His eyes are swollen from the night’s sleep and his face is visibly puffy. He can hear faint strains of hymns emerging through the radio and the ringing of bells in a temple off in the distance. Although barely awake and still in bed, Saroj can feel something different in the air, a change no doubt brought on by the festive season. Well, among other things. As he pushes himself off the bed, he sighs, pulling the curtains to the side so as to get a better view out the window.
In the school compound on the other side of the road, a small group of children is gathered around a ‘ping’, one that was only recently erected, and he can see them quarrelling for their turn on the rope. And as he watches on, enveloped by the stillness of the morning, his thoughts turn to the girl he met yesterday.
Saroj had been, as was usually the case, looking down on the road from his verandah that morning, sipping at a cup of tea, when his eyes had fallen on a girl. She was walking hand in hand with a child, a bag of vegetables in the other. The girl was wearing an eye-catching blue sequined top with black jeans, and whenever her long, wavy hair threatened to overrun her face, she would gently tuck her tresses behind her ears. She was beautiful, Saroj thought.
“Is that boy her son?” he wondered, glancing at the kid next to her, before waving away the assumption because she did not look old enough to have kids of her own. He watched as the child proceeded to pull on the girl’s hand and gesture towards the swing by the road. At first, she seemed reluctant, but when the little boy insisted and started crying, she saw she had no choice. They approached the ping, and she placed him on the seat. Then, after making sure that the child had a good grip of the rope, she pushed him gently to a swing, conversing quietly with him as he rocked back and forth. Her voice, Saroj found, was just as pretty as she looked. It was soft and pleasing.
Saroj had kept his gaze fixed on the girl, until she’d walked away from the swing, turned a corner, and disappeared. The image of her had fixed itself in his mind for a long time after, and her voice had buzzed in his ears, like a tinny insect. He admired her simplicity, her kind, innocent face, and how tenderly she had acted with the child. And he found himself wishing the child would beg to return to the swing once again, so that he could see her, and maybe even talk to her at some point.
Later that evening, he’d decided to take a little walk, if only to clear his head. As he headed out of his house and down the road, he suddenly heard a woman’s voice behind him. “Excuse me,” it had called out.
Saroj turned around, startled, and in the dimming twilight, he saw it was the same girl, the one he had seen in the morning. There she was, sitting on
the swing like a little girl, her hands holding the rope on both sides. She was on her own.
“Sure, why not?” Saroj heard himself say. He took a few tentative steps towards her, before grabbing on to the rope, pulling it and her towards him, and pushing. In that moment, Saroj caught a heady whiff of her hair oil mixed with her perfume—an intoxicating scent altogether. As the swing gained momentum, she pulled herself to her feet and swung with all the energy she could muster.
Saroj stood there, watching her. She seemed so happy, childlike; he loved the way she would arch her back at the end of each swing, gaining a rhythm of sorts and the way she pulled at the ropes with her fingers, like her life depended on it. A couple of minutes later, when she got off, panting from the effort, she thanked him and said, “It’s your turn now.”
Saroj just smiled and told her he’d had his turn just a while ago and that he didn’t have the energy to go again. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for a swing, not now, not while she was here, in front of him.
Introductions were then in order, and Saroj learned that her name was Anita and that she was visiting her sister for Dashain. Desperate to prolong the meeting, he offered to buy her some tea, but she told him she couldn’t stay—she was already late getting home to look after her nephew while her sister was away. But she did promise to meet him the day after at the same park, and Saroj had to be happy with that. They exchanged phone numbers before saying goodbye and parting ways.
Now in his small room the next day, Saroj stands, thoughts of her flowing in and out of his head at lightning speed. He is in love with this girl, he knows for sure, and he can’t wait to see her.
Outside the window, though, it is drizzling, a contrast to his sunny mood. Trying to remember the last time it had rained like this during Dashain—and failing—Saroj is suddenly filled with
the fear that the weather might
somehow disrupt his upcoming meeting with Anita.
Why hasn’t she called?
To distract himself, Saroj picks up the Love Story, an Erich Segal classic that he’s read halfway through in which Oliver, a rich lad, has fallen in love with Jenny, a girl from a middle-class family. The two have a very strong connection, and upon their graduation, Oliver decides to marry Jenny, even though his father is staunchly against it. He loves Jenny so profoundly that even the thought of severing his ties with his own father is not as repellent as it would’ve otherwise been.
Saroj pauses for a moment in the middle of his reading; he begins to imagine himself as Oliver and Anita as Jenny, and tries to think of what they would do if they’d been in the circumstances described in the book. Then he catches himself and smiles—how stupid is he to build such castles in the air when he knows nothing about her apart from her name?
The rain has finally stopped, but no calls from Anita. He waits and waits and waits some more, until the day clocks down, and darkness creeps into the sky. Finally, he decides to take matters into his own hands and makes the call.
“Hello?” Anita answers.
“Hi Anita, it’s Saroj,” he says.
“Hi Saroj! Listen, I’m really very sorry about this. My mother got sick and I had to leave to come home early this afternoon,” she rambles, her voice thick with guilt and worry.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Saroj replies, trying to convince her, and himself, that it’s not a big deal.
Anita continues to apologise profusely for not having called him, and tells him that the next time she’s in the area, she will definitely make it a point to meet up with him. By this time, Saroj is so overcome with disappointment that he can barely hear what she’s saying, just the sound of her voice. As they hang up, he wonders when this ‘next time’ will be, if it ever does come to pass.
Downstairs, his family members are chattering noisily, all in a Dashain buzz. He sees them as if from a distance, for he is no longer interested in being part of any of it. Things eventually quiet down with the approach of the night, and he returns to the novel, his brain still swimming with thoughts of Anita and the vagaries of their very own love story that he hopes is to unfold soon.
- Subash Sharma
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