The Parasite

Sam stood there, swaddled by a soap-scented mist, peering into the mirror. He could hardly see a thing. It turned frostier by the minute, as layers of trapped vapour gathered against the surface of the glass, weaving a collage of droplets. Some were tiny specks that dotted the square, while others were heavier; their weight dragging them down, leaving behind lazy crystal trails. Someone was singing in the shower, oblivious to people waiting outside. His song was bereft of tune, but his fervor more than made up for it. Sam wiped the hazy mirror with his palm and flipped out a comb from his left pocket. He held it to the right, drawing his wet hair across the length of his forehead. Not a strand was out of place. He looked hard at his reflection, staring at himself at length, turning his head this way and that, crinkling his chin in disapproval. He thought he looked too juvenile, and decided to part his hair down the middle. The resulting symmetry only accentuated the shape of his ovoid head, which sadly wasn't his best feature. Flustered, he ran his hand through his hair carelessly, messing it up. He mulled over what to do next for a while, the decision growing increasingly impossible with every passing minute. He sighed and finally made up his mind to adhere to the disheveled look. Infact, the unkempt hair added an air of mystery to his rather boyish face.

He'd never spent so much time in front of the mirror before. The head of a fifteen year old is always awash with a host of trifles and 'hair' hardly makes for one of them. But he wanted to look fetching for Noor. She shouldn't have to feel embarrassed to be seen with him. He wondered if this is what they call love. Maybe it wasn't. But he liked her enough to put her before himself. He thought about all the movies he'd watched, where the man would bend down on his knees before his woman in the middle of a busy street, holding out a singular synthetically-red rose, while thousands bore silent witness to his proclamation of love. It appeared too saccharine on screen, and barely appealed to his teenage sensibilities. But now, it somehow all made sense. He wasn't a boy anymore. He noticed a few tiny strands on his chin, heralding the onset of manhood. He plucked them out with a tweezer, one by one. He couldn't wait to grow up.

Sam didn't know how the day ended up slipping out from between his fingers. He would stare outside the window for hours. Mr. Ward's animated reenactments of the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 couldn't restrain his restless mind from wandering out into the open. A couple of crows had been patiently building a nest, laying one twig at a time, in the mighty redwood tree that stood tall just outside the classroom. You could almost reach its branches if you leaned out far enough. There were half a dozen eggs in it, he noticed. One of them strangely stood out from the pack. It had a greenish hue like the others. However, the speckled pattern on its surface looked oddly foreign; they were smaller, less clustered. There were times when a koel would visit the nest when the parents were away, forever circumspect. She would stare at that lonely egg wistfully, singing out little bird lullabies to it. She never overstayed. She knew it was one of the last times that she would see her baby. The crows would never leave the nest unattended, once the eggs hatch. Would the nestling ever recognize its mother? Would it ever get to learn her song? Sam wondered if birds felt love like humans. Maybe they understood it better.

Rishi nudged Sam from behind. It broke his trance, and he looked over his shoulder. Rishi held out a folded note for him.

"Give it to her. When you meet her that is."

And he went back to scribbling hearts at the back of his notebook. Sam opened the note, hiding it under the desk. It was meant for Noor. It said something about how he couldn't think of anything but her, and wanted nothing more but to spend some time with her after class. Sam felt a sudden rush of guilt, and stashed the note deep down his pocket. This was not the first time that Rishi wrote to Noor. He knew that Sam had grown to be friends with her over summer, and couldn't be more thrilled, for now he had a medium of reaching out to her and communicate his true emotions. He would compose childish letters on ruled pages torn out hastily from his diary, and trusted Sam to be his emissary. He never questioned him about Noor's reaction to them. He never asked him if she wrote back. He was certain that Sam would tell him if there was anything worth telling. They were friends after all, and by definition, they had no secrets.

