Perfect amounts of cool and breezy tonight. Rare for Delhi - would probably last a week or two. September.

I take a detour and cut through one of the many alleyways that connect the concentric circles of Connaught Place. I find myself somewhat anxious and annoyed at a couple of things - think I should sit down and prepare. Not that it ever works. Smoking, I mean. Some people think it’s meditative - you go through the entire length of it, inhale/exhale. Easier to draw that parallel, I suppose. For me it just enables hyper-conjecturing. Like, it never really appeases any sort of anxiety. All it ever does is that it gives you just enough of a kick so you can then start rationalizing whatever you were previously overthinking about anyway during your episode of self absorption. So if you’re as addicted as I am you end up rewiring your brain into thinking that it might offer an escape from some anxiety you’re grappling with, but all it does is it just makes you hyper-focus on the same thing you’re trying to escape. It tapers off rather quickly though - hence the need to light another one up in a bit. The nicotine double bind, as I’ve grown to call it.

I sit down on the protrusion as I light one up around the nukkad that led me to this small, run-down tapri. A puff. Another one. I attempt blowing some rings: my jaw assumes a circular shape and I expand and contract it repeatedly, in quick succession. Only manage to cough up some pathetic smoke. How do people do this? My coughing has caught the attention of this dog who’s now glancing eagerly at me. I’ve been walking around these shady alleys of middle circle for as long as I can remember, and something I’ve always noticed is how fucking fat the dogs are around here. The gaudy neon of the tapri is hitting this one’s face just right - it looks perfectly astral in this moment. I inch towards it a bit, and try to pet it. It’s scared now, and has decided to move away instead. I follow its tread. That’s when I notice her - seems like she’s been here for a while.

So then as anyone who knows her would expect her to, she starts playing around with the dog with an earnestness I don’t think I’ll ever fully comprehend. She’s always had this - this uncanny ability to attract any bag of flesh and bones with some semblance of life towards her. There’s this brilliance to her white dress which has quickly taken up and adopted the pink of the alleyway’s neon. Her jewelry - which is always sparse, but always interesting - a drum key fashioned into a locket and her silver bracelets - have also conspired to reflect the sifting beams back. She’s hunched down, with her brilliant smile, rubbing the stray’s belly. I stub the cigarette butt in the corner, get up, and make my way towards her.

With equal parts hideous conceit and low self esteem, I start: “Shit, what took you so long? I’ve been here for a hot minute - a few, actually. Half an hour I think, more or less? You’re usually on time. I’m the one who’s disrespectful of other people’s time, remember?”

No response. She continues playing with the dog. I sigh internally - her priorities haven’t changed at all since the last time I saw her.

“Just like, chill? Use one of the thousand excuses you’ve used on people before and apply as appropriate.” she says as she gets up, “Couldn’t book an Uber on time, heavy traffic on outer ring road, friend got injured and I had to help because of course only I could help, etc. etc. Like just pick whatever suits you, man.” She pauses, and then smiles back brilliantly. “Now, handshake? It’s been a while!” she reaches out, gleaming. I shrug. She sighs. We hug and start walking silently alongside the circumference.

Initial silence. Initial awkwardness. Although I think ours is special (just like everyone probably thinks theirs is). We’re both self absorbed in an odd way; and when you’ve known someone for as long as I’ve known her, these self absorbed silences I’m going to posit can actually be somewhat comforting. Like it’s a silent acknowledgment wherein we both know that we’re dealing with proportionate excitement and resentment internally, and not knowing which route to take, we’re both grappling with a sentence, an opener, something to break the tension, a way out of this mental hellscape we’ve individually confined ourselves to, us two. Like I said, it’s comforting, knowing this. Some comforts you earn by just having known someone practically forever, even if the reasons why you got together in the first place have since died down and what’s left now is this sacred, sacred awkwardness.

“Man, you look like a different person every time I see you. I don’t even remember what it was the last time. You’d shaven your head, I think? Or was that last to last time?” I try to break the silence. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I’m fairly confident the bald posing was sometime back in college. I thought you had a halfway decent memory? Didn’t you proclaim as such?” she replies and stares back at me with questioning eyes that presume no answer. I smile.

“So how have you been?” I ask.

