Cobalt Blue by Sachin Kundalkar Page B

rains were over, Baba wanted to clean up the gutters on the roof. He was going to climb a ladder and he needed me to hold it in place. And as I stood there, I heard Rashmi’s car come to a halt outside the house. She took a box out of the back of the car and walked purposefully into the house. Before I could call out or say anything, she began to climb the stairs to the tower room. I called her name, loud enough to get past the headphones on her ears, but she paid me no heed. Baba called out a warning; he didn’t want my attention wandering from the task at hand.
    Rashmi had been wanting to meet you. She waited for me to introduce us but in vain. ‘One day, I’ll just show up and meet him,’ she warned me. That you should show a similar interest in meeting someone seemed impossible; but you were both the kind who did as you pleased.
    For the longest time, I had wondered if I should tell Rashmi about us. I couldn’t even persuade myself that what we had was really happening so how could I tell anyone else about it? Sometimes, I’d find the words hovering on my lips when I was strolling around the campus with her. Or when she asked questions like, ‘Why do you wear these crumpled clothes?’ or ‘Why do you always have to run home?’ or ‘There’s a secret smile playing around your lips. What’s up?’ Once, without warning, I put my head in her lap and said that I knew that she knew that I had something I wanted to tell her. She said, ‘Whatever.’
    Finally it happened without premeditation. One day, I got to rehearsals early. The College Recreation Hall was empty and I sprawled on a bench waiting for everyone to show up. And then I realized I could smell you on my body. I got up, went to the library, called Rashmi out and told her everything, as we stood together at the door.
    The ground was too slippery for me to let go of the ladder and run after Rashmi. She shouldn’t have gone up without a warning. Who knew what state you might be in?
    ‘Rashmi’s here,’ I said to Baba, but his mind was in the gutters and his only concern was to sprinkle me with dirty water. He heard nothing and, for the next fifteen minutes, I kept twisting my neck to peer up at the tower room. And then, at last, Baba came down the ladder. He got to the last step and said, ‘Dash it, I’ve left the stick broom up there.’
    ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘You use it only to clean those gutters.’
    ‘No, no, hold on tight.’
    When he was finally done, I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I could hear both of you laughing.
    At least you were fully dressed.
    When you got your board exam results, the school was full of parents and children. Uncomfortable, you slipped away. You were the only one who had come alone to get his results. For the next six or seven months, you were always close to tears, tears that would not fall.
    You began what you described as your accomplished solitude from that day. This term—accomplished solitude—struck me deeply. And it slowly began to dawn on you that you did not need people around you when you were painting or reading, when you were watching a film with deep concentration, or when you sat down to eat, chewing every mouthful and savouring every flavour. You made loneliness easy on yourself.
    When you took your results and got to Seema Maushi’s home, the door was locked. Bruno was lolling in the backyard. He began to bark at you. Frightened, you sat down on the staircase and waited, baking in the sun.
    ‘If you were locked in a room, without books, without paper or pen, okay, without electricity too, what would you do?’ I asked you once.
    ‘Why a day? A week. A month. I’d just sit there, happy.’
    Your feet were red from the burning stone when Seema Maushi’s husband returned in his jeep. Inside the house, he hugged you, praised your performance and let his hands wander all over your body. This had been going on for a couple of months. When you felt his weight on your body one