Tell Me the Truth About Love.” Only those who are cursed with loving too much read Auden at such hours.

For the next few nights, she slept with the cordless phone near her pillow. She lay on her bed, looking at the phone, angry and disgusted at reducing herself to this state. Slowly her tears grew tired and she moved her pillow away from her mouth. She fell asleep and the phone did not ring. She was lying in on her side and had fallen asleep with her face on her elbows. A little while later she stirred and rolled over to her back, one fist near her face, the other near her hips. Her body would move so slightly with every breath. The white cotton pyjama was collected in folds near her waist and hips. In the low lamplight, the folds looked as if they were flowing over her skin, like warm bath water spilling over her round thighs. A soft pool of white light seemed to have gathered in the caves of her lap.

Scores of miles away, Aref was also in bed, his pillows bunched up under his neck, eyes wide open, past midnight. He looks at his telephone, almost willing it to ring, anything to end lying here alone. Who would I want to speak to, he asks himself. The real question is: whose voice does he need to hear? Aref wouldn’t have been able to answer it himself. He thought of Samir, an old college friend. It wouldn’t have been bad, meeting up with Samir and maybe going for a ride in that red scooter he used to have. He wondered if Samir still had the bike, probably not. He last he heard, he had a job at Prudential. He wondered if Samir was still in Delhi, as he turned over to lie on his stomach, forcing his eyes to close. He fell asleep thinking of Claudia, this Goanese beauty he had met through Samir. Sleep didn’t come to him in peace, it didn’t settle over him like a sigh. It fell upon him in exhaustion.

There was a boy. A boy that Shonai wanted Moina to meet. A few days after Moina’s last phone call to her beloved, Shonai told her about Shekhar, her colleague’s ex- neighbour’s son who lives in Idaho. “Ooh, amrika bashi. He must be a golden boy.” Moina was listening to her mother, with her breath caught in her chest. Her heart wanted to leave her ribcage and tear up everything in its way. She had to make an effort to hold onto the butter knife, plunging it carelessly into a piece of bread and then throwing the knife down on the china, with a clatter. Srishti picked up the knife and shook her head at Moina, in admonition, in sympathy.

“Srishti thinks I’m being difficult because the boy lives in America.” Moina thought a little wildly, not listening to the boy’s details, but looking in Srishti’s direction, all the while an image of Kumaar in her brain. She closed her eyes, willing the blackness of infinite space to swallow her pain, but darkness evades her. The image of his body, as he turned back from a stack of books to look at her, sitting down on the low futon, his face breaking into a smile at her look of boundless adoration. Kumaar. Kumaar. Her Kumaar.

She shook her head to clear his face away and focused on her mother with some difficulty. She was saying that the Shekhar would be emailing her if she agreed to give him her email address—would she? Moina, oblivious to the details of the arrangement asked Shonai, “So how old is the boy?”
-“Thirty five.” said her mother, annoyed at realizing that she had not being listening.
-“Oh. And what does the golden boy do in—Idaho is it?”
-“A-hah! Shekhar is a systems analyst.”
-“Sterling qualifications. So why isn’t the boy married yet?”
-“Oh Dilruba says that he works too hard and didn’t have time!”
-“You mean his parents don’t know that their prince is a queen?”
Srishti laughs, Shonai frowns and says,
-“Oh Moina, at this rate you will never get married.”
-“So tell me, ammu, what am I meant to do when he emails? Meet, enchant, marry, enslave?”
-“Then shall I give Dilruba your email address?”
-“Yes. Do what you need. You’ll excuse me, I’m off to my room.” Moina got up and went to her room, wishing she could slam the door. She picks up the empty glass from her bed stand, wanting to smash it against the wall, against Kumaar’s doors. She put the glass down again, unable to even raise it up. That is not the way.

Later that night, she called him again, almost a week since she rang last.
-“What does he do, then?” Kumaar asks Moina when she tells him.
-“He’s a systems administrator.”
-“What does that mean?”
-“It means, he—look, it’s not important, I just--.” She couldn’t speak anymore.
After a short silence he speaks again, “Have you met him, Mou?”
She melts at his old nickname for her. With a voice barely there, she says, “No, I haven’t.” And then, without waiting for him to respond she pleads, “Kumaar I don’t know what to do—I don’t want to meet him, you know? I don’t want him. I don’t love him.”
-“Well, be fair. How do you know without having met the idiot?”
She is paralysed with hope at the glimmer of hearing what she desperately wants him to say. She says, “Oh I don’t. I don’t even want to do this.” She pauses,” Please, tell me I don’t have to do this.”
-“Come on, don’t be so impatient with this.”
She realises that he isn’t going to save her; he isn’t going to tell her not to meet him, nor to marry another man. She can hear him take a deep puff at his cigarette and say, “Hello? You there?” Moina cannot be brave anymore. She asks him, “How can you do this?”
-“Do what?”
-“Do this, this--not caring--about what happens to me, this--not, not--.”
-“Stop it. I do care about you. But I can’t tell you not to do this.”
-“Can’t? What does that mean? Can’t or won’t. Look, do you love me Kumaar?”
-“What do you want me to say?”
-“Didn’t it mean anything to you?”
-“Don’t do this, Moina.”
-“Don’t do this? Don’t do this! Me? I’m not the one who is doing this, for your information it’s you who is doing this, this--.”
-“Look, you can’t expect me to be jealous of this fellow, can you?” His words take the last breath out from her lungs. After a long silence, she clears her throat and says, “Yeah. Yes, you’re right, of course, I can’t. Okay then. Yeah.” He tells her that she should sleep and they hang up the phone.

Somewhere in North Delhi, a few days later, Aref is leaving the bed of Aruna Patel, as she watches him tie on his shoelaces. She asks, “Why are you in such a hurry?” He doesn’t respond. Aruna gets up and lights a cigarette, saying, “I won’t do this, you know, I am just so tired of—I won’t turn into one of those snivelling women who beg you, you know.” He straightens up and looks at her sitting on the bed, says nothing. “Oh you will come back, I know. You will be back.” Aref puts on his jacket and runs a hand through his hair and says,” You know this wasn’t my idea. Don’t do this.”