“Should’ve opened with that, dumdum. I’ve been good! Getting by. How have you been?” she’s exited her mental hell-for-one.

“Eh, surviving.” I reply.

“Wow, really? “Surrrviving” in that low, hopeless voice of yours. Are you hanging out with Gen Z girls again?” she’s being playful, I think. I feel a bit nervous.

“Hey, come on man.” I reply sheepishly as I hunch my head down a bit.

“Sorry. How’s uncle and aunty, how’s Vivek?” she asks.

“They’re good, actually. Mom’s finally listened - she’s trying to lose some weight. Like, fucking finally, right? Dad’s been okay too. I think he probably needs a new hobby or something. He’s past midlife crisis, I think. Vivek’s doing some research on some ADHD medicine. At his fourth publication now.” I tilt my towards her as I speak.

“God-damn!” she exclaims, in a thick New York accent. I wonder if it’s a casual mock imitation or if it’s actually rubbing off on her, New York that is.

“I know, right? Super proud of him.” I say as I shake my head and smile towards her.

“Honestly man, between the two of you, he’s always been the brighter. Always, without fail. And cuter, of course.”

“Yeah. He’s set a benchmark, hasn’t he? I feel like I’ll always be catching up to him.”

“Tell you something from personal experience?” she says as she slowly takes the cigarette packet from my hand and lights one up. “Sibling rivalry’s anything but healthy.”

“Reminds, how’s Shreya been?”

“Fuck if I know. I don’t hear much from her these days. Last I heard she’d moved to Paris for her PhD. Some shit in math. She was struggling with homesickness early on, that’s when she called me. Must be a few months ago. Called me every other day for the first month or so. And then it stopped,” she gives out a heavy sigh, spreads her arms out into nothingness and continues, now mockingly: “as it always does.”

“As it does.” I pause for a second, and gently nod my head. “So then, uncle and aunty, if you’re comfortable?” I inquire.

“I’m not, no.”

And then a longer pause.

“Annnnywayyy. Notice something different?” she asks, almost too cheerfully now.

“What, the bangs? They’re like, hard not to notice.” I reply, matter of factedly.

“And?” she stares at me, keenly.

“And what? If they look good to you I think they’re fine. Like, I dunno. Cute?” I say, a bit timorously.

“Shit, man.” she replies, as she rolls her eyes and gently shakes her head. “You’ve learnt nothing at all, I see.” she declares and points to The Bar.

We make our way inside and climb up to the rooftop. It’s fairly empty. Wednesday. The wind has calmed down a bit and what’s left now is this light, comforting chill. The Bar’s rooftop is covered by fairy lights spread out over artificial plants. This is something I’ve always been curious about - we’ve been frequenting this bar since our college days, both of us, and they’ve never swapped the artificial and clearly gaudy foliage out for some natural stuff. They easily could, it’s a fucking rooftop, after all. The music’s mellow, they’re playing Dark Side of The Moon again. We make our way to our table, the one we go to if it’s vacant, this table smack in the middle of the balcony, in line of sight of the doorway that leads to the rooftop. Both of us stare at each other, standing alongside our table and smiling patiently. On The Run has paved the way for Time, so we’re now waiting for the alarm bells to go off.

“You’d think we’d know better by now.” I continue, “And, like, I’m totally aware of the fact that this sounds like a total cliché - to open like that “we’d know better by now”. Like some indie album title or some shit. But like think about it. They say you can add the knowledge of your predecessors, the wise ones, to your own. You talk about all these philosophers over different movements in history. So you go out and read them. Nevermind the reasons. You think you’ve added to your maturity. It’s natural, normal to be feeling like that - adding all that wisdom to your own psyche. You use them as teachers, as sign posts, all that. These books and articles and essays…”

“If I may,” she interjects. “Easy on the alcohol, alright? You’ve turned lightweight since. Either take the sobriety route completely or go slowly on the drinks. There’s no fucking rush, I’ll be here for a bit.” she says, pauses, and smiles. I curl my lips and pretend a half smile before starting again.