                                                 ---------------------

The discordant bell concluded another long school day, and a swarm of boys spilled out into the corridors. Sam was waiting for the arrival of this very moment, and he didn't waste anymore energy on idle small talk. Truth be told, boys his age bored him. They were mostly immature, discussing inane, puerile subjects of no possible consequence for the greater part of the day. They were loud, intrusive and didn't know the first thing about invigorating conversation. They hardly read. They couldn't care less for the arts. They bickered over football teams. They talked about browsing through pornography on the internet when their parents weren't looking. Sam was painfully aware of who he was, and he felt lost in a crowd of confused children.

"Don't forget to give it to her." Rishi called out from the distance.

Sam nodded without looking back. He tried not to think about the letter. He made his way past a myriad irrelevant faces, down the corridor and headed toward the school grounds. He was walking as fast as his legs could carry him. This was his hour of escape. This was when he felt alive. He noticed Noor standing in the distance, leaning over her easel. Sam could feel himself grinning foolishly. She was perfect, he thought. Her tresses were rolled in a bunch behind her head, a pencil holding them together. She had paint all over her skirt. Her hands were blue from the ocean on her canvas. She smelled distinctly of turpentine.

"I'm here", he said, calling out from behind her.

Startled, she turned back. The pencil fell out of her hair, and unbridled cascades came rushing down her neck up to the small of her back. She ran her hand clumsily in an effort to brush away the locks from her forehead. It left a dash of blue behind.

                                                     --------------------

It was almost after dinner, and Sam realized that he should head back to his room. He kissed Noor goodnight, and walked past the neatly trimmed hedges which smelt of dew. It was his birthday the next day, and he was expecting a huge congregation in his dorm that night. There would be bottles of alcohol smuggled in through bribed kitchen staff. There would be customary rolls of marijuana. There would be singing in loud whispers followed by traditional birthday hazing rituals. He wished Noor could be there to join in the festivities. He tiptoed past a snoring guard and crept into his dorm. The hallway seemed awfully quiet. Sam was half expecting an army of boys to jump out from the shadows when he saw someone sitting at the base of the winding staircase. It was Rishi. He was sitting with his head hung low, clutching a bundle of letters. Sam stopped in his steps.

"Rishi, is it you?," he called out.

Rishi looked up. His eyes were red from crying. There was anger brewing in them. His face was ashen with disgust. Sam's worst fears had come true.

"Where were you?" he said, his voice cracking from the strain.

Sam couldn't bring himself to reply. He felt his stomach churning inside of him. He struggled to breathe. He mumbled incoherently.

"Were you screwing her? Were you screwing my girl?", Rishi said, slowly forming the words, his voice rising. He flung the letters at Sam's crumbling face. They fell around him noisily, like a pack of cards.

"She wasn't yours. She didn't even know you." he said, averting his eyes.

"Ofcourse. And you made sure that she never did." Rishi stood up and walked towards him. His steps were small and measured. Sam knew he was going to hurt him. He was prepared. Infact he was glad that he did not have to lie to him anymore. He shut his eyes in anticipation.

But nothing happened. He opened his eyes to see Rishi leaving. He wished that he had hurt him. That way he would have had paid his dues. Bruises heal with time, the marks fade away. Its the unresolved that rattle the sturdiest foundations, widen the crevices and wreak havoc.

Rishi stopped and turned around to look at him one last time. He looked a lot older in that moment. His face was marred with disappointment.

"I thought you were different, Sam. But you turned out just like the rest of them. An ungrateful parasite." he said.

The note from the morning was still nestled deep in his pocket. It pricked him like a pesky needle.

The Aftermath

It was still dark when Meera forced her eyes open. She could have lain in bed for another couple of hours if she wanted to, but a voice inside her said that it was time to leave. She looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. Her husband would most likely be home soon. She turned to her left to see Sam sleeping by her side, his forehead devoid of wrinkles, his lips curled into a wry unconscious smile. He was probably dreaming of the ocean. Meera imagined him sitting alone by the waterfront, looking out into the endless stretch of blue tranquility that lay ahead of him, while gentle waves kissed his toes, and whispered goodbye as they melted into the sea. She looked at his boyish face long and hard, hoping to partake of that moment of bliss. But that fleeting felicity was his and his alone. She, on the other hand, had been singularly left out. 

