Fiction: A Dalit lecturer at a Delhi college wonders if he can be ‘middle-class’ despite his caste

“Look at life only with the eyes of a small child, as if with the shock of discovery.” I said it softly, waving a fly away with a hand. How did a fly come into this restaurant, airconditioned and luxurious as it was? I said it, but could not decide if she could even understand it.

I also wanted to say that in life every single instant was as important for a new start as a full life. Also, that the world did not consist of the 10 or 20 selfish, violent people because of whom she had reached where she was now. They were but a corner of the world, stony and sharp, and the opposite of them were the soft and attractive parts like her, her mother, or my own father. That’s what made the world complete.

I knew that she would not understand all this. Maybe her lack of education was at fault. Her fifteen-year-old profession had set down roots in her brain which had sprouted their own tendrils. How, despite that, had she even kept alive her innocence; and more than that, her good humour? How had those not been scorched into cinders in the hot afternoon sun? Doubtless, the humour had wilted somewhat, but its life and warmth were far from dead.

“This is very important for you to know,” seeing her silent, I said after some time.

“Why?” The word fell out very softly from her lips.

There was no expression on her face as she said it. There was no curiosity in her brown eyes. She had no reaction to what I said…and no expectation of an answer to her question. The “why” was just a word, not even disguised as a question. It was a useless word, and an unwanted word.

It was not, of course, a useless or undesirable word for me. It had come from a place where the horizons of the mind get blurry, where dark and light meet intimately.

Her brown, silky hair was open and fell over her cheeks. The shampooed hair would fall on her eyes and she would keep pushing it back behind her ears. Then the hair would softly slip and fall and she would tuck it back again. This was annoying me, though her face had nothing but winning innocence on it.

Was she actually so lovely and innocent or was that just my imagination?

The last few days had driven me to this question. Her uplifted nose seemed to boast a kind of pride, but in her chin, soft as a risen bread, was the same innocence as in her eyes.

This happened last September, when we had first met. We had had long conversations on the phone but had not found the time to meet in person. Although she would be very keen to meet, but for me it was neither possible nor proper.

“How did you…” I paused, because I wanted to look into her eyes. She raised her eyes and looked questioningly at me, as I continued, “…begin to trust me?” I completed my question, trying to find the response in her eyes. If she had listened with her eyes down, she could have hidden her feelings. I wanted to get the answer to my question not from her lips, but her eyes.

“I don’t know” was all she could say, finding me staring. She kept running her fingers around the the edges of the round glass table. “I liked you…from the instant I saw you.” She stopped. “You seem very innocent.” She was still playing with the table. She raised her eyes, then lowered them. Her eyes were bright.

“Are you in love with me?” I whispered. There was an anxiety in the whisper.

I was worried about repeating these words from the past. I had got over the worry with deliberate smiles and force of will. But it had spilled over into my question. Long ago, my wife Vanjha had said these words to me. ‘And you?’ she asked, her brown eyes on me.

I had not expected her to turn the question around to me. I was silent. Not that the answer to the question was difficultfor me, but it was her answer I wanted. I had many questions, and the answers to all of them were with someone like her. Then the “someone like her” kept echoing in my ears. It was silenced after a long time.

“Love is blind,” seeing me silent, she said after some time.

“Perhaps love is multiply disabled…perhaps love is full of insecurities and very stubborn because of its many disabilities,” I said all this, but I was studying her face. She seemed to understand, but also not understand. She looked at me with her long-lashed brown eyes like a small, lovely child.

They were the first tingling days of spring. The air was losing its chill. The water kept at night, however, was still cold in the morning. Not so cold that you didn’t want to touch it, as it had been the month before. I had left home after a bath with water warmed up by the geyser.

Those days of spring were days of uncontrollable energy and leaping desire.

It was the middle of the day. The time for “Happy Hours” in Big Banana. “Happy Hours” meant a free beer on the purchase of a beer. She had already known this, and had explained it to me. I knew she would not let me pay the bill today either. She always insisted on paying our bills.

“This is for my pleasure. I want to pay for it”, she would insist. Although I did not have the means to pay those big bills, I would always argue out of politeness.

Excerpted with permission from Worlds Within Worlds, Ajay Navaria, translated from the Hindi by Nita Kumar, Niyogi Books.