“I’m not that drunk. Anyway. Books and articles, right? So you read them. You’re curious. You search online, ask for recommendations. You read them and get new insight - all by people who were probably writing maybe to help themselves, maybe to make sense of their own confusing contexts, and maybe had one or two good ideas that yes totally make sense, is why those ideas have survived after all; but since you haven’t personally experienced those, does it mean anything? Like whatever led them to that realization, whatever happened and/or entailed in their personal lives. Isn’t the affect hollowed out? You make an annotation of the connotation of the denotation..”

“Did you just,” she starts laughing now. “How many times did you practice that sentence? It’s fucking terrible! No one talks like that. Come the fuck on, dude?” her laugh grows louder.

“Only last night. Stop fucking interrupting me! Fuck, I forgot. What was I saying?” I feel a bit woozy and confused.

“Annotation connotation denotation…” she replies, still laughing. “You’re a classical idiot, you know that?”

“And you laugh a bit too much.” Don’t know if I’m amused or annoyed.

“You’re even funnier when you’re trying to be serious, not my fault. And so, very cute.” she says.

“Whatever. Anyway. I don’t think it makes sense, does it, to add all that maturity and wisdom to your own arsenal without supplying experience? I think it’s cool for dinner table conversations. Like it maybe gets people to think you’re more mature than you really are, but then isn’t it all some sort of performance, about the only thing reading anything serious is good for?”

She takes a pause and heaves a sigh. “Done?”

“Yeah. Look I’m not saying reading’s bad, per se,” I hesitate a bit. “I think you really have to supply some experience to it though, if you really want to know what it’s all about, whatever this is.” I say as I raise my hands up and gesture into the aether.

“Wow, veeeerry original, that one.” she replies back, mockingly.

“Would you fucking stop with the sardonic shit man, come on!” I say and finally break into controlled laughter in the middle of my sentence. So does she.

“No I mean I was serious. At least halfway serious.” she says, now giggling to herself. “You want to dance? Like I’m tired of listening to this tirade. How did we get started on this shit anyway?”

“You said that you felt like God speaks through us. Which sounds like the most stoner shit ever. What I think is just a regular interior monologue. I don’t think that’s God, that’s like, literally I mean, that’s your own voice that wants you to cope somehow.” I say as I light another cigarette. “I am NOT sure how we got to philosophers and reading and I think I am somewhat drunk now.”

Her eyes suddenly gleam.

“Dude, you know who you just reminded me of? Like you remember that meme, this guy shouting into this girl’s ear, the one where he’s like probably going on endlessly about something she’s clearly very disinterested in? Remember?”

“Fuck. You.” I think with her I feel a range of emotions that oscillate so quickly across the entire fucking spectrum that just in a single course I’m left with half of my brain circuits fried.

“Hey, at least I wasn’t completely disinterested. I was at least 20% interested, give or take. Now, dance?”

“Right yeah fuck it it’s been a while anyway.” I say as I stub the cigarette into the ashtray.

We start climbing down the stairs, making our way to the dance floor. She starts grooving around a bit, which proves to be dangerous - her right heel trips and she falls down a couple of stairs onto the wider one that connects the arching staircase. Then she’s just lying there and as I rush towards her, she starts laughing uncontrollably. Her left knee’s scraped and lightly bleeding but I don’t think she’s noticed that yet. I take my handkerchief out and start wiping it down. She’s laughing even more now.

“Stop laughing what the fuck?”

She continues laughing even more.

“I’m not hurt,” she looks at me, mocks sorrow in her eyes and lowers her voice a few registers, and then speaks softly: “Not yet, at least.“ There’s a second and then the laughter comes back. I finish wiping, throw my handkerchief in the corner dustbin and get up.

“Fuck’s wrong with you man.” I say, dejectedly.

“So how did you like my sad hoe impersonation?” her laugh’s finally tapering off.

“Self awareness is fucking overrated is all I’ll say. Get up.” I say as I extend my palm towards her.

