One morning I noticed something strange about my girlfriend. She put sugar in her coffee. As far as I remembered, she liked her coffee without sugar, very strong and very bitter. So I walked up to her and asked her, “Hey, how come you put sugar in your coffee?” She looked at me with scrunched eyebrows as if trying to recognize me. Then she said, “But babe…I’ve always put sugar in my coffee.” We stared at each other for a long time, both quite confused, then she awkwardly turned away from me and did not say more. You know what? I thought then. Maybe she did put sugar in her coffee. Maybe I remembered wrong. Or maybe her habits had changed. Either way, it didn’t really matter. It was a minor detail anyway.
That night something stranger happened. While in the throes of passionate lovemaking, she said she wanted to try something new. She wanted me to lift her, while she wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. For a moment I looked at her. Then I said, “But we have tried that. Remember? You said your arms hurt.” Those scrunched eyebrows again. Then a mystified look as she slowly said, “I…don’t remember.” I nodded and said, “No issue, let’s try,” as I lifted her. And what do you know? Not only did her arms not hurt, but after we had finished and lay side by side, I courteously thanked her for the best sex I had had in my entire life. “You’re welcome,” she said and turned away from me and went to sleep.
If these two developments were strange, I let it be. People changed, times changed. And I will admit, change was welcome. You see I and my girlfriend had been together for too long now—I don’t remember exactly how long, but far too long. And with change had set in that old sense of familiarity, of dullness.
So a sense of newness, of freshness, was welcome.
In fact, our whole relationship felt fresh. Our sex was so much better all of a sudden, whereas previously it had become perfunctory. Often now we lay in bed with glasses of wine and talked into the night, whereas previously we had often gone days like indifferent flatmates. And I noticed things anew about her—the way she clutched her stomach and laughed with her entire body, the way she twirled her hair around her index finger and listened intently, the way she got excited over small things like cat videos, a new dress, or a catchy song she discovered on Spotify. It was like falling in love all over again! Lying against my chest in bed, running her hand across my cheek, she told me as well, “You’ve changed.”
“Have I?” I responded.
“Yes.”
“For the better, I hope?”
She laughed a little and bit my shoulder.
But alas, good things never last. For one day, early in the morning, when I was working on my laptop, she walked up to my desk with a coffee in hand and said, “So when are your holidays ending?” I stopped working, looked at her and said I didn’t understand. She repeated the question. I said, “What holidays?”
“The holidays from work.”
“What holidays from what work?”
“The break you took? From work? That’s why you’re sitting around the house aren’t you?”
I told her that I was sitting around the house because I worked from home. That I was a freelance writer. I showed her my laptop, the article I was writing about flesh-eating bacteria for a science website. For a moment she didn’t say anything. Then slowly, she turned around and walked into her room. I shrugged and went back to writing my article, thinking this was just one more example of her newly acquired strangeness. That afternoon, while I was lying in bed, she came and lay down beside me and said she had a few questions.
“Ask away,” I said.
“What is your height?”
“5’9.”
“What is your favourite beer?”
“Bira White.”
“What is your favourite quote?”
“Live. Laugh. Love.”
For a moment she contemplated my responses and then said they were all wrong. That my height should be 5’10, my favourite beer should be Budweiser, and my favourite quote should be ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ I laughed heartily and told her that the heart wants what it wants. “Very true,” she replied and turned away from me. I stared at the back of her head, perturbed. When I woke up in the evening, her side was empty. She was gone.
I called her again and again, but she didn’t answer my phone.
Oh dear, I thought then.
Am I but a feather in the wind?
The vicissitudes of love being the wind; I being the feather?
I could have gone on and on pondering these strange vicissitudes, but decided not to mope around and, as hard as it would be, to move on. I put all my energies into my thriving career. I took on more work, more projects and drowned myself in my writing. The article I wrote on flesh-eating bacteria had been aptly terrifying and hence very popular and the science website loved how much online traffic there was on the piece. So I suggested that for my next piece, I would focus on rabies. They agreed and as part of my research, I decided to go out on the streets in search of a rabid animal. I picked the lanes of the Green Park market for this endeavor but unfortunately, my labour was fruitless since I did not encounter a single animal with rabies anywhere—so much for being the rabies capital of the world I guess…
But I did encounter something else. Something infinitely sadder.
I encountered her.
The abandoner. The heartbreaker.
And, to my dismay, she was sitting on a bench with another man, holding his hand. I watched them from a distance. They were staring straight ahead, not saying much to each other. Then she turned to him and murmured something and got up and went into a café to use the bathroom. While she was gone, I watched him. He was rather plain-faced, like a shaved potato with eyes and mouth. I try hard and yet can no longer remember his face. But as I watched him, a thought struck me. I went and sat down beside him and said, “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Yes surely,” he replied.
“What’s your height?”
