The fan whirred above her with a dull rattle and persistent hum. It usually lulled her to sleep, but not tonight. She had been lying in bed, turning and tossing incessantly, feeling hot and sweaty and miserable. She leaned over and turned on the lamp beside her bed and picked up a book lying on the night table. It was a mystery novel about the death of two young Parsi girls in Bombay during the days of the Raj. She barely got through one page when her husband lying on his back suddenly let out a loud guttural snore that startled her. The book slipped out of her hands and fell on the floor with a loud bang. Her husband winced, sat up, looked at her with glazed eyes, rolled over and went right back to sleep. She wanted to punch his big fat belly. Instead, she got up. Her nightgown was wet with sweat and clung to her body like cellophane. She walked towards the window to get some fresh air, to cool down. The street was empty, the leaves on the trees were still, the watchman was asleep slouched on his plastic chair, the dog lying next to him was sleeping too. She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. It was warm. She opened the refrigerator, rummaged around a bit, and letting out a loud sigh, slammed it shut. She sat down at the kitchen table and picked up her phone charging in the corner. She had a notification. A new friend request. She clicked on it. The face of a middle aged man popped up. He looked vaguely familiar. She tried to read his name, but the font was too small. She went back to the bedroom, put on her reading glasses and adjusted her pillows so she could sit up in bed. Abrar Kazi, it read. Abrar Kazi, she thought. And then she remembered. That’s right, that scrawny kid from the only Muslim family in the apartment complex where she had grown up. She looked at his face again. Still unfamiliar she accepted the friend request. Married with two children, living in some American suburb in the midwest. She scrolled through his photos. His wife was pretty, his kids cute. They travelled a lot, photos from Yosemite and London and Cancun and Boston. As she continued, she came across older photos of him and his face became more recognizable. She clicked on one that had a bunch of kids standing around what appeared to be a cricket pitch. She zoomed on it and swiped gently across the faces. And there he was.
The colony where she had grown up was on the outskirts of Pune. Her parents, both doctors ran a private practice near by. Four, four story buildings, nestled between a busy highway and a railroad track. A bunch of small and middle sized factories on one side of the track and a large slum and army complex on the other side of the highway. Sixty four flats, four on each floor, four hundred and fifty square feet each. Her flat was on the ground floor and overlooked the field where the boys played. Sometimes football, sometimes hockey, but mostly cricket, and when they were finished playing they’d sit around in a circle and talk and laugh and shout. On the odd occasion that she had to walk past the field to run an errand, the raucous noise would subside momentarily and she could sense leering eyes watching her every move. It annoyed and irritated her, but one of the first things her mom had said when she hit puberty was that boys will be boys and it’s best to just avoid and ignore them. And that’s what she did. She loved reading and painting and helping out at her parents clinic. She had no time and no need for boys.
She still remembered the night quite vividly. She had just finished her homework and was cleaning up when there was a loud knock on the door. One of the boys was outside, visibly shaken, “My mother,” he said, “she is not breathing well, she fainted, please Doctor, she needs help.” Her father had just put on his pajamas, but realizing the urgency of the situation rushed into the bedroom to find his medical bag. The boy continued to cry, trembling violently. An urge to comfort him overwhelmed her. She went up to him, held his hand in hers and said, “Don’t worry. She’ll be okay.” He looked up, his eyes red, full of tears, and nodded his head.
The boy, Dev, went to the boys school right next to her own. When he saw her, he’d wave and smile and she would smile back. He was a year younger than her and a couple of inches taller, with straight dark black hair and hazel eyes. A friendship blossomed between the two, of waves and smiles and nods, but only when no was looking. She’d be reading a book and a week or two later she’d see him with the same book in his hands. When a cricket ball rolled into her family’s backyard garden she’d wait until he came for it and then she’d head out to toss it back. Thanks, he’d say. You’re welcome, she’d reply. She’d remember his warms hands as she had held them once. His red teary eyes. Her heart would flutter. When she walked by the circle of friends, she’d take a quick glance at Dev, and would find him smiling back at her. But with so many eyes staring at her and possibly half the colony looking on, she’d suppress the urge to smile back. The years rolled by. Dev went to engineering school and she studied to be a doctor. The smiles waned, the waves receded and the fluttering grew dull.
She looked up Abrar’s friends list and sure enough, there was Dev. He didn’t seem to be very active on Facebook. The few photos that were there, had been tagged by some of his friends. He had put on some weight, and his hair had turned gray, but that sweet smile, those hazel eyes, they still looked as youthful as ever. She looked at her own reflection in the phone screen. Her hair had grayed out too in parts, a few wrinkles near her lips. A tear welled up in her eye. She smiled. She waved. She put the phone down and turned off the light.