Seahorse (9 page)

“Hooky Bitter, Old Ember, Harvest Pale, Worthington White Shield, Old Speckled Hen… and my favorite… Sheepshaggers.”

One day, he declared, when he was done teaching the evolution of Bengali culture from the seventeenth to nineteenth century, he'd write a book on the anthropology of brewing.

“Beer culture and the politics of identity.”

It was, I concurred, a worthy follow-up.

Through the large windows, on the sidewalk, I could see people out on their evening run, mothers pushing baby strollers, shoppers with bulging Waitrose bags, students wandering past to and from one of the many colleges clustered near Russell Square, corporate workers in their suits and air of self-assurance. The city of London I imagined as a giant clockwork being, fueled by souls. By Santanu. By the Pre-Raphaelite bartender. Even, somehow, myself. Every interaction, a ripple, moving beyond our sight.

Santanu, who was checking his phone, said, “Eva's coming, but she might be a little late.” He added, “We're invited to drinks at her place this evening.”

Eva was his English-Japanese friend; she worked at the institute, organizing events, conferences and festivals, showing up always meticulously attired in slim pencil dresses the color of peacocks.

“My grandmother sends me silk from Osaka,” she told me once. “I never buy clothes in this country. The English only wear beige.”

Santanu downed the last of his Guinness. “Another?”

I hastened to finish my pint. “No, not if you prefer I didn't slur during my reading.”

Inside, the room was carved into niches by bookshelves running all the way up to the low ceiling, neatly divided by geography. Nations—Japan, China, India—and the more all-encompassing Middle East, South Asia, Africa. Up front, a space had been cleared for chairs and tables, armed with glasses and bottled water. While Santanu greeted people, I quietly lost myself in the crowd. I was good at this, being as inconspicuous as a corner chair or a potted plant. Besides, it was difficult to feel out of place in a bookshop, where I could pretend to browse,
slipping books off the shelves, carefully tracing my fingers along their spines. For a while, I studied the Chinese woodblock prints on the wall, intricately lined figures on cool peppermint-blue paper. And the Islamic calligraphy of Bihnam Al-Agzeer, whose words become pictures.

I stood at the edge and studied faces, none of whom were recognizable or familiar. Looking back now, I'd attribute the pre-event hum with an air of serendipity. Something, I was certain, was about to happen. In a corner, I spotted a pot of fragrant rosemary. And rosemary, as we all know, is for remembrance.
Pray, love, remember.

At the shelf, it slipped from my hands to the floor, a book of Cavafy's poems.

An echo of the days of pleasure.

Even if it could merely have been my nervous anticipation of the evening.

We were gathered for a literary reading, part of the Kaagaz Series organized twice a year by The Asian House in London. Their guest “curator” this time was Santanu. I held the pamphlet in my hand—the cover carried a composition, explosive and colorful, of a contemporary mandala, ringed circles of delicate floral patterns, fantastical beasts, glimpses of the cosmos. I flipped through the pages, thick and inky, marking my name,
my
name would be reading a “work in progress”. Scrawled hastily in a notebook, a last-minute print out thrust into my pocket. The words seemed unfamiliar, as though a different self had set them down.

“Which one would you like?” I'd asked Santanu, holding out my literary offerings.

As RLF Fellow at the institute, he'd invited me to contribute.

He was unfussy. “What do you have that can fill three pages?”

Around me, the crowd had swelled, and the bookstore buzzed with the murmur of conversation. White faces, and brown, a man in a turban, a woman wearing a shade of pink lipstick I could see from across the room. Another in an embroidered kaftan. Someone hastened through
the door, the color of her coat catching my eye—fitted and belted in stil de grain yellow. Eva. And following close behind, a lady I'd sometimes seen around the institute. She was dressed more demurely, in a navy top coat, and a petite felt-corsage beret. Two familiar faces and no other.

That's when I noticed him, a solitary golden-haired youth.

Perhaps because of the birds.

He was standing under a flight of red paper swallows hanging in the corner, swaying slightly, touched by an invisible hand. Tall and slender, he wore skinny jeans and a tweed coat he hadn't taken off indoors. Settled over his features, finely etched as they were, was the unmistakable mark of boredom.

Soon, we readied for the event; I followed the other writers taking their places. People shuffled around choosing seats, the back rows filled up while the front remained stoically empty. A few chairs away to my left, Santanu tapped the microphone—“Good evening, everyone… important things first, there
is
wine after…”

The room rippled with laughter.

The next half hour was filled with small speeches and readings—a poet from Taiwan, a writer from Hong Kong, the Nepalese artist who'd contributed the cover art. Soon, I heard my name—“our Royal Literary Fund Fellow from India…”, the title of the journal I worked for in Delhi.

“Thank you, Santanu.” My voice was soft, too soft. Louder next time. I didn't want to lose everyone to whispers. While I read, the room fell silent, apart from a sudden car horn outside, and a jangling cell phone. The person stopped the ringing, but stepped out to answer the call.

I stumbled over the word “obfuscate” and wished I'd never used it in the first place. Perhaps this was the wrong piece to be reading. I'd picked something I'd written on a photography exhibition of Delhi in the 1970s, inspired by a review I'd read on Rembrandt that spoke of “reversing the gaze.” The reviewer imagined the painter's self-portraits coming alive at night, in the quiet of the gallery, and I did the same—
I can see them, those grainy black-and-whites frozen on the wall, prisoners of paper and light. They are ghosts—the people in the photographs, the city, the photographer herself. These multiple selves spill from the frames, and the rooms, though empty, fill with shadows…

The writer endowed Rembrandt's paintings with sight, envisioning how they had watched the centuries move past before them, the faces they, in turn, had seen. When I reached the end, I read slower, lingering on my treasured line:
As you stand looking at them, they look back. Sometimes, a photograph reviews you.

