Seahorse. Janice Pariat

room. The first door I tried, hidden behind a curtain, led not to the loo but a small covered balcony strung with washing lines and littered with old newspapers and empty bottles. I liked it there; it was quiet, away from the crowd.

      Suddenly, I heard the bedroom door open.

      “Here, just lie down for a while…”

      I recognized the voice.

      I peered inside, through a small dusty grilled window.

      Lari held her head in her hands, giggling about how the world was spinning, while Titania helped her across the room to the bed. She pushed some clothes off, and smoothed it out.

      Her friend lay down, placing her arm over her face. “Ooh, that’s so bright.”

      Titania switched off the tube light and turned on a lamp in the corner. The light spilled out in a soft, golden glow.

      “Better.”

      “Would you like some water?”

      The girl shook her head.

      Titania knelt on the floor, beside her. They spoke in whispers; I caught fragments, they were talking about the party—drink, who was that… the music… strong joint…

      Until Lari asked, “Will you do that? What you did the other day?”

      Titania reached out, stroking her friend’s forehead.

      “This?”

      Her friend nodded, smiled.

      Titania began with her face, caressing the contours in slow, delicate swirls. Through her long, silky hair. Untangling. Unknotting. Her fingers found Lari’s neck, the ridge of her shoulders. The girl closed her eyes. She traced her way down her arms, interlaced their fingers. Then slowly over her chest, over the flimsy chiffon top. Around the curve of her breasts, cupped in a black bra.

      All the way across the flat, smooth plane of her stomach, to the top of her skirt. Her fingers ran over her waist, her thighs, the dip in between, down the length of her legs. She did this over and over again, making her way down, then back up to the top. Lari stirred, turning her face slightly towards Titania. Their faces moved closer, meeting in silence.

      I waited behind the wall of glass.

       There’s no beginning and there is no end.

      When I left, the neighborhood was empty and quiet; interrupted only by the watchman’s beat, his walking stick rapping the ground. Somewhere, a gong sounded. It was three o’clock. Too late to find a rickshaw. I had no choice but to walk back to the residence hall. The roads emptied of all vehicles, save for some night creatures. The homeless, the stray, the forgotten, the lost. I hadn’t intended to stay out so long, but I couldn’t get away until Titania and Lari had left the room. They’d touched, and swept, and caressed, lying side by side, until they fell into a silence that I thought was sleep. Eventually, they’d risen, switched off the lamp, and stumbled out in the darkness. Now, the knot in my stomach, that hot, dense mass of desire, was slowly unraveling; I was tired, and sleep pressed heavily against my eyes. The walk took almost twenty minutes, down broken sidewalks and stretches where there was none. When I reached, the campus seemed haunted. Emptier than I’d ever seen it. The cross and tower outlined in a dark silhouette. I switched on the lights in my room. Kalsang hadn’t returned. Someone had slipped a note under the door. A phone call. From Joyce. “Please call back.”

      The next day, at noon, I walked to the PCO on the main road, outside campus. It had rained earlier, for the air carried a rare freshness, and the dust had settled on the sidewalk. It was odd that my sister had called, for no apparent reason. We wished each other on birthdays and Easter, were usually home together for Christmas, posing for an annual family photograph in front of the tree. But apart from that, we didn’t usually reach out and make contact. I hoped all was well with my parents. No, I was quite sure about that; they weren’t the type to shy away from telling me they were ill, or that I should come home. This was sudden and strange.

      At the PCO, I waited for a bulky gentleman in a striped shirt to finish a call. Outside, a man with a parked cart dispensed banta from a thermocol container filled with ice.

      “Special,” I requested.

      The man plucked out a thick, squat bottle and popped the stopper. It fizzed gently as he poured it into a glass, and stirred in a teaspoon of rock salt and a squeeze of lime. The drink tingled at the back of my throat, washing cold down my chest. Finally, I wedged myself into the stuffy booth, and dialed the number—this too was a common phone at the hostel where my sister was staying. I hoped she was in.

      “Hello,” answered a young female voice.

      “May I speak to Joyce, please?”

      “Hold on, let me check if she’s there.”

      The line beeped, and the machine numbers climbed higher. After what seemed ages, my sister came on the line.

      “Joyce, you called?”

      “Hello Nem.” Her voice sounded strange and distant, as though she was very far and very small.

      “Is everything okay?”

      “It’s Lenny,” she said.

      “What do you mean?”

      “I heard… actually, mama and papa rang me… they said they didn’t know how to tell you.”

      “Tell me what?”

      The line beeped, like a heartbeat.

      “Lenny passed away.”

      The words hung on an invisible thread, stretching from her to me.

      “I’m sorry… there were some complications with his medication, Nem. He went to sleep and didn’t wake up.” After a moment’s silence, she added, “It would have been painless.”

      I placed the phone back on the receiver—my sister’s voice sounding sympathies into the air—and leaned against the door. Someone rapped against the glass, hard and impatient. It was the same man in the striped shirt. He’d returned to make another call. I paid and fumbled out. On the road, a DTC bus passed by exhaling a thick plume of grey smoke—it hit my face and burned my eyes, the sick, unhealthy smell of exhaust.

      I lurched towards the uncovered gutter, and threw up. The liquid sweet and empty in my mouth. When I straightened up, it didn’t return. The breath we ease into and out of, the rise and fall of our chest. That unnoticed, that necessary. It remained in some dark tunneled space in my chest. Filling with the stench of decay.

      A week before, someone had come to my room with mail. A glance at the handwriting, long and looping. Lenny’s. I hadn’t heard from him in a while. Lately, he didn’t write often, and even when he did, his letters were brief, sketchy, responding to mine in an oddly absent way. The last thing he sent me was not a letter.

      The envelope sat thick and secretive in my hand as I carried it to the lawn. I wanted to open it outdoors, as though whatever it may conjure could not be contained within walls. It was sealed neatly with cello tape; I opened it carefully. The paper inside was folded to a compact square. A sketch, a pencil drawing and a scribbled line—As I remember you.

      It was remarkably good, even if I felt Lenny had been rather generous by gently proportioning out my features—the eyes a tad larger, the longer, straighter nose, the slimmer, more chiseled face. In his strokes, Lenny had infused something I hadn’t ever seen before in the mirror. It was a myth of me.

      Nicholas found it once.

      He was rummaging through a pile of books—his and mine, gloriously mixed together, like our lives over the past few months—and a folded paper fell to the floor.

      He