So then we make our way to the dance floor. Um. One thing I should probably mention now is that The Bar’s never had a real dance floor, per se. There’s just this huge empty area in the middle, where they’ve never bothered putting tables in because legend has it that a decade or so ago when The Bar was established and they couldn’t afford to fill out this middle area with some tables and chairs, some drunk couple started dancing to some Rafi tune, and they danced so well that the entirety of the audience left whatever they were discussing with intense vigor and took notice, and so did The Bar owner, who then found it so captivating that he all but made an internal (later: external) declaration right then and there that that area is to always be left empty (I call bullshit because who dances to fucking Rafi anyway?) He said he wanted some drunk couple someday to do what that couple did again, to capture that magic once more, but I don’t think history’s repeated itself yet. What he did manage to capture however was a little polaroid of them, which why he had an instant camera present at the occasion I don’t even know, or don’t remember, but then neither does he. Their faces are a blur however, the couple’s: polaroids are not exactly at the cutting edge of photography anymore and so struggle with arresting people so much as just wiggling about.

The floor is dimly lit, with more neon again pouring out from makeshift little disco lights, which I now find awkward because it’s not a fucking dance floor is it so what are those lights doing here anyway? I hold her hands and she starts grooving about, and then we start dancing.

A soft kiss. Another. Then some tiny distance between our lips.

“But what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m not sure. Like, you sort of need to know this. I think you have to,” she continues kissing. “Stop. Listen.”

“Dikkat kya hai, what now?” she sounds a bit consolatory as she tilts her head back a bit.

“I’m not sure, man.” I say, timorously.

“You’re not suuuure?” she’s staring at me now. I’m trying to avoid her gaze.

“I don’t know. This is wrong, isn’t it? And would you fucking stop with that sardonic tone of yours, come on man.”

She breaks into a sombre little smile. “But we weren’t supposed to let your morals and ethics and principles get between us, were we. Not that we see each other often. Not like you’re dating anyone anyway.”

“Hey, I might be. How would you know, you’re absent most of the time.” I sound a bit edgy, I think.

“It’s the air around you, dude.”

“What?”

And then more kissing. It’s my limbic fighting my cortex, I think. Or so I read somewhere. I try to bite her ear, but instead end up biting into her earring and chip my tooth a bit.

“Behenchod. What the fuck, thought you hated earrings?” I say as I try to check up on my incisors.

She starts laughing and we kiss again. And then we stop to catch our breaths.

She’s now leaning across the barricade in the sparse empty lot. Her eyes glisten as they reflect the yellow of the floodlights in inner circle, beaming against the blackness of her deeply black, dilated pupils. They remind me of space, of galaxies. I feel like I should tell her this. Instead I light another cigarette.

“So,” I say as I light my cigarette. “How’s the, um,” one flick, another. “Work situation?”

“Really, now you’re thinking about the work shit? Small talk’s for the first hour, dude.” she’s smiling again.

“You know, they say sarcasm is the proverbial message in a bottle in which the most depressed among us send their last cries for help, you know that?” I reply. Just for one second I wish she’d stop rebutting with sarcasm.

She asks for a cigarette too and then snatches the lighter from my hand. Then thumps the paper tube against her clenched fist, then clink burn clank in a split-second and before I know it the paraphernalia is back in my pocket. And then she blows a few rings. How do people do that?

“All of us are fucked up, one way or another. Sarcasm’s got nothing to do with it. Who said that shit anyway?”

“Pata nahi. Read that somewhere. Don’t remember.”

“Anyway. Work’s been alright, don’t know what to tell you on that front. It’s an advertising firm. Do you even know what one usually does at an advertising firm, people like me?”

“No, not really.” I say and inhale/exhale.

“Then it’s pointless and I’m not going to educate you on the specifics. I don’t think you’d be interested anyway.” she says.

“Then tell me about New York. Living the dream? The Ameeeerrican dream?” I’m trying to imitate her cynical intonation to piss her off but instead she ends up laughing. I wonder if she’s manic.

“American dream died decades ago. More like American nightmare. Or you could actually call it a dream if you like living with drug addicts, working with drug addicts, and walking around with drug addicts plaguing the streets. The drugs change, of course - socioeconomic realities, all that.” she says.

“Right, drugs. What else?”

“People,” she starts, halts, then mocks a cough and bows. “Drug addicts, I mean,” then her beaming smile’s back again. “They try to push you on to the subway tracks if you’re on the edge. That’s something I was warned about early on when I had moved in, but I think they’ve limited themselves to murdering Asian Asians and not us brown Asians.” she says as she gets rid of the cigarette butt.