Around ten days later, an email arrived from a s.mustafa@hotmail.com in Moina’s inbox. Two days later, she opens it. It read, “Dear Moyna, I have been asked to write to you by Rozina apa (Dilruba aunty’s daughter). Let me tell you a bit about myself. My name is Shekhar and I’m a systems analyst at Hedgerow and Calthorp. I did my bachelors in Systems Sciences in Advanced HJU from Loyola.” Moina is bored. Her eyes flicker to the window beyond the PC monitor. She returns to the email, “Not much to say except I suppose you could find out more about me if you web searched me, i.e. googled me. Other than that, let’s say that if I wrote a personal ad for me it would read like this, “35, single, brown, 5’7”, fun and adventure loving, into movies and internet.” Hahaha. So much to you for now. Take Care, Shekhar “Shak” Mostafa, Systems Analyst, SysMan Unit, Hedgerow and Calthorp Inc.” A couple of words go through her mind, “Shak? Jeee-zus. ..fun and adventure loving? Yes, ha-ha. Oh why does Dilruba aunty even like me?”

Srishti had completed her cooking classes and within two weeks, she threw a dinner party to treat her friends with home made Szechwan dishes. It was early winter so they had arranged for outdoor seating. The air was fragrant with a raat-ki-raani and a faint frangipani. The guests were mainly Srishti’s friends from work and university and some of Oni’s friends and suppliers. Shonai had also invited two of her friends and Moina had invited her friend Kushum. Heavy silk saris and pashminas were brought out of summer storage and gave off a steam of French perfume and neem leaves. The scattered bonfires caught the jewels round the necks and earlobes and cast a faint flush on bare skin. The fairy lights were spread across the massive golpata bushes with their spiked fan shaped foliage.

The hosts were already on the lawn, talking to some early arrivals. Srishti was welcoming the guests and signalling the waiters to bring out the lemonade and start opening up the whiskey. Shonai was making excuses for Oni’s lateness and looking towards the house for Moina, who was late getting dressed. She frowned at the stereo, which lay silent; Moina was supposed to have put on a CD before the guests arrived.

Moina came out of her room wearing a pink and purple silk sari. She stopped to check her achol in the mirror and fixed her sari length before walking out into the lawn. She quickly looked around for her friend Kushum, who hadn’t arrived yet. She stood next to her mother and welcomed the guests, relieved to see that Dilruba aunty was not in the guest list. She was shifting through the CD stack when Kushum came up behind her and said, “Hello jaani! My my don’t you look stunning!” Moina smiled and looked up at her friend, looking radiant in her peach kurta and pearls, “Ah! Am so glad you’re here.”
-“Yes- what’s with all these well-meaning aunty types here tonight? I thought this was your bhabi’s dinner.”
-“Shush, darling, these are Srishti’s friends! I think they’ve been married too long.”
-“That must be it. I’ve already been asked if I’m married.” She rolled her eyes.
-“Oh god, I’m so sorry. Unfortunately that probably isn’t the last of it this evening.”
-“Everyone still on his or her first drink?”
-“Oh God!”
-“Promise me that after you get married you won’t turn into one of them.” Kushum said under her breath as she nodded hello to an aunt a few feet away. Moina looked at her friend,
-“Those are nice pearls, by the way.”
-“Oh thank you, Kajol gave them to me for our anniversary.”
-“You’re blushing!”
-“Okay okay, quit it.” Kushum thought about denying it before giving up.
-“So how is actuary-boy?” Moina picked out a CD and put in the stereo and adjusted the volume.
-“Oh he’s fine. Has another round of exams coming up. Very busy with those. This is the last batch, though. He’s really sick of it, poor baby.”
-“And after those are over?”
-“We’ll see.”
-“Do you see something more permanent than this?”
-“ You mean marriage.” her voice was suddenly heavy.
-“Yes.”
-“With Kajol, you know, you know when we started, I really didn’t think it would go anywhere serious. But now he makes me want to get married,” she looked Moina in the eye, “and that’s something.” Both of them smile and Moina inhales deeply.
-“And how is Kumaar? Still socialist?”
Moina laughs, recognising Kushum’s unfortunate all-in-one phrase for Kumaar’s personality. Impregnable, distant, proud. She knows her friend too well and answers, “Yes, yes, still--socialist.”
-“And what about this other man?”
-“He emailed.”
-“And how many weeks ago was that?”
Moina smiles and makes a face at Kushum, who says, "Oh, don’t you do that with me. Are you going to write back to this one or what?" Moina takes a deep breath and says, "I suppose one never knows till one tries. So that’s a yes." They walk over to one of the coal fires, silently contemplating this turn. Kushum asks, "Jaani, are you sure you’re okay?" Moina warms her hands over the fire, jerking them away sharply as a spark flies up. With a half smile, she says, "Yes, yes I’ll be okay." She stands up straight, the fire warming her face and reflecting in her eyes.

Miles away, Aref sits bored at an arts festival organized at a fort in Rajasthan, looking forward to the cocktail hour. A poem mentions water soaked raisins, and he thinks of Moina, and the rain wet garden. He wonders what has happened of her and if she liked his sketch. He recalls wanting her to like it. He considers the idea of giving the sketch to her instead. He remembers a piece of her smile from a conversation that he can’t quite place. Did she ever smile at him like that? Irritated at himself, Aref closes his eyes, and tries to picture somebody else. His thoughts are disrupted by applause, as the last set of poems is recited this evening.

Two months later, sudden rain showers caught Dhaka. Moina was stuck in traffic on her way back from work. Her car pool colleagues were getting edgy, they all had children to go home to. "So what is this? Full blown monsoons again?" said Shahid bhai. Moina wasn’t really listening; her eyes were fixed upon a thin rain soaked man running into a bright blue gate. It was Kumaar’s house. Their car rarely got stopped at this light, but today everything was moving slowly. She imagined Kumaar running into his house in this weather. As she felt knives twist into her palms, she forced herself to look out of the window close to her face, her eyes tracing the raindrops making patterns against the pane, as the sky melted onto the cool glass. She saw her eyes looking back at her, pained.

She remembered the first time she met Kumaar. She had gone to meet Kushum in London, and was waiting for her at University cafeteria. Kushum was late and Moina was feeling ridiculous standing alone. She saw the smoker’s room and the group of South Asian boys in one corner. She decided she wanted a cigarette, so she went in and asked for a light. Kumaar’s friend Rana lit her cigarette and they introduced themselves, settling into easy conversation. Rana was flirting with her slightly, telling her what a pity it was that she was only visiting. Kumaar wasn’t saying much, letting his friend do what he was famous for. Soon Rana had to leave for a class and Moina moved into a seat closer to Kumaar. She was nervous with him, the cover of obvious flirtation gone. Kushum was running late, but Moina didn’t notice. They talked about themselves, plotting out family trees, trying to figure out if they’ve ever met in Dhaka. Kumaar was doing his Masters in Sociology and was telling her about his thesis outline, his excited hands waving in the smoky air. Kushum saw Moina sitting with the skinny deshi boy from the Sociology department and made her way towards them. She knew him as a Bangladeshi and avoided him under her strict external relations policy of staying away from them. She wondered what her friend was talking to him for. Then again, she had never understood how Moina could talk to so many people. She said hello to Kumaar, expecting to take her friend and leave.