Meera sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. She could tell that a man lived there. There were clothes strewn across the room, some hanging from the handles of chairs, and some crumpled in a heap on the floor. Leather shoes were paired with rubber sandals and socks were nowhere to be found. The desk had typed sheets of paper scattered all over, with no binders, no labels, and no semblance of organization. She spotted the end of her embroidered kurta peeking from underneath the stashes of paper. She wondered how it found its way to the desk, let alone be buried beneath the rubble. But it strangely didn’t seem out of place. She realized that there were no pictures on the wall. There were no framed faces peering at her, feigning familiarity. Maybe he never loved anyone enough to cling onto them. Or maybe it was just men. 

She looked at the clock again. It had only been fifteen minutes, but it almost felt like an hour. She decided to take a shower. She tried to wrap the sheet around her in an effort to leave the bed, but couldn’t. Sam was holding onto it in a death grasp. She muttered under her breath and let go of the sheet. She couldn’t afford to wake him up. After all, he looked too peaceful. Meera stood up and looked at her side of the bed. The soiled linen traced angular patterns mimicking her body – an exoskeleton reminding her of the previous night. She felt tainted and couldn’t look at it anymore. She tiptoed across and made her way to the bathroom.

Meera tried finding her way, but couldn’t see a thing inside. The geography of the room was unknown to her and the darkness wasn’t helping. She was careful to close the bathroom door behind her and switched on the light, albeit reluctantly. She found herself standing by the sink facing a mirror. She looked at the woman staring back at her, but she was unrecognizable. Her eyes were still blurry from sleep and an extended period of darkness. She squinted straight ahead, making sure that it was her she was looking at. The image had her hair in tangles. Her eyes were deep set, with shadowy circles running under them. She thought it was smudged remnants of kohl from the day before. She tried erasing them with her fingers forcefully, but they wouldn’t go. They were adamant. She stretched her arm to the side, tapping the skin beneath her elbow. The muscles were no longer as firm, and they bounced more than she would have liked. She looked down at her stomach and caressed her stretch marks longingly. There was a stitched up dent on the side, which had once been a gaping wound. And suddenly she felt violated. She looked away from the mirror and covered her breasts in shame. 

                                                  ------------------------------

Meera had been walking for the past hour, and she had almost reached home. The hurricane had ravaged the city and had left a deathly calm behind. There were no birds in sight. People were still holed up in their houses, some secure, sleeping peacefully in their bedrooms and some trapped under a pile of debris, afraid to start afresh. There were giant uprooted trees, stretched across the breadth of the road, resting on dented roofs and shattered windshields. Makeshift shops had been obliterated, their unsuspecting owners still on their way, harboring false hopes for a day of good business. The devastation was palpable. Meera waded in a bubble of indifference, making her way through vast stretches of human wasteland that lay on either side, her mind wandering off into the distance. 

She reached her apartment and waited for her husband to return. He might want to have some tea, she thought. She walked into the kitchen, and set some water to boil. She looked out of the window blankly. The sun was up now, and she realized she had some piled up laundry to take care off. She walked out of the kitchen, heading towards her bedroom to change, when she heard the doorbell. She stilled smelled of Sam and wanted to change first, but her visitor seemed impatient, going at the doorbell relentlessly. She roughly ironed out the creases in her shirt with her palm and opened the door. Her husband was standing there. His eyes were red. He smelt conspicuously of cheap alcohol. 

“Tea?” she said, with forced animation. 

He looked away and stumbled into the house. He muttered incoherently and Meera took it for a yes. The boiling water spilled all over the stove. It hissed like a serpent as it made its way to the floor. 

Forbidden Fruit

Sam sat there, ensconced in a cloud of stale smoke and with every round of marijuana, he lost count of the passing minutes. He had a tinge of a headache, the kind that makes one smile without reason. He felt an invisible hand, grasping his head and lifting him above the ground, high enough to see his own human form slouched on the desk below. It was as if his body was not his own anymore, and his shoulders felt awfully light. There was a certain twisted relief in absolute submission; a secret freedom in servile dependence.