“Wow you’ve really sold that city to me, haven’t you.” I flick the cigarette butt away, her eyes chase the trail.

“Look, dude, I’m literally broke most of the time and most of the comforts that that city can even possibly provide are in a future so far and improbable that it makes my depression worse just thinking about it. And fuck you,” she throws a full punch at my arm, with full intent. “Stop fucking littering? Just stub it across the wall and throw it in this bin, look. Are you fucking blind. Like behenchod, I just did it?”

“Ouch, sorry.” I walk towards the butt and do what’s been implied.

We stare at each other intently again and a soft kiss follows.

“When are you leaving then?” I ask, after a bit.

“Next week. Although fuck, dude. I’d leave tomorrow if I could. That woman,” I sense unadulterated contempt as she takes a deep breath. “Anyway, yeah, next week.” I know better not to poke clearly open wounds. I’ve learnt.

“And when are you planning on being back, then?”

“Not for some time now. I’m not sure if I want to, honestly.” I feel a vague anxiety.

“Yeah, that’s understandable. Kinda liked seeing you, just in case you couldn’t tell”

“Of course you did. But look, I can’t. You know that. You’ve always known that.” she says and looks away.

“Yeah, I get it. I don’t think you have to explain that shit to me at this point. I think the last time’s burnt into my memory.”

“And yet you forgot my damn hairstyle, dumdum.”

“You really think I did?”

“Nah. You don’t have to explain your memory to me at this point, either.” she smiles back.

Our bodies move a bit apart. A brief pause. A gust of wind blows her hair across her face and she tries to react back. Then she gives up and looks back at me and chuckles a bit. We kiss again.

“Never?”

“Not for some time, at least. I’m not even sure if we’ll get to see each other again if I ever come back,” she says and lets out a small, mirthless laugh. More internal unease - that wasn’t what I had intended to ask. I try to create some distance between us.

“What have you been up to otherwise?” she asks as she tilts her head forwards and inches closer.

“Nothing much,” I mumble, and look away. “The usual. Work’s alright. Paying the bills. All that.”

“Right. Well at least the work’s alright with you.” her sardonic tone’s back.

“For now, yes. I dunno. I think I might get promoted soon.”

“Shit, we’ve got to celebrate that. Call me or something whenever that happens!”

“I’ll try to, but I’d have preferred it if you were around, you know.”

“Or,” she suggests. “You could come visit me sometime. The United States of Advertising isn’t all that bad, you know?”

“Really? You sure didn’t sell it all that well just a second ago.”

“I mean, it’s terrible most of the time. But it has its moments. At least New York does. Like we could perhaps take the ferry to Staten Island and like watch the sunset across the city’s skyline. Tell me that’s something you wouldn’t want.”

“I would,” I think she can probably tell that I’m already daydreaming. Or dreaming dreaming, it’s night, after all. “Yes. I’d want that.”

“Look! You’re already fucking lost in thoughts! No funny business on the ferry, dumdum.” she laughs.

“Hey, I’m trying to be more pragmatic these days, man. I don’t think romance has worked out well for me.” I say, feeling both glum and anxious now. “Not this one, at least.” I think I ended up projecting some of the glum out.

More silence. I adjust my posture and we start walking towards the metro station entrance now.

“You remember that poem?” she asks, after a bit.

I’m a bit confused.

“About the red saree I wore on some college event. Yaad aaya?”

“Oh, that one. You remember it?” I ask, veiling surprise.

“Not only that, I might still have it - assuming the bitch hasn’t thrown my stuff away.”

“You never intend to get along with her, do you?”

“Of course not. But I’m NOT ABOUT to give thanks or APOLLLOGIIISEEEEE…”

“Shit, the Vedder phase. Shiiiit. The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just some stupid video game quote I adore.” I say as I try to take another cigarette out. She snatches it from my hand, the entire box, and whatever’s remaining inside of it.

“This was going to be what, the tenth one just this evening? What the fuck? Stop?”

“I think it’s impulsive.” No, it’s just a response to some anxiety as I’ve told you. I don’t know which one it is this time, though.

“Aunty’s alright with it? I think she’d called me once, back in the day, convince you to quit and all. I think she always thought of me as the better person. Didn’t have it in me to tell her that I got you into cigarettes in the first place.”