“5’10,” he said.
“What’s your favourite beer?”
“Budweiser.”
“What’s your favourite quote?”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
And while I sat there, confused, this man held my hand and said, “Let’s go babe.” “I’m sorry, you’ve confused me for someone else,” I said and got up. He looked at me for a long time, then shook his head and apologized for the mix-up.
When I got home that evening I was a little confused. Something strange had happened, I could tell. ying in bed and contemplating what had occurred and also the strange vicissitudes of life, I realised that I really liked this word—vicissitudes. I liked its sibilant sound, its way of seeming so epic and grand. So I started listing other words that I really liked. I liked stratagem, guacamole, trounce, hullabaloo, brouhaha, vermicular, maelstrom, kumquats, pachyde-
The doorbell rang.
I went and opened the door to see a girl standing on the steps with a travel bag, grinning at me. She stepped in and kissed me on the cheek and said, “Aren’t you going to ask me how my trip was?”
“…how was your trip?”
“So fun!” she said as she tossed her jacket on the table and crashed on the sofa. “Can you make me a coffee?” she asked. “I’m sooooooo tired.”
“Uhh…how do you take it?”
She looked at me in confusion. “You know this babe. Remember? Without sugar?”
That night the sex was also unremarkable. It all felt very milquetoast now since her arms hurt from doing that position I enjoyed. Later when she fell asleep, there was a small smile on her face, while I looked out the window at the night sky and thought deep thoughts. The next morning, she was very talkative. She made me sit down on the sofa with her and told me about her trip to Landore or Lahore or one of those places, god knows, it was all rather dull. It was something about the first time she’d been on a solo trip and how it had been so liberating and what not. I didn’t know why her hands moved so animatedly, why her speech was so fast, why she seemed so excited to tell me all this stuff. She even asked me how my article was going. I told her about its success. I told her that for my next article, I was focusing on rabies and she nodded and said, “Good idea.” I informed her of my responsibility as a journalist to tell people about the dangers of the outside world. She nodded, did oohs and aahs to show me she was listening. But really I just wanted to finish this conversation and go back to writing my article.
The next few days passed crawlingly. For everything she did—the way she sipped her coffee noisily, the way she sang songs out of tune while bathing, the way she overcooked her scrambled eggs in the morning, folded the bedsheet, listened to those Taylor Swift songs on Spotify, leant forward and nodded when I spoke at length—irked me. For, in truth, I missed the one who had broken my heart. With her, every day had unraveled like a mystery, a wonderful surprise, like breakfast in bed! She seemed completely unaware of this of course. Instead, she clung to me every day with the same excitement, the same vigour.
Somehow, that made things worse.
And so one day, without knowing where I was going, where I would rest, I just stepped out.
I walked the earth. I walked through apartment complexes, city streets, shopping malls, and restaurants. The whole world seemed but a parade of couples—in love, in anger, in bitterness, in misery. I saw an old couple holding hands and walking down the road with sweet smiles on their faces. I saw a young couple making out in a park after dark. I saw a couple sitting in a restaurant staring at their meal, not talking to each other. I saw a man get down on his knees and present another man with a diamond ring in a library. I saw a couple dancing softly to music through their apartment window.
And I thought of this thing that either my father had told me or I had read somewhere or watched in a film: God has made someone for everyone.
Except for me of course, I sighed
When would my turn come, I wondered, lost in thought, as I entered another apartment complex. Would I feel the jitterbugs of love again? Would I ever settle? Or would I keep floating about from person to person?
I heard a voice then. A woman, shouting, “Babe! Honey! Sweetheart!” continuously from inside her house. I walked up to her flat and saw the front door open. I entered to the sight of her standing in the kitchen with hands on her waist. She looked at me and said, “Where have you been?!”
“I…”
“Did you bring the groceries?”
For a moment I was quiet. Then I said, “No, sorry babe.”
She sighed. “You never bring the groceries.”
I walked up to her, held her in my arms and said, “I’m so sorry. Next time I’ll definitely bring the groceries.”
“Promise?” she said.
“Promise.”
And then I hugged her. Through the window I saw a man walking up to the front door with a packet of bread and fruits in hand. I quickly broke away from her and walked up to the door.
“Can I help you?” I asked as he was entering.
The man looked at me for a while and then said, “I…uhh…live here?”
I gave him my warmest smile and said, “I’m sorry, there must be some confusion, you see I live here.”
He looked at me for a long time.
He looked at the flat for a long time.
Then he shook his head and turned around and wandered away in confusion.
***
Things are going so well with her.