But Moina was in the middle of telling him about the new book market that had come up in Dhaka, below the old hospital building. This was news to him, and she asked him about the last time he went back. He asked if the road in front of his house was still banned for rickshaws to ply on and she laughed and said yes, of course they were banned—they were slowing down the siren-wailing entourages of the cabinet ministers, didn’t he know? Kushum smiled and Kumaar said, "That’s one thing that really makes me mad, the lot of the rickshaw-wallahs haven’t changed. Governments have changed but it has meant nothing to them, they are still tired and broken men, pulling their burden and at the end of the day—for whom? For the slum lords to
take their daily and for their children to starve." For the first time Moina looked at his eyes.

A little while later, Kushum and Moina were standing outside the Old Building when Kushum asked her friend, "Okay, what the fuck was that all about?"
-"What do you mean?" Moina asked, although she could have guessed the matter.
-"Mr. Melodramatic bangali back there."
-"Oh don’t be like that, his heart seems in the right place."
-"Yeah right, well just watch him go back to Dhaka and sit in his daddy’s real estate company and then tell me what his deal was. That Rana he hangs around with—Rana’s dada was a zamindar or something. Please! I’ve seen these socialist types."
-"His father is in real estate?"
-"Yes, didn’t you recognise his family? That’s Rokon uncle’s son you were talking to."
-"You think he’d do that? I don’t know."
-"And why the fuck did you get his number? What—you going to hang out with him now?"
-"So tell me about Rana." said Moina to humour her, who just rolled her eyes and swore again. The remainder of her holiday was spent between Kushum and Kumaar. Kushum’s opinion of Kumaar didn’t improve much, although, she harnessed the ability to speak of him without relating it to the act of copulation.

Kumaar started writing to her when she went back to Dhaka. There grew between them, a strange kind of love, built more on their longing for an impossible love than anything else. It surprised him and consumed her. She knew about his discomfort with the wealth and the social class that his family belonged to. This side of him both attracted and terrified her. She realised that he would surely come to despise her one day for her land-owning lineage that still ran in her conscious self. They had a silent pact to avoid discussing her family or beliefs. They both knew that as long as that pact was unbroken, there could never be anything more than friendship. She saw him again in London and in Dhaka. Their struggle against each other’s self identity was binding them together and simultaneously broadening a gulf. She didn’t know who she was, but knew that she wasn’t what he wanted. They broke things off after Kumaar’s turbulent Dhaka trip, and agreed to accept that nothing permanent was possible between them. He had finished his degree and got a job in London, saving up for a doctorate. Then Kushum told her that he was back with this French girl who might have been his girlfriend.

The traffic had begun to move again and Moina was thankful for the radio that someone had switched on. She reached home and turned on her computer. There was an email from Shekhar. Dawood brought her tea and she opened the email. It read something like this: "Dear Moina, What is up? I’m doing fine. I came back from Niagara Falls. They have a casino up there and a giant floral clock. What is up with your life? I had a meeting with my supervisor and he said that I would have to work weekends, which is bumming. I am sending you a picture of Andy, a work-mate, a real hero and me. So much for now, I don’t want to bore you or I may as well kiss my chances goodbye of marrying you. Hahaha. Bye and take care. Shekhar." She didn’t understand why he kept making these assumptions that they would get married for sure and that getting to know each other was incidental. Moina said out loud, "How ‘bumming’. Super." She looked at her watch and calculated that it must be 3 p.m. in London.

It occurred to her that maybe she would feel better if she could talk to somebody at home, that maybe they should know what it was like. But Srishti and Oni had gone out to dinner and Shonai wasn’t home yet. She sat in the veranda and watched the rain, white sheets of it illuminated by the 60 watt bulbs in the porch. And what if Srishti had been home? Could she have told her about Kumaar? Could she have explained Shekhar? Srishti wouldn’t have understood. People like Oni and Srishti were blessed with the capability of “doing the right thing”. Look at their lives, they had both dated each other for a few years and had neatly gotten married when Srishti had finished her post grad. They did this without getting involved with people who were indecipherable and unattainable. If Oni hadn’t happened, Srishti would have happily married a systems-something who works at Hedgerow-and-something. Five years down the line, they would have had two children and moved to New Jersey. Kushum probably wouldn’t have married a Shekhar clone, but she had also tidied up her life, she had finished her masters degree and was seeing Kajol, a childhood friend. They were taking their relationship along at their own pace. They were happy. Why couldn’t Moina bring herself to be happy?

A low-pressure belt had moved in from the Arabian Sea over the skies of Delhi. The temperatures were in the mid 40’s and the sky was white with entrapped heat and hardened clouds. Aruna was leaving Aref’s air-conditioned bedroom and stepping into the sweltering hallway. After she left, Aref stood near the window in his living room. The AC wasn’t switched on here and soon the heat spread it’s fingers on his skin and his brain. He opened the window and tried to breathe in the heavy air. He suddenly remembered that hot air was supposed to be lighter and thus would move upwards and heat the higher layers of the atmosphere in a process called---convection? Noyona had explained it to him once. He was walking back with her from her college one day and it was raining heavily that summer in Kolkata. She was—what?--seventeen that summer? He was slightly older; it was the year he went away to Delhi University. He had been playing cricket with his best friend Gautam, Noyona’s elder brother.
-“Did you understand, Aref-da?” she had asked him.
-“Understand what?”
-“Uff! Understand how this rain is unnatural for this time of the year. What have I been telling you for the past ten minutes?!” Noyona was a geography major and took it upon herself to explain the weather patterns to Aref by way of explaining why she hadn’t her umbrella with her.
-“No, I doubt you would have had an umbrella even if the rain had been natural for this time of the year.”
-“Yes that’s probably true!” Noyona laughed and curled her shoulders under the umbrella she was sharing with Aref. “But thank god,” she was saying in that excited voice of hers, “Thank God you were near my gate, otherwise I would have been well soaked.”
-“You’re such a drama queen—you would have loved that too!”
-“Tai bujhi?” Noyona flashed her eyes at him. He couldn’t bear to look directly into those eyes. Did she know that? She must, why else would she do it? Aref didn’t say anything, pretending to be offended; he was enjoying this too much.

