Sashi will emerge from her room on the roof-top just before sunset, remove the clothespins, fold the row of clothes―striped purple sari, blue, billowy salvar, hand-embroidered blouse, grass green skirt―at which point, Amir will rise from his chair, book in hand, as if he wasn’t waiting for her, as if he’s a scholar who chooses to study on the terrace of his house. But this afternoon, she comes out at 4:30 and his eyes drink in the six-yard length of sari that hugs her body with delicate roses, like a garden of pink flowers. He peers to see if her overbearing father has followed her before he walks over with a nonchalant stride, leans over the parapet and asks, “Returned early today?” A month ago, she told him she works in a bookstore after college classes to make a little pocket money.
Their homes sit so close he could jump onto their terrace in one leap and even as he eyes the distance, thoughts crowd and brim, but he reins them in because of the nature of their friendship―how could he define it?―which means he must keep the conversation formal. What he wants to tell her is that he saw her at Chai and Kofi House with Manish, that his heart ripped then, that he hated to watch her lean forward to lick Manish’s ice cream cone, to watch him wipe her mouth with the cuff of his shirt, likely getting lipstick―a brick red her father would never permit―on the material and he wants to ask about that relationship but doesn’t, because Sashi and he can only exchange pleasantries about the weather, her exams, or her work, because he longs for an impossibility, because the families follow different religions, because her father could emerge on the terrace at any time, drag her in.
Her face is pale as she unclips the clothes, wisps of hair escaping untethered from her braid, mouth set in a grim line, eyes staring into the distance. Because she doesn’t answer, he repeats his question, at which she turns to him, rubs her forehead and says, “Just tired today.” He wants to vault onto her terrace, wants to put his arms around her, instead, he presses his hands on the ledge. The surface feels rough-bumpy under his palms as he stares at the dried bird-droppings decorating the cemented length, as he weighs whether it would be appropriate to probe some more, then says, “I’m sorry,” a feeble, inadequate pair of words, as ridiculous hope flickers that her issue might not be physical, it might mean she’s finished with Manish. He wants to add, “Get some rest,” but right then, Sashi picks up her stack of clothing and leaves.
Minutes later, words thunder next door and her father’s bellows spill outside through the open windows, “Disgraceful! For this, I send you to college?” followed by her mother’s plaintive pleas to keep it down because, “What will the neighbors say?” Amir paces the terrace, hand pressed to chest, aching to know more, but someone at Sashi’s house slams the windows shut so he must crane his neck to catch the scrambled shouting, to hear objects thudding and breaking inside her house.
He sits on the parapet until the neighbors turn off their lights, until the street goes dark, until stray dogs chorus-howl, after which he locks himself in his room and turns on the radio, volume set to low, antennae trained on the house next door, but at midnight, his mother knocks and says, “Turn it off! We’re trying to sleep,” so he fluffs his pillow and sits upright, sinking into a fitful doze. He dreams of flying to Sashi, propelling himself across the space between their rooftops, then wakes to renewed commotion at Sashi’s house. He sprints up to the terrace. Amid the hurl and torrent of curses, he catches the muffled, yet unmistakable ding of stainless steel flung against tiled floor. He slumps over the ledge. “What a useless mother,” her father roars. “Couldn’t you keep your daughter on a leash?”
At night, Amir dreamt of launching off his terrace to land on Sashi’s. Now he clenches his fists as he leans over the parapet, coarseness of cement digging into his elbows. A flash of color captures his eye. He squints in the bright sunshine. Yesterday, the rose-printed sari hugged Sashi’s body like a garden of flowers. This morning, the length of knotted fabric hangs outside her window, undulates. A gust of wind tug-rips, allows the sari to float. He releases his fists, straightens, walks away.
