Stray Birds

Chapter 1 The gulmohar trees embellished the road in full bloom, their branches bent low with smoldering red clusters. Evening had drawn the town out of its occupations, and people thronged the tea stalls, warming their palms with tumblers of thickly frothed chai to complete the sunset. For a brief hour, the town bowed to leisure. On such an evening, Vedant spoke of a woman he had once loved. The matter surfaced naturally from the course of their conversation, thus Sulaksha did not at first apprehend its weight. They had been speaking of college, and one recollection drew another, pulling the whole hem undone. Before long, Vedant found himself speaking of a girl whose name had not crossed his lips in years. The recollections acquired a substance that troubled Sulaksha in ways she did not yet understand. He spoke of the time he stood awkwardly among the shelves of folded silk, while the salesman unfolded one after another before him. Though he had been convinced that his lover would look beautiful in any colour, he remained determined to choose the right one for her. Weeks later, when she wore it for him, he could scarcely fathom what had been stirred awake in his chest. He confessed with a flushed laugh, feeling both fondness and grief. Such a sight was never to occur before his eyes again. At first the stories felt harmless. Sulaksha had been listening with a genuine attention of receiving her dear friend’s confidence, allowing him to divulge on all that had disturbed his peace. In truth, she was so intent on meeting his sorrow with the proper countenance, that she had forgotten an indispensable fact: she herself fancied him. From the past several weeks, she had carried Vedant in her thoughts, and awaited the right moment to confess the weight of his role in her life. Quite devastatingly, hearing him speak of another woman seemed to wring her heart until it bled. He spoke of the time they had taken his bike out without destination, riding through unfamiliar roads with the heedless liberty of youth, that freed itself from all urgency and responsibility in its accord. He remembered the dress she wore during a trip to Coorg, though he could not recall the name of the hotel where they stayed. The recollections arrived with an ease that surprised Sulaksha. Some details had survived the years with peculiar obstinance. He remembered the exact song that had been playing in a taxi during their first trip together, the florist he would visit before arriving at her place, and the bouquets of roses wrapped in brown paper that he carried to her door. She always kept a small bottle of perfume in her handbag, and, through his attachment to her, he had grown addicted to its fragrance. Listening to him, Sulaksha found herself wondering how many times a memory must be revisited before such insignificant details became permanent. A younger Vedant, reckless with devotion, spending afternoons curating gifts, preserving smiles on videotapes, writing letters in which nothing was withheld. When the cuckoo calls faded across the neighbourhood, their conversation came to its natural end, and Sulaksha arrived at a conclusion so painful that she could barely sustain a glance at him while taking leave. There was no place for her, she thought, in the heart of a man who had once loved another with such abundance. Whatever small hope she had secretly nourished, was an utter fool’s delusion! Whatever she watered in herself, if it was love, it was as obsolete as a lamp lit under daylight. Chapter 2 In the weeks that followed, Sulaksha imposed a discipline upon her straying emotions. The resolution appeared sensible in theory to her: affection that promised no future, was to be snipped in the bud, before it yielded greater damage. Whenever her thoughts wandered towards Vedant, she directed them elsewhere. She refused to entertain any delusions that arose from the effect of her youth. The matter had already been settled beneath the gulmohars, and there was nothing left for discussion. As any omniscient narrator, I am obligated to interrupt with a reality check — of the human condition. No amount of willpower is fallible to the impending plough of love, waiting to sprout from the inner landscapes of romantic people. Love possesses indifference toward discipline, and sought no one’s permission, not even Sulaksha’s. Though she denied it in the language of romance, it found expression elsewhere. Love oozed from her ears which continued to reserve attention to his utterances. It flowed from her palms which served acts of consideration that appear insignificant until Vedant passed a day without them. It brandished radiantly in her eyes that beheld his appearance. Unperturbed, their friendship continued in full candour. Sulaksha remained exactly what she has always been. If a difficult day left him with a pinched look upon his face, she recognised it before he spoke a word. When he fell ill, she appeared with remedies gathered from half a dozen contradictory sources, and then tossed her head disconsolately whenever he neglected to follow her instructions. She listened with warm interest, to matters others would have dismissed as tedious, remembered obligations he himself had forgotten, and possessed the rare gift of making another person feel that his concerns had not been entrusted into the atmosphere. None of these actions appeared remarkable to her. They seemed to be mere duties of affection, even if its nature had been condemned to silence. Chapter 3 While Sulaksha had been sternly schooling her condition, Vedant had begun relating parts of his life to her presence. The change revealed itself shyly, but almost evasively. He caught himself reserving anecdotes for her amusement, weighting his opinions against the imagined tilt of her brow, and feeling a faint dissatisfaction when an entire day passed without the sound of her voice. On an occasion, finding a book he knew would delight her, he purchased it without reflection and only later wondered why her pleasure should matter so much to him. He had been unaware of the depth of his affliction until he was deprived of Sulaksha’s presence, when she flew out of the country for a business trip. Having once concluded that his heart was already consecrated to another memory, Sulaksha refused to revise her judgment merely because his conduct had grown warmer. His tenderness became courtesy, and his attentiveness became the natural ease of friendship. Whenever the whims of her suspecting mind dared to lift some contrary hope before her, she dismissed it severely. Naturally, she failed to notice the subtle alterations in him. More and more often, he began asking for her time. He suggested longer walks after dinner, found reasons to call when a message would have sufficed, and looked for excuses to extend their conversations. He invited her to join him for errands that did not require company and lingered after their meetings. Sulaksha perceived these gestures through the careful lens she had fashioned for her own protection. The messages arrived because he respected her judgment. His insistence on walking her to her cab after dinner seemed nothing more than common courtesy. Once, when he crossed the city simply to bring her a medicine she had casually remarked she needed, she laughed at the unnecessary trouble he had taken and thanked him with the easy gratitude one reserves for a trusted companion. Chapter 4 On yet another evening, they found themselves once again beneath the gulmohar trees. With winter approaching, the atmosphere had started to chill, and damp air hung oppressively over their heads. Tea steamed from their tumblers as they spoke of unremarkable things, of occurrences at home and office. A gust of wind passed through the gulmohars overhead, and a withered blossom detached itself from a branch, and found its landing on Vedant’s open palm. Only months ago, those same flowers burned brilliantly against the summer sky. Now this one lay faded and fragile in his hand.