1.

I’m sitting on my desk while my gaze is looming outside of the window; a cemented under-

construction building where more than fifty people are moving constantly with a yellow

helmet mounted on their head. An automatic crane is also swinging on the top floor of the

building which also has the same color as of the helmets, and it is wider than the diaspora of

the building. Two big nets are tied across the building: the first one tied above the ground

floor; the other on the fifth floor. In case to catch if one of the persons wearing the yellow

helmets falls down.

It’s funny that I never get bored by this view, this building is right in front of my apartment. I

look at it umpteenth time in a day sometimes sitting on the chair; pressing my weight on the

ledge of the door while scrolling through the contact list in my phone; sipping hot chocolate

in the balcony while tapping my right foot on the ceramic tiles to hear the little echo which

comes due to lack of cement beneath.

Every time I look at it, it forces me to scan the whole building from top-bottom as if not

seeing the ground floor would break the synchronicity of my gaze. I especially like looking at

it on gloomy days when the sun is no longer serving the panels. The melancholic gray of the

building behind the subtle gray of the clouds tries to speak with each other. What words or

energy they exchange even I’m not sure but I’m convinced that the skies do try to

communicate something with the building which isn’t decipherable by my senses yet.

I quit my job and moved to this city a year ago, back then it was a six-floor building; now

today morning I had counted it with a brush moving in my mouth, feeling the delectable taste

of the meswak plant. It has reached the seventeenth floor. Every month or half there is a new

floor piled up on the previous one. I’m still oblivious to the fact of how high they are aiming
for. The helmets move both in daylight as well as in the floodlight. There is never a break for

them, not even on a lazy Sunday when my neighbor also skips the Morning Pooja. So, on

those Sundays my eyes didn’t open after the prolonged sound of a conch-shell instead they

resist after hearing heavy hammers jabbed into the wall or a drill screeching into the wall.

I sense with each floor piled up on top of another something forces me to write about him.

This isn’t a sudden feeling, it’s a gradual progression. Step-by-step; floor-by-floor. I have

made myself a promise that as soon as they’ll reach the seventeenth floor, I’ll scrape every

piece of memory of him from my mind on to a page. The thought of writing in word

processor do came to me at first but I’m afraid that once I write about the things I’m guilty

about, I’ll delete them more ferociously. I know tearing pages is also quite easy in the diary

but believe me I’m the sort of person who writes very less but whenever I do, I make sure it

doesn’t go futile.

The burden of all his memory suddenly feels way too much. A violent tremor was observed

and surely the signals were sent to my brain. Without taking a moment my brain gives me the

instructions to seal the lips together and avert the gaze from the sky-scrapper. Requesting me

to hold on for the next floor, for one last time.

I don’t know why I don’t want to delay this anymore because it feels if I did this time, I’ll

never be able to come back and write. No longer a photo or a thought can substitute his

memories of what words might do on a page. A steady impression of all the time spent with

him urges me to be finally settled on a blank page.

So, I decided I want to give myself a chance to liberate which I've been delaying for the last

seven years - from 2008-2015. A voice in my heart whispers to me that there is always a time

for things to be done; like for the knob of the gas to be turned off once the milk is boiled. I

think it’s that time for me where I can no longer hold the grudge of his memories to the next

stage of my life. I’m getting married next month although there isn’t a direct connection but

still something doesn’t feel right.

I look at the occasional bird flying in the sky with an open wing. A few flaps and then some

smooth distance covered.

I bought a new diary yesterday from the general store on the corner of our street – which is

damn long it takes a lot of effort to reach there one has to pass through seven buildings in

total; three bungalows; two thatched-roofed homes with five water cans in front of them; a

dairy; a medicine shop; a park and a ragman’s warehouse. The girl in the shop looked at me

with a flinch on her face when I asked her for a diary. She was surprised as if I was asking for

some illegal substance, a packet of weed or something, which will most probably be legalized

in many states soon to generate revenue.

She must be in her high school but still, she sits in the shop with her father who was handling

the other two customers in the shop. She went into a small room behind the shop kind of like

a trap door, she was wearing a plain black top with a zebra cotton striped skirt. She came

back after a minute or two. “We only have two” she said waving them in the air as a prized

possession, I wanted to have a look before buying them so I extended my hand further but

before handing me, she pulled them a few inches back to inform me “Blue one is ‘Mahaga’

(expensive) and this black is ‘Svasta’ (inexpensive). I liked the texture of both of them.
I decided to buy the blue one and walked to my flat after paying through my phone, this time

with a diary in my hand.

Shaking the pen in my left hand I don’t have an idea where to begin. The thought of what to

pen down first seems dreadful. I pushed the chair back and walked into the kitchen where the

refrigerator is, then took out a Marlboro from the side pockets of refrigerator. Igniting it with

a lighter, I keep the box and the lighter back into the pocket. I stand in front of the kitchen

window, taking a long drag till my diphagram resist to pump more air. I smoked half of

cigarette in peace then anointed the butt of it into a glass near the sink which I kept there for

that purpose only. I went back to my chair, cleared the unnecessary stuff from the desk: A

pen stand; artificial plant; laptop and a packet of milk-bikis biscuits.

For some reason my mind has gained clarity. It is telling me to start from the fresh, the most

recent memory of him, which isn’t a bad suggestion. I find it plausible enough. Once a flight

takes off it can be directed in the direction the pilot wishes to. So, I’m Beginning from the

end –to the day the last time I have seen him in his oversized shirt and tailored shorts.