Noyona had developed a frightening kind of affection for Aref, highly unstable and flammable. Aref sensed this, and wasn’t altogether untouched by it. It is rare to be untouched by most sorts of female affection when one is a nineteen-year-old boy. Underneath their light hearted flirtations and pointless jousting was a feeling of impending explosion. For Noyona, it was a sense of exhilaration, for Aref, it was doomed. She was Gautam’s young sister and for a nineteen-year-old Aref, it had meant unswayable walls. He was to leave for Delhi University soon and she took to writing love poems. He never explained to her why he couldn’t give her more. It was a sacrifice at the alter of friendship; it was a seal of his valour. Years later, Noyona wrote to him in Delhi saying that her marriage has been arranged and that she wanted to leave on a Delhi bound train. Aref said nothing then and had said nothing when he accompanied Gautam to Kolkata for the wedding. Noyona got married on a hot March night like tonight. She was probably the simplest love he had ever known. He had given her up to the God of noble gestures. And now? Aref wasn’t in love with Aruna. He wouldn’t let her make changes to her life for him because it was unnecessary in his life that Aruna should do so. He wondered where Noyona was, and hoped she was as unsullied by life as she had been that rain wet afternoon. Both of them had settled for the second option and where were they now? He wanted to see her, sometimes. Sometimes he wanted to tell her that the hot wind is stifling me, it doesn’t float upwards anymore, Noyona.

Aref was invited to the next arts workshop in Dhaka. A four by six inch envelope of handmade paper arrived at his flat with a handsome invitation card inside from Professor A. Zakaria, Head of the Fine Arts Institute of Dhaka. Aref was also asked to inaugurate an exhibition. He needed to get in touch with the Professor about getting out of the inauguration, he wanted to spend some time outside of Dhaka, perhaps take a boat out into Borishal instead. He emailed Oni about getting him the Professor’s email address. Oni forwarded the request to Moina, pleading her with the argument that the Fine Arts Institute was 5 minutes away from her office. A week later, Aref was surprised to find a reply from Moina in his inbox. She wrote:

“Dear Aref, Hello. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Oni’s sister, Moina. Bhaiya had asked me to find out the email address of one Professor Ahmed Zakaria. I went to his office and upon seeing his desktop PC being covered by a bright yellow and orange hand towel, have deduced that he is not a regular user of electronic mail. His assistant cum chauffeur informed me that his son, Mr. Zaker Zakaria has a computer at home. While I am endeavouring to find out whether the home PC is connected to the net, I present to you the following facsimile number: +8802-861682. He may be reached here. Unfortunately, he is currently in Bali, attending a conference on art exchange between the SAARC nations. His chauffeur does not know when he will be back. After having sailed you off upon the sea of hopelessness, I bid you farewell, Moina.”

Aref was checking his messages from an airport lounge in Goa and wrote back: “Of course I remember you. Thank you for your help in tracking down the fax number. I trust his fax machine is plugged in at all times. I’m going back to Delhi now. My regards to Oni and Srishti. Aref.
P.S. have you considered writing fiction?”

Kushum was sitting in Moina’s room when she got Aref’s email. Watching her eyebrows go up as she read the last sentence, Kushum came over and started reading the email thread for herself. Moina pushed her chair away, laughing at Kushum’s stunned expression. “Oh please—this is nothing.”
-“Why do you always say that?”
-“Say what?”
-“Don’t deny this! You’re flirting with Aref Akhter!”
-“Hardly!”
-“Yeah? Then what was that---‘ooh watch me be all cute and coy and charm the pants off of you’—well I think it’s great.”
-“I was simply doing the man a favour!”
-“No baby, you want to do him a favour!” for emphasis Kushum opened a matchbook and lit a match with great flair. Moina blew it out with one breath. Not discouraged in the least, Kushum sang, “Jawanii jaaney-man, haseeney dilruba, miley tou dil jawaan, nissar ho gaya.”
-“What does ‘nissar’ mean, anyway?”
-“I don’t know,” Kushum said seriously, “orgasm..?”
-“You’ll stay away from my children, won’t you?” Moina said, laughing.

Later on, after Kushum had left, Moina wrote back:
“Dear Aref, you are most welcome. One is being very naïve about the fax machine, one must point out. Also, congratulations on the Goa show.
Moina.
P.s. yes.
p.p.s. your sketch is very much appreciated at home. Thank you again for the present.”

Next morning, there was a reply:
“Dear Moina, thank you. The press was very kind. Hopefully the Professor’s assistant will be kind as well.
Best, Aref.
P.s. and?
p.p.s. Most welcome. How is your mother?”

So Moina wrote back offering to mediate between Aref and the Professor, now that the fax machine wasn’t working either. They began to write about Moina’s aborted attempts at travelogues, recipes for cooking fish, failed attempts at cooking fish, his author friends and the books they wrote. They had an easy friendship that evolved from emails about how their weekends were spent to longer emails about how they were. They had become friends.

A few months later Aref arrived in Dhaka for the five-day workshop. Moina was at work when he arrived at her house. He rang her mobile and said with a smile in his voice, “Hello? May I speak to madam Moina?”
-“Oh my god, I don’t believe this, you’re finally in Dhaka!”
-“Yes, I just got in.”
-“Where are you? At the Cultural Centre or the Fine Arts Institute?”
-“No, I’m at your house right now, your mother is home from work and is feeding me lunch. Some people love me so much, you see.”
-“Tai bujhi? Then you don’t need any more affection—you sound all set!”
-“So when do I see you?”
-“Shall we say 5:30, at home?”
They spoke for a little while and Aref wondered if she said “Tai bujhi” very often. It reminded him of Noyona.

Aref wasn’t home when Moina came back from work. She joined Srishti and Shonai in waiting for him to start their late afternoon tea. It suddenly occurred to Moina whether it would be awkward to see him again. Their acquaintance had been over emails—how well would that comfort translate into physicality? So far they had only been talking about books and authors and exhibitions—would they have anything to talk about face to face? She smiled to herself as she remembered his voice on the phone and looked up at his sketch. She was excited that he was staying with them; he was a friend, an unexpected and unusual one.