He remembered being summoned to a classroom near the terrace a couple of hours after dinner, when the last of the wakeful eyes had drooped, heavy with fatigue. It was a call from the school ‘elite’, and when it came to the popular clique, exhaustion wasn’t an option. He tiptoed up the dark staircase, down the winding hallway, and crept through the deceptively open window at the end of it. The room was pitch black, and Sam couldn’t see a step in front of him except for the glowing ends of a bunch of cigarettes, a few feet away. It took a few minutes of getting used to and before long, the residual light streaming in through the open windows revealed a handful of smoky silhouettes. They were all hunched in a circle, making every effort to blend in with the darkness that surrounded them. The forbidden nature of their activity demanded them to be discreet, and addiction was surely not an excuse to get caught.

“Join us sir. It’s about time.” Rishi whispered out to him from somewhere. 

He followed the voice without question. He could tell that he was happy to see him, even from his whisper. Rishi handed out a burning roll to him. Sam nestled the stub between his practiced fingers and breathed in like a pro. The light at the end flickered briefly from the lengthy drag. The smoke hardly made him cough. The momentary burning in the throat was a fraction of what it used to feel like. Rishi looked at him with a sense of pride and adult satisfaction. He knew he had taught him well. 

This was not the first time that Sam was invited to join the ‘Royal Secret Society’ in their nightly trysts. They met once every two days, in the same cramped classroom near the terrace. Very few people frequented that room through the day, and if they left the windows open through the night, the leftover smoke made its way out silently, without raising a hair, carrying their adolescent secrets with it. It was a privilege to be invited to join the circle, and Rishi handpicked its members personally. They smoked weed, talked about the logistics of sex, exchanged rare rock ballads and dispelled myths about masturbation being unhealthy. Not everyone deserved to be included in these clandestine meetings, and whatever knowledge was imparted in that room was a gift. It was said that one entered the society as a boy, only to leave it as a man; enlightened and ready to take on the world. As a part of an elaborate induction ritual, members were sworn into secrecy and they were not allowed to discuss anything that went on during their meetings. If word went around that someone was disloyal, he was called out, stripped off his privileges, and subjected to months of public humiliation, so much so, that he would rue the day he had foolishly gossiped. 

Sam still couldn’t believe that he was sitting there, an equal part of the famed coterie. His initial days of torment didn’t seem too distant. Even after they had shared their first smoke and burnt their childish follies that cold night, Rishi took his time before he acknowledged Sam in full view.  He would continue to test his patience and mock him in front of everyone, as if nothing had transpired between them. Sam convinced himself that Rishi could never be his friend, and the slightest possibility was only a product of naivety. He tried not to think about it, but Rishi’s recurrent efforts at harassment made it incredibly hard for him to continue. And one day, it all stopped. Just like that. Rishi was a whole new person. It was as if an angel had kissed him on the forehead the night before. Sam was no longer ridiculed, and Rishi stood up for him every time someone dared to ridicule him. The tables of fate had been turned, and for once he was sitting on the other side, jeering at some new abandoned, unsuspecting freshman. Strangely, he liked raising the derisive finger. 

“What’re you thinking about? Please don’t tell me it has anything to do with tomorrow’s midterm”, laughed Rishi. 

Sam woke up from some sort of a trance. Infact he wasn’t thinking at all. He was busy trying to flesh out the patterns that the smoke trails traced in his brain. The foggy serpents coiled around his head, mapping contours down his spine stealthily. It was as if the world had come to a halt; there was comfort in its listlessness. Midterms were barely tangible. 

“Nothing really. I totally forgot about tomorrow”, he said.

“That’s my boy!” said Rishi, resting a congratulatory arm around his shoulder. “Midterms are stupid. This is real.”

Sam nodded in agreement. His tongue felt heavy.

“I wanted to tell you something. But you have to promise not to tell anyone”, whispered Rishi.

Sam looked at him, half listening. “Absolutely. You can trust me”, he said in a tone of absent reassurance. 

‘I think I like someone.”

“Really? Who is it? Is it a boy?” Sam lowered his voice at the end, not knowing what to expect.

Rishi laughed. “No it’s not a boy stupid. You think I’m a faggot?”