We wake up in the morning and make a delicious and homely breakfast of eggs and coffee and pancakes. In the afternoon we fall asleep in each other’s arms and in the evening we cook dinner while her wonderful collection of old ghazals—she loves ghazals! —plays in the background. We eat dinner on the couch, watching a film, our shoulders touching. And after dinner, as we continue watching the film, she will rest her head on my shoulder and doze off. Sitting there, smelling her coconutty hair, her hand in mine, sometimes I feel that this is all I want from life. Isn’t it wonderful? The newness of that intimacy, of another person whom you desire, that wondrous time of getting to know each other?
Sometimes when we go on walks in the colony we will see her ex, wandering about with groceries in hand, still looking for his home. There is a lost look on his face. Poor guy. I wish I could help him. But thankfully she doesn’t even notice him and we walk past him every time.
She likes to take me to the garden in the colony. There, amidst children playing and old couples on their evening walks, we will open our picnic basket and sit on the grass and have cucumber sandwiches and discuss which couple we’ll look like when we’re older.
She says I’ll look like one of those aging professors, those austere and solemn types. I tell her she’ll look like one of those older celebrities, the ones who carry themselves with poise and grace. We laugh as we imagine ourselves coming to the same park for our evening walks. Probably be like that couple strolling and meandering at their own leisurely pace.
And then we will get up and walk back, holding hands.
We will cross her ex again.
But to her, he remains a stranger.
One night while asleep in bed with her I have a strange dream. In it, I see a feather swirling and twirling in the air. I stand and watch it while the wind pushes against my body. I then feel the wind subside and the feather make its slow, undulating way towards me. I cup my palms to catch it.
How long do we go on?
Months?
Weeks?
It feels like this is the longest I have ever been in a relationship and yet we seem to be going strong.
One day, while sitting with her on the sofa and staring out the window, I have this strange feeling that I don’t want to get up from here ever. That I want to stay here, with her, all my life. I realize that I have had it, floating from one person to another, that this is my permanent resting place. I don’t know where this feeling comes from, why it arrives, and whether it will stay. But I think it will stay. I feel it will stay.
I feel too within me a strange churning. And I don’t know why I say it, what makes me say it, but I get down on one knee and with outstretched arms ask her: “Will you marry me?”
She looks at me with raised eyebrows. I am as surprised as she isthat I have said what I said. When she realizes I am serious, I see a sudden nervousness fall upon her face. She gets up and begins pacing the room frantically and says, “I…don’t know…I think…” I get up and say that she doesn’t have to decide now, that she can think about it, that any answer is okay, that she shouldn’t feel pressured to make a decision and so on. She sits down again and nods. For a moment we are silent as I await her response. Then, with an air so much calmer, so much more measured, and with an unwavering coolness, she says, “Yes, I will marry you.”
I jump up and dance around in joy. She smiles at me and asks me to sit down again and in excitement I tell her that we should tell all our friends and we should start planning already and we should call our parents and-
She raises her hand to stop me. She says, “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Breakfast?”
“Yes. I don’t know, I feel hungry all of a sudden.”
I shrug.
“I feel like pancakes!” she says.
“Okay!”
“Pancakes it is!” she says and gets up from the sofa and makes her way to the kitchen. I hear the sound of utensils, of a stove being lit, and I ease into the sofa and make myself comfortable. I feel a soft current running through my body. A strange nervous excitement that makes me float above everything. I feel like-
“Babe,” she says from the kitchen.
“Yes?”
I hear a large sigh. “I think we’re out of milk and eggs.”
“Oh.”
“Will you go out and get some?”
“Of course I will!” I say and get up.
“Cool.”
“Be back in five minutes.”
As I make my way out of the house with a bag in hand, I try to return to my chain of thoughts. What was I thinking? For the life of me I can’t remember, my mind’s all over the place. It also doesn’t help that I am distracted. First by the ex—still holding on to his groceries, still adrift on the road, mouth open in a daze—and then, as I step out of the colony, as I make my way towards the grocery store, by the others.
How did I not notice them while entering the complex?
For I am confronted by them. By so many of them. By hordes of them.
Men and women on the road, with groceries in hand, lumbering about.
They moan and they groan and I watch them, perturbed.
Suddenly, I feel a hand grab my shoulder. A woman, gaunt, toothless, ragged. “Good sir…can you help me find my home…” she croaks into my face. I walk away. “Good sir…pleeeeeease…” I ignore her and keep moving, keep watching. I watch the dazed look on their faces. The upwards stare, the entreaty in their eyes, the shuffling of their feet. They are so thin, so malnourished. Who knows how long they’ve been carrying these groceries? Who knows how heavy they must feel?
Dammit!
What a bummer to stumble upon them on such a happy occasion!
I need to distract myself.
So I think of the warm pancakes that await me.
Her smiling face.
Our wedding.
And as I reach the store, I start to feel better. So I turn and look at them once more, these sad little people, this little zombie herd. And I feel so thankful I am not like one of them, that unlike this swarm I have a home, a resting place that—after I get milk and eggs for my one little love—I will immediately be marching back to!
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