Oni’s white sedan pulled up the driveway and the women went down to the porch to receive Aref. He wondered if it was proper to embrace Bengali women to say hello, as his eyes fell on Moina. She was wearing a cream coloured cotton sari with a pale zari border. He saw her arms crossed tightly across her waist and thought the matter decided. “Ah well”, he thought, “At least her smile was open.”
Srishti went down the porch steps, smiling, “Well well well, how wonderful to have you in Dhaka again.”
-“It’s good to be back, especially to such lovely friends.”
-“Achcha, you have spoken to Oni haven’t you? He should be home soon as well.”
Moina still had not said anything; she was nervously watching Dawood wipe away the spider webs that clung to the orchids in the garden. She was very aware that she should say hello but couldn’t think of anything clever to say, which surprised her. Just then Aref started climbing up the few steps. He said from a step away, “Hello madam.”
-“Hello sir.” Moina answered with a small voice, dry with amusement.
-“It’s nice to see you again.”
-“Yes, isn’t it?” She said trying to keep her serious face. Shonai frowned, Srishti tittered and Aref imagined her standing under an umbrella, with that same look in her eyes.

By dinnertime, she had made up her mind. She did want to get to know him better. She could feel a little distance from him, a little hesitance perhaps and she knew that it would have to be her effort. So when everybody took their dessert plates and walked out to the veranda, she asked him if he knew of any good websites for Hindi music. He said yes, but he would have to do a search, the exact URL escaped him. Great, she said, then he must show her after dinner was done. And so, after dinner, Moina was sitting at her computer, with Aref peering into the monitor from behind her. Aref wished her luck with the download and said goodnight. On the way back to his room, he passed the pantry where he had seen her the last time. The Moina who he left a few yards ago seemed a million miles away from the girl who ate raisins while half asleep.

Oni had been staying late at work and hadn’t been able to spend much time with Aref. The next evening he had made it a point to be home by 8:30 to see his guest. Moina put on some Mohammad Rafi, her brother’s favourite. He was laughing at something his wife was saying to Aref. He heard the first few bars of a song and called out to Moina, “What are you playing? Rafi?” Moina said in a child’s voice, “Yes. Your favourite.” Aref noticed how the lines around Oni’s eyes relaxed, as he smiled at her kindness. In a little while, Oni had put his feet up in the ottoman, and began telling Aref about some fakes lithos that were circulating recently. Srishti settled into the crook of his arm. Dinner was going to be a little late, Dawood announced; and Aref got up to pick the music. He picked the least played track on the CD and Moina went over to him and said, “I haven’t really heard this one.”
-“I don’t imagine that you would like Rafi.”
-“You’re right. Mukesh is more my style.” Her laugh was mocking, her comment unnecessary.
-“Did you have any luck with that website?”
-“No I didn’t, actually. The webmaster is utterly useless.” Moina was surprised at how sharp her voice sounded when she spoke to him. “But, thank you, “ she continued, “in any case.”
-“Oh, you’re welcome, I think.” Aref said.
-“Listen, I’m sorry. Sorry about being so snappy with you. It’s just that it’s been a bit—weird?—seeing you again and I sensed it coming from you as well and I didn’t know --.”
-“I know.”
-“Okay, then. Good. “
Aref laughed at her unease and asked her to pick the next track.

The next day, Shonai declared that she was going for a walk, in an attempt to keep her blood sugar in check. A quick consensus formed around the tea table that all present would join her. It was an unfortunate evening to be walking outside, as it was exceedingly warm and humid. They were walking on a red brick pathway that swirled cutting round patches of thick grass—the deshi variety, not the tissue thin durba variety found in the more expensive and well irrigated lawns of the city. The path curved around the decade old trees, named after Liberation War heroes; the unemployed day labourers, the ageing homeless and the young drug users slept under their shade. As Moina pointed out to Aref, Dhaka was a city of easy irony—poverty hadn’t left it with any shade to cover its shame. And so it went, little islands of people covered in grass-and-leaves, asleep as the middle class swarmed in circles around it to walk off its specialist ailments.

The park was crowded today and every few minutes, they were stopping to talk to one or two of the myriad of people that Shonai knew or Srishti went to university with. Moina was getting tired of answering the three-questions-of-upper-middle-class-social-grace: yes, Shonai had mild diabetes, no Moina wasn’t married, and no Srishti hadn’t started a family. An aunty who wanted to ask about good schools stopped them. Moina listened as they discussed the free after school karate lessons for children over 8. She could feel the heat packed between her toes, tightly bound in her 100% pure leather sneakers. Her kurta clung to her back in two ever-widening wet patches. She hoped the karate classes were held under a fan. The aunty then asked about the hygiene issues in running a school cafeteria and she saw a drop of sweat trickle down the side of Aref’s neck. She grabbed hold of Aref’s t-shirt and briskly walked ahead. “No point in standing around evaporating, don’t you think?” She said to him as she let go of his arm. He looked at the wet hair curled at her temple and the marked flush in her cheeks, and asked “Do you have ice cream sellers at this park?” Moina stopped and looked up at him with big eyes, “What a brilliant idea!” she grabbed his elbow and cut neatly across the grass, and headed towards the refreshment stands under the massive banyan tree. Aref turned back and waved at Srishti and pointed towards the banyan. “You’re very good at being led around by women, aren’t you?” she asked him, as she unwrapped her ice-lolly and watched the ice give off vapour to her deep satisfaction. Aref swallowed some cold water and said thoughtfully, “At my age, one learns not to protest.”
-“Why, have you been led around before?”
-“Yes I have.”
-“Oooh. Who was she?”
-“This girl.”
-“Dilli-waali?”
-“No, Kolkata waali.”
-“Ah, I see.” She nodded gravely as the ice melted on her tongue. She asked, “How old were you? When was this?”
-“Twelfth standard, I was about 19, she was 17.”
-“How’d you meet her?”
-“Best friend’s sister.”
-“And that’s what happened, no?”
-“You seem to know an awful lot about flirting with brother’s friends.”
She rolled her eyes, “I don’t flirt with ugly people. And anyway, this is about you, not about me. So tell me, after the pichchi, who?”
-“After Noyona, about a quarter of Delhi University.”
-“Such a slut you are!” her eyebrows went up.
Aref laughed, “I wish I were, but unfortunately I only gave them my heart. They weren’t even interested in that.”
-“Well, no one serious after that?”
-“There was Claudia. She was one of my models.”
-“One of those things, eh?” she asked in a mocking voice and Aref wondered if she was chewing on her lolly or his reputation.
-“Wah, how nice! You couldn’t resist slotting me into whatever mould you had in mind for painters.”
Moina was embarrassed, “Why, you’re right. Those things only happen in French Polynesia, to Dutch painters. “
-“Claudia was from Goa, if that helps in your theory of us.”
-“So what’s your type, then? Nubile beach beauties with skin that’s impossible to match with such lowly paint?”
-“No, it was her eyes that were the challenge. And no, I don’t have a ‘type’. No one has one type.”
-“Achcha! Well your adoring public will be assured to know that.”
-“Well I am pleased to appease my adoring public, but only if it includes you.”
-“You slut!” Moina’s laugh was delightful. He wanted to catch her face just as it was right then—laughing, mischievous, far from the sceptic he’s seen so far. As if she’d read his mind, she asked, “So, have you ever painted Noyona?” Aref looked away from her and said, “No.” She thought for a moment about this side of him. She got up from the bench and said it was time they joined the others.