“Of course not. Sorry. I’m a bit wasted. Who is it?”

“Her name’s Noor. She’s the gardener’s daughter.”

“Wow. Congratulations! So, does she know?”

“No she doesn’t. I mean, not yet. I haven’t spoken to her.”

“Ever? So how do you know you like her?” asked Sam curiously. 

“You just know these things. You’ll know when it’s your time.”

Sam felt embarrassed having asked that. Of course you’ll know.

“So when are you going to tell her?” his voice ringing with excitement.

Rishi smiled wryly. “I’m working on it”, he said.

                                               ……………………………..

It was just another regular Sunday morning. Midterms were over, and most of the boys had gone home for the holidays. Sam never wanted to leave Glenwood. He was happier here. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what his father looked like. He never came to meet him. How was he doing? Maybe he’d married again. Maybe he had new children now, running around the house and drumming empty cereal bowls with metal spoons. Maybe he joined their impromptu orchestra, spontaneously breaking into song. Sam remembered him having a baritone to die for, but the last time he had heard him sing seemed like a distant memory. Maybe he doesn’t love Sam anymore. Maybe his efforts at building a new life had reduced his past to a few forgotten pictures, stashed away amidst a pile of nameless envelopes. 

Sam looked out into the distance; the silence in the corridor was refreshing. He noticed someone sitting at the end of the hallway, almost hiding behind the last pillar. He wasn’t expecting anyone there. As far as he knew, everyone had gone home except for Mr. Bentley and a few members of the staff. He walked towards her, curiosity egging him on. He stopped himself a few feet away from the bend, trying to figure out who she was from a distance. She was sitting there with an open sketchbook, unperturbed. She was drawing a boat. Each deft stroke breathed life into the thatched hood of the dinghy. She made it seem ridiculously simple. 

“How long will you be standing there?” she said, barely looking up.

Sam was startled. He didn’t realize how long he was staring at her. He felt the blood rush to his face. He said nothing.

“My name’s Noor.”

Sam knew who she was. “So you are the gardener’s daughter, right?”

Noor didn’t expect him to know her. She looked up, surprised. Her long wavy hair covered half her almond-shaped face. There was an inexplicable mystery in her eye. 

“I am. But how did you know?” she asked.

Sam didn’t have a good answer. Honesty was definitely out of bounds. He decided to be noncommittal instead. 

“I’ve been here long enough. You get to know people.”

“Sure you do. You can sit if you want.”

Sam hesitated for a moment. What if Rishi saw them? But he wasn’t doing anything. It was just harmless conversation. Either way Rishi had gone home. Maybe it would be easier for him to talk to her, if she befriended Sam. He felt his guilt leaving him. There was no need to overthink this. 

“Why not.” 

Sam went and sat next to her. He was careful not to sit too close.

“So what’re you drawing?” he asked.

“A boat. I love boats.”

“Me too,” he added simply.

In his mind, he raced back to the time when he would spend hours drawing boats, scribbling on scrap paper with wax crayons, unaware of the world around him. They danced on waves, bobbed in brimming tubs, lazed in puddles of filthy rainwater, sailing from one utopian island to another. They had hope; a hope to unearth new continents, a hope to find happiness, a hope to carry on.

Doll House

Meera could not see what lay before her. Needles of sunlight constricted her pupils to a dot. She felt like a misguided ant trapped in a brightly-lit room with unblemished walls of glass. She raised her little palm and squinted for some clarity. The blinding haze gradually cleared up to make way for tiny sunflowers; millions of them, swaying in the breeze, singing a silent chorus. Meera couldn’t believe her eyes. She pinched herself but felt nothing. She looked around. The ocean of yellow wreaths seemed endless. They looked at her with their brown faces and invisible eyes, and then turned to each other, talking in whispers and waving their leafy limbs animatedly. Meera felt a wave of cool air wafting through her hair, combing through the tangles hiding underneath the surface. She suddenly felt free. She lifted her arms, closed her eyes, and ran with the wind; no direction, no destination. In that moment, she was a bird; a bird in a field of sunflowers.

