You Don't Say Much; We Don't Talk Much.

 

There is a scratcher waiting 

I stood just within his peripheral vision, swinging one leg off the low parapet outside the hall. Deliciously aware of a presence: of sweat beads and a tongue flicking over the edge of a glass.

 He walked across to me, my pulse raced, insides softened: and he walked past. I heaved a barely perceptible sigh of relief. A step taken too soon is a step not taken at all.

 "I didn't understand…" rumbled through  my hair.  I swung around too soon, lost my footing and staggered. His arms reached out, my fingers wrapped around his thin forearm. Nails dug into veins, thick veins, crisscrossing in a crude matrix across leathery exterior.

 He hadn't stopped talking. "…you left too soon! She was just getting there..."

 I nodded. My finger unwrapped slowly, mumbling baby what you want me to do.

His eyebrow rose quizzically. I shook my head, “Just had to leave.” A croak is always a croak, like how surprise phone calls always catch me off guard.

The bell went off. I blinked, smiled at his neck, too close for my eyes to focus on and jumped off the parapet. Squared my shoulders, went over the mental walk away checklist: lift knees, sway hips, shift like a car gear, one foot to another. Couldn’t help but turn my head slightly to see if he was watching, the mangy dog who stalked the backdoors of the kitchens shook her flearidden tail at me in a desultory manner.

---

Then the day starts shedding her clothes we get onto our bicycles and cycle off into the dusk. Feet pump, thighs stretch, chest thumps. The wind blows my hair into clumps of dust; blood rushes to my face, calves harden. We go past flushes of middle aged women in salwar kameezes and sneakers, clumps of children yelling around three stumps and a bit of plywood shaped like a bat. The birds cluster around their high roosts, screaming and shitting in exuberant promises of sleep. Car flick their headlights at us as we fly past red lights and swing into a corner, and then we come to a shuddering halt. There’s a gigantic elephant blocking the road, just like that. Lying on her side. He looks at me. I shrug, climb off my bike and wheel it closer to the supine mammal. She’s wheezing, heaving, her huge chest shuddering. Her mahout, a small sorrowful man in a red and green turban is squatting by the side of the road, smoking a beedi. The incongruity of the situation strikes me: there are no groups of people gathered around. We are alone. He is still standing behind me, his face pale, eyes ludicrously wide. “What is it?” He points to the tail of the pachyderm, ten feet away from us. There is blood trickling from under her tail: an elephantine pool that gets wider and wider. I’m standing near her head and her big eyes look straight out in front of her. Her mahout too stares straight ahead, eyes blank, hand moving mechanically, fingers tenderly cupping his beedi.

---

We walk out of the fair, our faces sickly green in the tube-lit dust. I hold onto your hand, avoid three men who sway past smelling of wood smoke and mahua. We cut across tents selling flea ridden dog collars and camel leather whips to use on their own kind. You pause to look at a brass bell the size of your fist, hanging from thick red and gold twine. You glance back at me, I shrug. "You know me better than to ask." I smile, digging into my pockets to find the small piece of hash I have saved to smoke with you. You spend an hour talking to the wiry cattle dealer, your tones stretching, mutating to match the cadence of his words. I sit by your side, just out of the harsh light, crushing the black tarry piece into smaller pieces, mixing crisp roasted tobacco, flipping the mixture onto paper. This is my occupation. I listen, I roll, I watch you play with people.

The music is ear-splitting and torn, any semblance of a musical note shattered beyond recognition by the trumpet shaped bomb-announcement speakers. We clamber up a hill, my salwar gets caught on a bare bush with thorns the size of darning needles and rips to reveal a gash of white thigh. You stop to untangle me, lightly scratch exposed skin with the edge of your fingernail and walk on. The wind whips us into submission and we stand behind a lone tree.

The desert is wild and stings my eyes, you know this desert; I stand cowering beside you. I light the joint, and we stand together, twisting to avoid flying hot rocks. The fair is spread out at our feet, but my eyes are hazy and all I can see is the electric green giant wheel moving in a slow eternal circle.

My lips are dry and eyelids scratchy. You don’t say much, we don’t talk much. We part ways at our separate doors, and when the silence is too much to bear I knock at your door, crawl into your bed and you wrap your arms around me, turning over to shield me from the beached whale sprawled out beside you

---

I prod to wake you up; you grumble and mumble, shifting out of the way. I swing my body to sit on top of you, kissing your neck and licking the hollow behind your ear lobe. The light from the new day has begun to seep into the sky, and I lean forward to open the glass window behind your head. The night wind, the dadoo, hasn’t stopped yet, and my hair is blown out behind me like a surprised parachute. Your hands move mechanically to hold me, fingers wrapping around my small hips. I blow on your eyelids, bite your cheek and you turn over, holding me under you, squashing the breath out of me. I blow spit bubbles at your chest holding onto your hair, tugging raspy split edges.