They came home just as the Maghreb azaan was sounding and all headed for their showers. An hour or so later, Aref found Moina sitting on the veranda couch, legs crossed under her, with a massive photo album opened on her lap. Two more lay open on the coffee table in front and a small pile of Kodak-yellow albums were on the floor. The thin butter papers in the albums were fluttering in the breeze of the overhead fan.
-“Isn’t it bothering you—the photos are almost flying off.” he asked.
-“Uff, but I can hardly get up to switch it off, now can I?” she looked up in exasperation.
-“Shall I turn on the AC?”
As usual, she felt foolish at the softness of his response. “Yes, please. Would you? Thanks.” She gave him a grateful smile that made him want to pick up each and every stray photograph and give them to her. He realised that he was standing there gaping at her bent head. He picked up a photo from the floor and sat down with it. It was of a little child in a white vest and cloth diaper, sitting somewhere by a cement drain, next to a coiled heap of garden hose. The child had its fist in its mouth and eyebrows raised in deep anxiety. “And who is this?” he asked.
-“Oh, that’s me.”
-“Where was this taken?”
-“In the back garden,” she paused, “Near where you sketched the trees, actually.”
-“And why are you looking so lost?” Aref looked at the photograph again.
-“I don’t know! I think I was contemplating jumping the fence.” She laughed.
-“Well I hope they found you.” He handed the picture to her.
-“You know, I don’t think they did.”

Aref picked up an album from the pile and opened it. There was a picture of Kushum, in a school uniform and he asked who she was. “So how long have you known Kushum?”
-“Oh, all my life,” She craned over to look at the photograph, “Those were taken at school here.”
-“Were you all together in college as well?”
-“Class XII? Yes. But then she went to read economics in London.”
-“And you stayed in Dhaka?”
-“Yes.” She looked up, smiling brightly.
-“And now you’re what? Mid twenty?”
-“Also 110 pounds and female, but you probably guessed that, huh?”
-“Yes, how could one fail to notice?”
-“Anything else you’d like to know?”
-“Yes, who is this chap?” Aref was pointing at a picture of a young Kumaar in a grey t-shirt.
-“That was in London, in, lets see—96? 97?”
-“A friend of yours?”
-“Well yes. But not just me, he’s also a friend of Kushum’s.”

As soon as she’d said it she knew she’d given it away. Aref studied the series of Kumaar’s pictures—his laughing face pleading the photographer to stop taking pictures. Aref was an old hand at capturing fleeting expressions on the face of one’s beloved and he knew what a series of single photos meant. He wanted to know the name of the man Moina had adored not-so-many years ago. He turned the page and there was a picture of the man flanked by Kushum and Moina on both sides, his arm possibly around Moina’s waist. One photograph had been taken out from the album---the page had only 5 pictures of the three of them.
-“So how long have you known him?”
-“Not long. We met in London.”
-“Kushum’s boyfriend?” he didn’t know why he asked that.
-“Oh no.” She didn’t have a problem with him knowing. “I met him when I’d gone to visit Kushum. His name is Kumaar.”
-“What does he do?”
She inhaled and said, “Oh he’s really brilliant. He’s working to save up for a PhD in political science.” She gave it up then. An uninvolved answer should have simply stated his profession, researcher at the BBC.
-“Is he from Dhaka?” She nodded, yes.
-“What happened?”
Moina thought of what she could possibly say. It’s always so much easier to explain things when one had somebody to blame. But she didn’t have that. After a few moments she said, “Beliefs. Our beliefs happened.” As Aref closed the album, he was in no doubt that he was attracted to her. He was enjoying the attraction, nothing more.

Kumaar would probably quite like him, Moina thought to herself, looking at Aref standing in the sun, talking to a farmer, interrupting his planting. Aref, Moina, Kushum, Srishti and Shonai had driven out of Dhaka, towards the Shitolokhkhya River. Shonai had packed a picnic lunch and Aref had brought his sketchpad. The workshop was almost over and Moina had convinced him to stay a few more days. He had stayed back and she took him to the local bazaars and tree fairs, on the days he didn’t have to attend dinners at the Fine Arts faculty. They both looked forward to their time together; Aref found an escape from the madness and boredom of the faculty with his hours spent with Moina. She found somebody she could talk to about Kumaar. He would walk behind her in the narrow lanes of the bazaars, carefully avoiding the mud puddles, his eyes assaulted by the dazzling coloured lights and his mind filled with Moina’s observations about the markets, the people, seasonal flowers, pottery sellers and three stringed harps. She told him about her life here, why she liked her job, why she would leave Dhaka, why she would stay. She told him more about that man in London and why she didn’t want to go there again. She told him about Shonai’s attempts at settling her marriage with men who work for IT start ups in San Francisco and accountants in Boston. There was even a heart surgeon from Idaho who rejected her because he thought her fat. He kept on wondering if all the women from her age group were “just like her” but he dared not ask her, fearing it would sound like something out of a “sentimental Tollywood movie” and Moina would surely laugh at that. As it is he was increasingly aware of coming across as a caricature to her and it jarred with his sense of self.

Aref started to walk back to where the ladies were sitting, under a sprawling radha-chura tree. The breeze was scattering leaves from the shojna trees next to it. The grass was dotted with the windblown yellow leaves. The air smelt fresh and the ground was soft from rain. “You’re such a tourist, Aref.” Moina said as he was nearing where the ladies sat, “Why did you have to harass that poor farmer like that?”
-“I don’t know, he seemed quite used to being stared at by us city folk.”
-“Why, what did you ask him?” Kushum asked.
-“About his crops. They’re expecting a good yield this season, if the floods stay away. He has a boy in the army and a daughter in school.”
-“And did you ask about their access to piped water supply and post-natal care?” Moina asked. Kushum answered her, “You’re such a cynic!” Aref laughed and after a few moments silence, said, “You look like Ophelia with flowers and leaves stuck in your hair. All quite mad. But lovely.” Moina started to brush off the radha chura while Kushum stared at them both, astonished at what remained unsaid.

