Kabir

The second night we were out there, alone together, it began to snow. We woke up to a world that had been remade without colour. There was whiteness wherever you looked, and the sun turned everything to crystals. It was so still you could hear the trees breathing. It didn’t stop for five days. There was 4 feet of snow on the ground, and we were completely cut off. No one could get through to us. It was like someone had erased the world around us.

So, we drank tea and we talked. How we talked! About love. About death. About good and evil, and why we both hated the old men who ruled our country.

I wanted to know about college. About a normal life. About how teenagers in India lived their ordinary, wonderful lives. College seemed a wonderful world of fun and hanging out. My ideas of it were drawn from Hindi films where there was never a book in sight and everyone dressed like models and did a lot of singing. He laughed when I painted this picture and said there wasn’t as much singing. Even without that and with the addition of exams, it still sounded awesome to me. Mostly, I guess, because I would never make it there.

I asked a million questions. I made him describe the building, the students, the teachers. Festivals. Hanging out at the canteen. Friends. Games. The more he told me, the more I longed for his life. But I knew I could never fit in. I didn’t even know what a cappuccino was. Aman saw my hunger, and he began to teach me.

There we were, in the middle of nowhere. A terrorist learning to be a gentleman from his hostage.

Aman would lay an imaginary table, and we would eat imaginary things with imaginary cutlery. He would describe the meal. ‘This is an official dinner for the new superintendent of police. The menu has been printed on little cards and it’s right there in front of you. We’re going to begin with a prawn cocktail.’

He had already taught me what a cocktail was. But this was new. ‘We’re going to drink prawns?!’

‘No. A prawn cocktail isn’t a drink. It’s a salad with prawns in it. You use the little fork to eat it.’

What sumptuous meals we had! I dined with the local MLA. With the lady Governor. I ate in five-star hotels, at fancy restaurants and at government guest houses. We even did a meal at the ambassador’s residence in Moscow. Aman explained what caviar was. ‘Fish eggs. The Russians love them. We got them served on boiled eggs. They were offended that I wouldn’t touch mine.’

We dressed up for each dinner. With a piece of string, Aman would demonstrate how to fasten a tie. My shawl would become a coat. An achkan. An overcoat with a fur collar that he’d once worn on a short trip to Moscow in the winter.

We hung out at his college. He described all his friends as they joined us. We sat in his class and listened to his professors. He taught me fads, slang, what was in and what was old and dead.

I borrowed his life, and he let me. He made me a gift of it and just watched me with those sad eyes of his as I tried it on for size.

Amanbhai. I don’t know when it slipped out of my mouth. But it seemed so correct, it was what I called him after that. We were unlikely brothers.

Then one day, he told me about her.

‘So, do you have a girlfriend?’ I couldn’t resist asking. Aman was silent for a long time. Then his eyes lit up in a slow smile.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And she has me.’

‘What is she like?’

He took some time to reply. ‘The first time I saw her, people were going crazy around her—shouting, jumping, dancing. And she was standing still, a smile on her face. That’s what she is, really. Still. Calm. A small, peaceful space where the world vanishes and I can just stop and rest.’ His love for her was dancing in his voice. ‘She doesn’t talk much. But when she sings. Ah. It’s like she’s breathing in air and breathing out light. It is so beautiful.’

I was listening, entranced. ‘Is she beautiful?’

‘Yes. Very beautiful. But when you really love someone, it doesn’t matter what they look like. It’s them that you love. She’s beautiful inside and outside.’ He smiled and softly said the words of one of his poems.

What is God?

A paltry thing.

When she laughs

He slips from my mind

And is gone.

I was jealous. I too wanted a love like that. A girl whose laughter shook everything, even God, from my mind.