“Wake up Meera! The guests will be here soon.”

A voice called out to her from somewhere. Meera opened her eyes. She was not a bird. There were no sunflowers, only painted fluorescent stars hanging from her ceiling. It was infact a dream. Meera let out a muffled sigh of disappointment. She stretched her arms to shake away the sleep and walked up to the doll house for her morning ritual. It was time for her dolls to have tea. And what a lucky set of dolls they were! Meera took care of them like their own children. She braided their hair and put matching ribbons on them. She dipped their clothes in glasses of water and laid them on her desk to dry, after which she pressed them under her pillow and stacked them into neat little piles. She played doctor to them when they were sick. She scolded them for running down the stairs too fast. She switched the wooden fireplace on during winters. She tucked them under patched scarves and kissed them goodnight. She loved them like they were her own. To her they were real.

Meera set the plastic table out and propped her dolls around it. She laid out the cups and poured into them from the tiny red kettle. She sipped on some imaginary tea and pretended to like it. She asked her dolls if they wanted cookies. They sat their silent. She asked them about school and told them to be good.

“Meera?! Are you ready yet?”

Meera looked around startled. She knew the guests would be there soon. It was her eighth birthday and she had to be pretty for them. She told her dolls to be quiet while she was away. She felt guilty to be leaving them alone. She promised to get them presents this time.

                                                         -------------------------------

Meera walked out of the shower smelling like jasmine. She hopped on the rug a few times to dry her little feet and stepped into her room. She noticed a cardboard box lying on her bed. It had a large silver bow on it. It was her first present of the day. She read the note glued on it.

For my darling Meera. Love Dad.

The words were the same every year. It was the familiar lazy handwriting that she had grown to look forward to. Meera ripped the printed wrap in all her excitement and opened the box. She saw a dress nestled neatly amidst the folds of parchment paper. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. It was white with lacy patterns running along the collars and the cuffs. The waistband was a precious shade of blue. There were miniature roses embroidered along the edges. Meera couldn’t wait to put it on. She slipped it over her head and the fabric felt like feathers on her skin. She posed in front of the mirror and stared at her glowing reflection longingly, turning on one side and then the other. She knew she was beautiful. She heard the guests downstairs, streaming in slowly. She held the edges of her frock and spun around quickly one last time. The lingering frills danced all around her.

                                                                     

                                                        -------------------------------

The living room was brimming with guests. Meera looked around to see if there were any kids her age. She couldn’t find any. She pushed through the throng of gossiping adults, trying to garner their attention. They seemed all too busy with nothing. What could be more important than her? It was her birthday. She suddenly heard a familiar tune on the piano. The room fell silent. She made her way to the front of the crowd  and saw her thirteen year old brother Pavan sitting on the stool, his fingers running deftly across the octaves. ‘Rustle of Spring’ by Sinding. The string of hypnotic notes echoed across the room, while the guests stood still, gaping at him in awe. Meera inched towards him hoping that someone would take notice of her. No one did. As if sensing her intention, Pavan stopped playing right that instant. The trance was broken. The room woke up to resounding applause. Someone noticed her standing in the corner and wished her. But it didn’t matter.

“Happy Birthday Meera! You're such a doll.”

Meera slipped out unnoticed, pushing her way through the cloud of oblivion. “He’s a genius.” “He plays like a professional”. “And he’s only thirteen”. She ran up the staircase and slammed her door shut. You're such a doll. She’d never felt more humiliated. She walked up to the doll house, grabbed the nearest doll, and tore  her plastic head apart. A tear rolled out the corner of her eye.

The rest sat their smiling. 

Lights Off

It was only five o’ clock in the evening, an hour before sundown, but it strangely felt like midnight. The sky was dark; marred beyond recognition by vast expanses of grey encroaching upon it from all corners. The wind moaned as it made its way through the branches, crying like a lost kitten in the gutter. Giant bags of precipitation hovered threateningly as vendors slammed their shutters, in a hurry to get back home. The streets were bereft of humanity, while baffled birds screamed in fear of the apocalypse.