They had lunch under the trees and decided to head back to Dhaka before the afternoon’s humidity became unbearable. Srishti’s cousins came for tea and left with Kushum after having dinner. Moina lay exhausted in her bed, her eyes wide open in the dark and her head full of Kumaar. The night outside was windy and every few minutes, a loose window would rattle in her room. She turned on the light and dialled his number with calm hands. Kumaar answered the phone after two rings, a little out of breath.
-“Hello?”
-“Hi.” Silence. “Hi it’s me…”
-“Oh.” Recognition. “How are you?”
-“Good. You?”
-“Good. Is everything okay?”
-“Yes of course. I was up late, reading.”
-“What time is it?”
-“2 a.m.” she looks at her watch, it’s almost three in the morning.
-“What were you reading?”
She hesitates and then says, “Boi Kunther Will.”
-“Oh? I haven’t read it.”
-“You should, it’s got some brilliant dialogue.”
-“Yes I should, but when do I have the time? Maybe if I get a break from work, my life.” A break from a lady friend, she wondered.
-“So, how are you?”
-“Meaning?”
-“Meaning nothing, just a question—how are you.”
-“You already asked me that and I answered.”
-“Yes, yes you did.” She didn’t know what to say to him.
-“It’s not like I’m holding anything back.”
-“No, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way.” She didn’t know which was the right way to mean anything to Kumaar anymore.
-“Okay.” Silence. “So how is Kushum?”
-“She’s well. Listen, I should probably go to sleep. I’ve work tomorrow.” She wanted to tell him about her day, about her friend Aref, but right now she couldn’t bear to stand up against the waves of indifference that assaulted her. She needed to run away from Kumaar, just so that he would want to speak to her just a little longer. But her vulnerability was transparent to Kumaar. Maybe he would have been a lesser man if he gave into Moina’s wants, or maybe he had become somebody else’s. He said, “Okay then. Sleep well. Goodnight.” After hanging up the phone, she felt numb.

Moina peered into the dressing table mirror while applying eyeliner and said to Kushum, “Kumaar was asking about you.” Kushum was looking into a glass paperweight, she stopped and thought to herself how improbable that sentence was and on how many levels. She said, “Why?”
-“Can’t he ask about you?”
-“No, he can’t. But that’s not what I was asking. Why did you call him?” she put the paperweight down.
-“Why do you dislike him so much, will you tell me?”
-“Why-did-you-call-him?”
-“Last night. I couldn’t sleep.”
-“What did you say?”
-“I asked him how he was, he asked me how I was and he asked how you were.”
-“What a nice tea party you’ve had.” Kushum was sorry as soon as she’d said it.
-“He’s moved on.”
-“And he knows that you haven’t.”
-“No, no, I have moved on too. But do you know something--he’s done the right thing. He’s been the stronger one, cutting things off like that. Imagine how hard it must have been for him.”
Kushum knew the meaning of this epiphany and it saddened her. She told Moina to hurry up with her makeup, people were waiting for them. They left her room to join Aref who was sitting in the veranda. He looked up from a copy of Readers Digest and said, “Right. Now that I know the five secrets to a better marriage, you ladies will have to find me a bride tonight.”
-“You should probably read a few more Digests before you can date with any sort of clear conscience.” Moina said, walking past him, a vision of loveliness in her mother’s silk sari and gold earrings. Kushum was silent, wondering what Aref’s role was in all of this, or if Moina even knew what was happening.

They had gone to the wedding reception of two of Moina’s school friends. It was raining heavily by then—big drops of rain, pounding down on the small white wedding hall, scattering the light from a thousand brilliant fairy lights. From far, it looked as though the one storied building was on fire. Inside, Kushum and Moina sat among the select few guests who shared the couch with the bride and groom. Kushum and Kajol were being teased rather mercilessly about their pending wedding and Moina was enjoying seeing her friend get embarrassed for a change. A little away from the dais, Aref was talking to a very inquisitive lady called Dilruba, who seemed to have a paparazzi like fascination for his marriage plans. He vaguely registered that she was Moina’s aunt and that she saw them walking in together with that other girl who also doesn’t want to get married, the one who went with that insurance salesman fellow, who studied in London. She was asking Aref why their generation simply didn’t see the virtue of monogamy. After arranging a series of arguments in his head, Aref opened his mouth but his armoured division came to a complete halt as his eyes fell upon Moina, sitting next to the bride, laughing with her head tilted to one side, sparkling in the way only she could. Something ought be done about these feelings he had for Moina, he thought to himself. He said, “Yes you are absolutely right, Dilruba aunty, there really should be more couples from this generation. Maybe if they looked a bit harder—don’t you think?”

From the dais, Kushum saw a plump lady grab a hold of Aref’s arm in sheer delirium and pointed them out to Moina, “Look at what that pagal woman is doing to Aref. She’ll have him engaged by dawn.” Moina immediately left the dais with her mobile phone and marched up to them and said, “Aref. Phone call from Delhi. I’m so sorry for interrupting. Maybe it’s best you take it in the porch, the reception is better there.” With a slight smile at the corner of his lips, he said, “Would you mind coming with me, I doubt I could find you again in this crowd.” And to the other woman he said, “Aunty, it was a pleasure meeting you. You have a beautiful family. Khuda-hafiz.” Moina turned on her heel and dragged Aref’s sleeve through the crowd on to the back porch.

-“You’re most welcome.” She said with a laugh, “Ten minutes here should do it, don’t you think?”
-“Oh Jesus, yes. I would thank you but you’re too quick for words.”
-“And when did Wily E Coyote meet Dilruba aunty’s family?”
-“What, aren’t you her niece?”
-“Of course not!”
-“She said you were.”
-“She also probably said that we had the sex drive and morals of bunnies.”
-“Well I thought her niece is very pretty.”
-“Have you been drinking tap water again?”
-“You’re welcome.” A pause, as he watched her contemplate an answer. He asked, “So tell me, what are your plans?”
She was remembering an early morning car ride; Kumaar was playing some jazz and had looked over to her profile and said, “My god, you’re gorgeous.”