I glanced up. It was disconcerting, to see everyone's eyes turned to me. I was glad I'd finished. Eva and her friend were quietly conferring; I caught Eva's eye and she smiled.

The blonde youth at the back was checking his phone.

My reading was followed by one more, and then it was over.

The wine was brought out in gaiety and an impromptu bar set up in a corner. People walked around holding long-stemmed glasses, seeming to know each other so fondly and casually. Clusters gathered around Santanu and the Nepalese artist. Out of nowhere, Eva appeared at my shoulder. “Nem, you were marvellous.”

Compliments tend to made me nervous; I laughed. “Well… thank you,” I said, trying to salvage some degree of graciousness.

“No, really. Tamsin thought so too…” She turned to make quick introductions. Tamsin was the in-house designer at the Institute. “She makes all those beautiful posters and programmes for our events.” Her friend, like Eva, had dark hair—though longer, falling loose over her shoulders—and she was taller, her frame more voluptuous. Something about her made me think of the British women's magazines my grandmother collected from the '60s. The Russian-red lips and cat-eye make-up, the slim-fit cigarette pants and beaded top. I thanked her for coming; charmingly she said it was quite alright in an accent, slight but noticeable, that I couldn't place.

“Are you”—I plucked it from out of thin air—“Scottish?”

“Close.” Her mouth tilted into a smile. “I'm from Cornwall.”

“You're coming over later, aren't you?” asked Eva.

I hesitated.

She placed an arm on mine. “Do come… it'll be a small crowd.”

I said I'd see her there.

Eva reached out in a way few people did in this city. Nobody had told me London could also be terribly lonely.

Heading to the bar for a refill, I was accosted—the blonde youth stood before me. He was still wearing his winter coat. Perhaps he just couldn't wait to leave.

He held out a copy of the pamphlet, and a pen.

“Could you sign this for me, please?” He was holding it open to the page with my excerpt.

A strange request, but who was I to argue? Isn't this what writers do?

“Who shall I address it to?” I asked.

The boy's skin was delicately pale, and reddened where it had been touched by the cold.

“Nicholas, please.”

My pen stayed poised above the page.

“Is anything the matter?” the youth asked. He looked faintly amused.

“Not at all.” I wrote it out. Nonchalant.

“And could you sign it “From Nehemiah?””

I was about to sign “Nem”—it was brief, convenient, and no one called me Nehemiah.

Apart from one person.

“Did he send you?”

The boy cocked his head, like a bird. “I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Who are you?”

Instead of a reply, he handed over a slim white envelope.

I stood speechless as he darted back into the crowd. By the time it struck me to follow, the fleet-footed messenger was at the door. He pushed it open and was gone.

I remember the first time Nicholas took me swimming.

One afternoon, we walked out the bungalow and headed away from the Ridge Forest, onto Raj Niwas Marg. We edged closer to the city, the roar of traffic and cycle bells growing louder, until we crossed the wide expanse of Sham Nath Marg.

“Where are we going?”

“Almost there.”

The road was narrower, and to the left rose a white, colonnaded building, set away from the street, sheltered from the onslaught of the city by a sprawling lawn and rows of palm trees. Only when he turned in at the gate did I realize where we were headed.

A five-star hotel. One of those places I couldn't imagine stepping into—Delhi was like that, set into levels of wealth and access.

“Are you sure…” I looked down at my jeans, my sandals. Nicholas was in a plain white shirt, but it was pristine and expensive.

“Of course…” He touched my arm. “We'll walk round to the back from the lawns. They know me here… they won't make a fuss.”

The place was strangely empty—perhaps, because it wasn't yet high tourist season, or the newer hotels in south Delhi were proving more popular. We crossed manicured lawns, and walked through a small latched gate.

The pool lay clear and blue and shimmery.

I'd never seen anything more beautiful.

I changed and showered, and carefully tucked my hair under a scalp-tight swimming cap, straightened my trunks. I looked ridiculous. My legs too long. My stomach flat but un-sculpted. But I could do this,
I told myself, looking away from the mirror. I was grateful to Nicholas for so much, and I could do this.

For him, almost anything.

When I emerged, he was already in the pool. And like all good swimmers, he made it look easy. Each movement perfectly timed—the push, the lift, the breath of air, the turn. I too would learn how to glide through water. I was certain of it, up until the edge of the pool.

“Come on in… you're in the shallow bit.” Nicholas was on the other end, hanging on to the edges with his arms up on either side, smiling.

The steps quivered underwater, playing tricks on my sight. They changed shape and position. They weren't really there. Sculpted only by shadow and light. But my feet found them, and I sank, lower and lower, until—a moment of panic—there was seemingly endless space before I touched the bottom.

The water was warm, it rose up to my chest, below my shoulders. I laughed.

I tried walking, it was like pushing through something far thicker than I'd imagined, solid and liquid at the same time. I kept my arms up, like a bird, to push myself forward. I could tell the ground was dipping lower, but I ventured forward, keen to impress. To show I was as comfortable as he was in this space.

He leaned back, his face to the sky. In a moment I would reach him.

But the world suddenly fell away beneath me. All I needed to do was heave myself up and move behind to safety, but I didn't know, I hadn't learned yet. I flung my hands out instead, reaching for something concrete; they slid through water like air.

I lurched back, trying to throw the water off my face, my eyes, my mouth, but there was so much of it. Surrounding me endlessly.

Underwater, something stops. There is no time. No sound apart from a low roar of silence. I remember feeling—not thinking—that this would go on forever.