“She’s alright. I told her I needed something. Like how dad drinks once every month or so. Except I can’t afford fucking alcohol. Messes with the routine. And weed makes me dumb and hazy and sleepy. Anyway, what about the poem?”

“What poem?” she says, and then immediately, “Oh, yeah. I think I’ll try to find it. Just, you know. A fond memory and all, from back when we were kids.” she says.

“We’re still kids, dumbfuck.” I say and bump my shoulder against her a bit as we continue walking. “I don’t even know how a grown up navigates this fucking nightmare.” I think I should ask for my packet back, my anxiety needs some resolution.

“I’ll mail you the map if I find it. Anyway, still writing? I think you were more into prose than poetry back then.”

“I don’t, actually. I think that was a childish fantasy anyway - I grew up worshipping books and music, so it was either me fantasizing about sick guitar solos or about writing the most profound shit on the planet someday. Where I explain the same profound shit about complex geopolitical matters of scale beyond any single human’s understanding on some TV interview. And people would nod and agree because I’d answer so coolly and confidently and they’d herald me to win the next Nobel Prize in literature, after Tagore.”

“Could’ve just fantasized about women, like normal guys do. Or even fast, gaudy cars.”

“Oh, I did. A fair bit. Maybe more than that. Still do.”

“What, women or cars?”

“Take a damn guess? All said and done, I’m still fairly average. So both. Both women and cars. But also guitar solos and writing. I think it adds some personality. And let’s be real, you wouldn’t even be talking to me right now if I wasn’t fucked in the head in some way.”

She laughs. We reach the station entrance and stall for a minute. I should really ask back for my pack.

Instead, I start, “You know one of the first times I actually wrote? Like sat down and actually wrote, pen and paper and the whole shebang?”

“Nope. Kab?” she stares back at me.

“I don’t know why, it’s this memory that’s probably surfaced,” I take a pause. “Probably because you asked about writing and shit.” I smile. “I translated this story. It was in our Hindi curriculum back then. I think I must be 13 or something? It was about this black dog. Abandoned - an object of pity. I think it was perhaps the writer projecting his own abandonment wounds or something.”

“Stop with the fucking analysis, fuck. What was it about?”

“I don’t remember much. Like it was more than a decade ago. I just remember that it was about this abandoned dog, slowly dying. Who had caught some tick fever or some shit. Everybody pitied it, but no one really wanted to get close to it, to help it. It was too fucked up for anyone to be able to anything about. So then it mostly just stared longingly at every passer by, every day. And then later on it died, something like that.”

“That sounds fucked up. Why translate that? I’m surprised it was even a part of the curriculum.”

“I think there was a point to it all. I don’t know. I was 13, and I remember I was maybe the only person in our classroom who was obsessed with that story. I discovered while translating it how terrible my English really was. But I guess I wanted to do that anyway because my parents were away that night and I wanted to surprise them - look, how did I do, all that. No one really talked in English at our house back then. Not that they do now.” I say and take a brief pause. “Anyway, I had just started reading those Harry Potter books, I think Deathly Hallows had just been released, and that was the first time I realized I could actually read full length novels in English. Of course I didn’t realize it back then that HP books were practically written for kids. So I bought it on release at some bookstore around Kashmere Gate where some newspaper stand had it on display. I think it cost about a thousand bucks. I bought it from stolen money, which I think my parents did eventually figure out. I mean, it was fairly tough, keeping the damn book hidden; tougher still to read it furtively. But then I didn’t actually get punished for that - they were just impressed that I could read an English book of that girth, all by myself, without any help.”

“Hey,” she interrupts. “Fuck Harry Potter. Stop digressing. Dog story, continue?”

“Ah, sorry. So anyway, I was like, yeah, I can probably also write in English, you know? Like, might as well try it. So I started by translating. And so this Diwali my parents went away for some pooja somewhere and left me alone at home. I remember being extremely annoyed at all the halla outside so I stayed in and translated that dog story. They came back after a while and I showed them what I’d been working on.”

“And how did they receive it?” she asks as she tilts one final time towards me with questioning eyes.

“I don’t think I remember, not anymore.” I say as I inch closer towards her to fare her well, and then she’s descending down the stairs.