Sam remembered hearing about a hurricane in the news that morning. It was supposed to be the worst that hit the country that season. The meteorological department had issued warnings, requesting citizens to stay home that evening. They had predicted persistent thundershowers for the next three days. Children were celebrating, as schools across town remained shut. Sam didn’t pay attention as the newsreader read the words shooting across the teleprompter out loud; his eyes blank, his voice tinged with apathy. He couldn’t remember the last time when the weatherman was right. He chuckled over his morning bowl of cereal, as he skimmed through the pages of the daily, more out of habit than interest. He had only one thing on his mind. Tea at four. With Meera.

And there they were, walking down the cobbled pavement, an hour after tea, immersed in conversation, oblivious to nature’s hysterics. Meera was taking him to a ‘special place’, and he couldn’t wait to see it. He followed her lead, passing through silent alleys and dubious neighbourhoods, hanging onto every word that came out of her mouth. He had never met anyone who could gauge his attention that effortlessly. Meera walked on talking about her favourite movies and her strange obsession with suicidal heroines. She felt their loneliness calling out to her from the covers of shimmering gossip magazines, as they stood smiling on the red carpet amidst a frenzy of flashing cameras. She asked Sam if he thought she was insane and laughed carelessly. Sam smiled back sheepishly and asked,

“So how far is this place?”

“We’re almost there.”

Sam knew her disposition to tease. “Are we?” he said in doubt.

“Don’t worry. I’m not Jack the Ripper.”

Sam laughed at the thought of how ridiculous it sounded. They took a bend in the road and reached a clearing, and what seemed like a dead end. But that was not what Sam found disturbing. A row of unclaimed graves lay scattered before them. There were no names. No epitaphs. No religious signatures. Just a bunch of mounds with stark headstones. Sam had a million thoughts racing across his mind, his heart thumping in his chest noisily. Why would Meera bring him here? It seemed awfully morbid, and if it was her idea of a joke, it was terribly unfunny. He was dying to ask her why but couldn’t bring himself to do it. She walked by the graves, looking down at them wistfully; the melancholy in her eyes made it seem like she knew all those who lay beneath their feet. Sam followed her without a word. A plethora of weeds fed off the forgotten men.

They walked past the nameless dead silently and came to an opening in the wall. Sam wondered what lay beyond the moss-eaten bricks. Meera bent down and stepped into the gaping hole. Sam waited on the other side. His heart was beating too fast, and he wasn’t ready to see what was on the other side. Not yet. Maybe it was nothing and nothingness is terrifying. He closed his eyes for a moment to calm his nerves.

“Are you coming?” he heard Meera calling out to him.

He decided to take a leap of faith and walked through the crevice. A gust of wind struck his face. It was so strong that he could barely keep his eyes open. He looked into the distance and saw Meera, standing with her back to him. A vast expanse of raging water lay sprawling before her. The ocean thundered as they stood there paralyzed; humbled by its enormity. The waves thrashed against the shore like a caged animal, maddened by the call of the wild. They walked towards the water. The sand felt cold, as it nestled between their toes. It seemed like the end of the world, and they, the last two standing. Sam felt a drop of water on his arm, as if someone had pricked a brimming cloud. And then another one fell on his head. And as they looked up, the rain came cascading down; soaking their cotton shirts, seeping through their skin, invading their veins.

                                                    

                                            -------------------------------------

Sam handed out a towel to Meera. As he stood there dripping from head to toe, he observed her, bunching up strands of her drenched hair and coaxing the raindrops out of them. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Meera looked up and noticed him staring at her; one unwavering gaze. She went over to his bed and sat next to him.

“So what now?”

They hadn’t shared a word in the last hour. The moment was too big for banter. And now, that lone question hung awkwardly in the air. Sam had no answer. So what now? He bent over and kissed her softly. He expected her to hold back but she didn’t. She gave in; with gratitude. The room was too dark and Sam wanted to see her face. As he ran his fingers through her hair and down her back, he reached out for the lamp. Meera clutched his wrist to stop him.

“What happened?”

“Can we keep the lights off please?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond.

Meera sensed his apprehension. “It’s more gratifying to find each other” she said.