It was a sunny day, not the one where one needs an umbrella; the other kind where walking in

sunlight also feels bearable. I boarded the bus at my regular time, but I knew this would be

the last time I’m traveling on this route. I’m a student so I have a pass to travel free in the

government bus which we need to get renewed every three months so we skip a day or two

from the college to stand in the queue. The government bus had three shades. Shades are

important to remember in those buses because they reveal the time it’ll take to reach. With

blue one being the quickest; Orange stands in the middle of the ranking. I was in the left out

one - a pink-colored bus.

Usually, it was like a rooster’s coop but for some reason that day, I didn’t have a problem

getting the seat, that day. Unlike most of the grad students, I don’t like to listen to music

while traveling in the bus, it is different in the case of cars. So, I heard the constant shudders

of windows; honks of the vehicle trying to overtake; chats of the people sitting behind with

newspapers; a couple of hammering slaps on the backdoor to signal the driver to stop,

unexpectedly.

I reached exactly after forty-five minutes to the stop which had a signboard KAPURFHALA

CHOWNK, from the marker or paint someone had made the T look F in reality it is

KAPURTHALA CHOWNK.

I sat in the same auto in which I usually go to college unless the auto driver had a party at

night. The driver’s name is Sukh, he is a macho sort of man who wears tight half sleeve t-

shirts to flaunt his biceps. He has a tattoo of lion on it, too. He always greets you with the

monosyllabic phrase ‘Kidan’ which essentially means how are you? Sometimes he pats on

my shoulder and asks the same but that day he simply asked. I replied Good. I’m not a man

of few words but that day words weren’t able to come out of my mouth with the same

frequency as they used to. Sukh didn’t mind knowing the reason because he was busy calling

other passengers to fill his auto.

I jumped from the bridge to the side stairs which are in the middle of the bridge. The one side

had the railing, the other didn’t for some reason. I thought of standing there to feel the

morning air but he was standing below and waving at me in his cream-colored shirt and Grey

shorts. The smile on his face made me rethink about meeting him. He knows I’m leaving
today and still he is smiling. That time I didn’t have a choice to back out from meeting him

because he had already seen me.

“This is for you” he handed me a white polybag. I already knew what was in it. I accepted his

gift with a smile. It weighed not more than two – it was the samosas from the famous Maddi

Sweet Shop on the street next to my college. I was about to caress his hair but looking at the

shine of oil in it, I stopped my hand mid-air. Holding them not extending the fingers

clutching them as if I don’t have the right to touch him anymore. He sensed it, then I went

ahead without bothering. “Let’s walk” I told him while twisting my own fingers with the

polybag. We went in the direction of my college or ex-college from that day onwards.

I have come to adjust well to the walking speed of other people, because at the time of

college that was my favorite thing to do though most of my walks were with him and Sanya.

She is another person whom I miss besides him.

His strides are short around half of mine. Still, I made sure that I never left him behind.

“When will you come?” His voice was innocent. I promised him that I’ll come to meet him

after some time. “How much time?” Today I guess he was in the mood for questions. I didn’t

reply to that question. Still, he didn’t mind walking with me. That was the thing about him

which I liked, that he didn’t mind things at all no matter what happens.

He prodded near my waist so we both stopped then he gestured at the temple on the left. How

could I forget about it, that’s the place where I met him for the first time. The walk halted.

“Shouldn’t have come today” a thought crossed my mind and left as I felt helpless. Took a

deep breath, kept my hands on the waist above the tan brown belt I was wearing that day. The
fragrance of his coconut oil wafted up from his combed hair to my nostrils. A steep invisible

climb, I recognized the brand - it was the brand that uses the coconut tree as its symbol. I

nodded to him, and he went in. I looked at him with hands folded around my chest, he

jumped in the air to ring the bell. Then he took a couple of steps further and bent down to

take the blessing from the idol of Lord Hanuman. I should have talked to Ma about him, she

might have understood the dynamics between me and him, at least I should have tried to

brought the topic in front of Papa and Ma. I was afraid to take him home, what I would say to

them, how I'd explain to them why I wanted him to stay with us. “Prashad” his voice

suddenly brought me out of my reverie. I took a bit of it and let him eat the whole. “I think

we should turn back now” he didn’t reply back but he turned on the other side of the road

while holding my hand. I looked at the scar on his hand, it had gotten lighter since the time I

had first met him.

A black car went quite fast from his right, almost brushing his moving hand, so I held his

shoulders and went to his right. He clutched my hand tighter after that. We both didn’t say a

word to each other till we reached beneath the bridge from where I usually take the auto.

“I should leave now” I said and he nodded without looking up. No words this time from his

side. “Sorry Money, but you can’t come with me” I held his shoulders.

“Why…” he asked, his eyes beginning to get watery. Ready to leave the dam open, anytime

soon. It was the gate which my stood gaze and paralyzed tongue held closed. He was

saddened but not disappointed. He knew this day was about to come. I told him way back

when the news reached me from my parents.

I reached for an envelope from my back pocket and kept it in his palm, he wasn’t ready to

take it. “No” He said a little louder than his usual voice. It was the money I had saved from
months of pocket money. I didn’t listen to him, I know how it works to give an envelope and

just leave. I have mastered this art from childhood by seeing my relatives. I belong to a

Punjabi family. In Punjabi family, many relatives place the envelope in the palms of the

smallest member of the family then leave. They run outside to make sure that what they are

giving cannot be returned so that the other person has to keep what they have given.