Aref didn’t like the look on her face. She was somewhere else and he needed all of her attention now. “Moina?”
-“Oh, plans? Well, you leave this weekend and there is that store we talked about going to.”
-“No, I meant in life.”
-“In life?” she was taken aback, “Oh that’s so much easier then. First book before I’m 30 and a Booker at 45. What do you think?”
-“That’s work, what about the other things?”
-“I have it on good authority that I’ll do my master’s, as soon as I can be arsed to. Why?”
-“Where would you want to do your master’s from?”
-“London.” The word slipped out carelessly. A sharp knife materialised from the muffled jazz in her head and sliced her in half in perfect silence. She had not felt the knife as sharply for a while. “I don’t know,” she said quickly.
-“What about Delhi?”
“Oh? You mean the DSE? I don’t know—I hadn’t considered Delhi, actually.”
-“Would you?” he had her full attention. She frowned and shook her head, “I don’t know if there are any programmes in education at DSE and Delhi is awfully hot.”
-“And London is awfully cold.” He was getting impatient. “Are you over him?”
-“What?”
-“Are you over that man?”
Moina was surprised at his question and said nothing. Aref found his answer. A radio from a parked car played a folk song, “Khachar bhitor ochin pakhi, kemney ashey jae.” The song ended and an advertisement for umbrellas came on. “Would you consider being with me?” Aref asked. Moina turned her head at the noise of footsteps in the empty porch. A little boy was half running, intently looking at the syringe full of coloured water in his hand. He stopped for a second as he gauged the precise amount of air that he would need in the cylinder to hit his target. He bit his tongue and skipped out again, without noticing the two adults, the man whose eyes searched the woman’s face. The man suddenly moved in front of her, blocking the light behind him, leaving her no choice but to look up at his face. She was silent.

-“Why not?” he asked her now.
-“Because it’s too obvious.”
-“ I’m sorry?” he asked. Obvious? Too obvious for what? To whom?
-“I meant that you and me being together is too obviously easy,” she said with her usual mockery, which was lost on Aref this evening.
-“And you are choosing the difficult option? Why?”
-“Because not everybody can bear to take the easy option.”
-“Well of course! How can I interest you in being human when it’s so much more fun to be the martyr? “Aref moved away from her and said, “Tell me, why are you still living for Kumaar? Your God is a heathen, what good will this pilgrim do for you?”
-“I am not living for Kumaar.”
-“No? You want him so bad, you’ve taken a knife and cut across your fate lines. ”
Moina was frightened by the anger in his voice. She thought she’d change his mood by vacuity instead, “Why sir, it would seem that you have been drinking the waters of love while we thought you were sinking!” she attempted a laugh in her voice and Aref fell silent with irritation at her miscalculated attempt. Moina said,
-“And what are you offering me? A deal?”
-“No, I’m asking you to take a risk. I’m asking you to have the courage to take what you want. It can be as simple as that.”

They rode back home in silence and parted at the circular veranda. Unlike other days, neither said goodnight. She stayed up till late, wondering if she was the only person who had not acknowledged the possibility to herself. And what will she do? She knew that there was more to Aref than the skinny man in a kurta, kneeling in a paddy field, describing different kinds of light to a crowd of village children, who were laughing at him. She thought about that man, their friendship and their loneliness.

She awoke late next morning. Breakfast had already been served in the veranda and Shonai and Oni were sharing the Friday paper. Aref entered as Dawood sat a teacup down in front of Moina. Oni said, “Well good morning, Aref. How was the Bengali wedding? Survived the madness?”
-“Yes, absolutely. We got in a bit late last night.”
-“Oh? Was it difficult to find the car in this rain?” Shonai asked.
-“No aunty, we were fine. Oni, I was wondering if you could help me get on a flight to Kolkata today afternoon.”
-“What? But your flight is day after. What happened?”
-“Well I had a call from Delhi last night and I have to return, some problems with my flat.”
-“I hope it isn’t anything serious!” Shonai said.
-“No, just something that needs me there”
-“I don’t understand why you people live in flats these days, why don’t you find a nice small house in Delhi, Aref?” Shonai asked. The boy should really get married.
-“Yes, aunty, one of the many things that’s wrong with our generation.” Aref smiled as he sat down for breakfast. Moina was sitting across from him, looking down at her tea. “How are you, Moina?” Aref asked her, buttering a piece of toast. Moina smiled tightly and said, “I wish you didn’t have to leave like this.” She was never any good at gauging the degree of reactions that would be appropriate for these occasions. She wondered if she should act surprised or hurt. Right now she felt shocked, shamed and betrayed somehow. Aref bit into his toast and wondered what her comment meant. To break the silence, he said, “Me neither.” A little while later Oni came back holding the cordless phone and said that the tickets have been rescheduled for today, his flight left late in the afternoon. Shonai got up to lay out a proper lunch for their guest. She was really quite fond of the boy. Allah-maalum when he would be in Dhaka again.

As usual Friday lunch went on till late. Everybody retired to the living room with plates of sweet yoghurt. They talked about a new gallery that wanted to show Aref’s work. Oni got up to buy some mangoes for him to take back to Delhi and he excused himself, he still had to finish packing. Moina said she would help him and they went up the stairs in silence.
-“Do you have a lot to pack?” she asked from behind.
-“Some.”
-“I can fold clothes quickly.”
-“Can you now?”

They packed his things in silence. She made a pile of his clothes on the bed and he rolled up his papers and slid them into canisters. She sat on the bed and asked, “Did you sleep all right?”
-“Yes.” It made him angry that she did not seem to understand him at all.
-“You’re a very special woman. And I’m really sorry he hurt you like that. But that doesn’t mean you stop trying.”
-“Aref I’m sorry if I ---“
-“I don’t know if I should just accept things as they are or not. I’m greedy. I want more. You’ll have to forgive me, but it’s best that I go.”
-“But--yes, okay.”
-“Stop that.”
-“Ki?”
-“That little girl voice.” He sat down next to her and said nothing for a while. She turned her face towards his and he said, “Okay, we’ll do this your way. You need time to get over that. I’ll be patient.” She couldn’t think of anything to say to him except that she was sorry.

In a little while Dawood carried his case down to the car. Aref said goodbye to everybody. It was agreed that they should come to Delhi next time, if his flat was still there, of course. Oni got into the driver’s seat and with a few waves, the car pulled out of the porch.

Moina sat in the veranda and looked at his sketch hanging on the wall. What will become of her between these desiccated walls? One doesn’t know. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that many people spend their lives looking for what she could have had with a man like Aref. A man like Aref. She rolled the phrase over in her mind. Yes that was the problem. She could possibly be happy with a man like Aref. A man—who is like Aref. But would she be happy with Aref? She knew that she could possibly be happy with somebody who is not Kumaar. Perhaps Aref was the step she needed to take towards finding out, or maybe her response to him was a mistake that she couldn’t see. She asked herself why she held on so tightly to her loss, why her loss and her hopes wrestled each other so fiercely. And who was she, Moina, in this battle? She had no answers. She had never been the one for easy choices.