Our conversation begins the way most conversations happen when people meet in the city after nervous gaps in contact. Vanya and I were friends from University. We came from different places, but settled in the city after eight long years of fruitless academic careers. Vanya joined a human rights organization, while I remained confusedly stubborn to the idea of sacrificing a professional life in order to become a writer. I recollected meeting Vanya the first time outside the classroom. I wanted to go up and say hello, but I couldn't break the glass of silence. The silence of a face always turns me silent. How to break someone else's silence?

I was meeting her in two hours, after two years. It is difficult to be aware of the time that has passed, after a point. I had changed since the days at the university. I had finally learnt to speak, and speak uncomfortably. I had broken the glass of silence with a glass of alcohol. Glass breaks glass. A friend told me I suffered from a persecution complex. That is possible, as a number of people at the university had heard my story of persecution growing up as a refugee in Assam. For five years, we lived in fear. We were called “foreigners.” Our homes were stoned. People were murdered. I grew up watching policemen in the streets roaming more freely than we could. They protected us as we received news of ourselves through foreign radio stations. The football lying in the corner of the room looked as desolate as my own face. I must have lost my tongue then.

I was excited about meeting Vanya. She always spoke her mind, be it about people or ideas, or more importantly, feelings. I thought of us together during those days, but I did not take any steps towards it. I am not sure why. I was attracted to her and the beautiful possibilities of our conversation. My idea of love was nothing less than an endless conversation. Vanya suited it perfectly. We chatted on campus roads. We chatted while having lunch at the delicious and cheap canteen, behind the library. We chatted on the plateau of rocks where we would carry booze and snacks and drink till the stars disappeared at dawn and the Qutub Minar emerged at a distance. We talked about politics, poetry, careers and life. She gifted me Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. I gave her Marina Tsvetaeva. Vanya had other people in her life. We met very occasionally. But she would say, “I can speak with you about things I can't with others.”

She never knew my problem was the opposite: I could not say what I had to say to her alone. Later, reading Cavafy, I was glad to find company in his confession,

An obstacle was there that changed the pattern
of my actions and the manner of my life.

And the three lines that followed became my secret epigraph:

From my most unnoticed actions,
my most veiled writing —
from these alone will I be understood.

Poetry brings a dangerous sort of solace. It soothes your insecurity by telling you of a poet who had once suffered like you, and found the language to say it. But it doesn't improve your condition. Sometimes it may worsen it.

My meetings with Vanya did not lead to an affair. I was too much in love with the possibility of an affair for too long, and time slipped by. We held hands and walked the streets on one occasion. It remained a beautiful memory of thin drizzle. I did not want to lose the possibility of Vanya, so I allowed myself to lose her. I recently heard she was single, after a brief affair with an office colleague. I felt sad, not for the outcome of the relationship, but Vanya's judgment. I don't find the idea of people falling in love in the workplace appealing. It is like falling for a classmate in school or college. Sharing the same roof daily is a bad reason to fall in love. I can understand actors, writers, travellers and people meeting at a party, and falling in love. Not office colleagues. It's not about sharing the same profession (which can be exciting), but sharing the same office. There should be nothing official about love. Lovers should meet from different worlds. They double the complications by sharing a workplace. Their world narrows down to discussing petty rivalries. They attract needless attention. You face the uncomfortable possibility of seeing each other every day, if you part ways. A relationship should steer clear of the monotony and terror of workplaces. When you meet from different worlds, you forget work and remember what you miss, and what you desire. It is the least that lovers deserve.

As these thoughts ran through my head, I got ready to leave the house. I took a cab to the metro station near Connaught Place, where she was waiting for me. It was Sunday, so I got there in no time. Vanya was looking at her phone, as I walked towards her. I spooked her from behind and it worked. We laughed, as though we were back in University again, or wondered whether we were really meeting two years later in some other place in time. We hugged gently, as we laughed. As if time hadn't passed between us. Was it something about the university or about us? It was about us in the university. It was perhaps the best moment to tell her, that I was attracted to her. But that moment passed. It is always a little more difficult as time passes. Time weighs on words that are not spoken on time. I began the conversation.

“I didn't hear from you for ages.”

“I know. I've been too occupied.”

“Well, not even a phone call.”

“I didn't have time to breathe. Forget phone calls.”

“I thought of calling you up.”

“Why didn't you? It would have been a refreshing change.”

“Well, if you needed that change, why didn't you try?”

“Now come on, you can't turn it back on me. Please understand my situation.”

“I do understand your situation. What I don't understand is your attitude.”

“Please! Leave my attitude alone. For me, it's a luxury to forget the world of problems and concentrate on work.”

“Would you call that luck?”

“I would simply call it a necessity.”

“But should we allow work to exploit our time beyond a point?”

“I don't see it that way at all, my dear. Without work time gets empty.”

“You mean life outside work is empty? Come on. You make life appear to be some empty shell that you have to break out of every day.”

“Oh, your habit of exaggeration! Life cannot remain standstill. The only thing that moves life is work.”

“I am not working these days. But I can't say my life isn't moving. Though you make me feel now as if it isn't.”

“You are filling up your life with your writing and imagination! What's life for the gander isn't life for the goose. I don't have great ideas to spend my day on. I fit my little ideas into my daily work.”

“My problem is that my ideas and the idea of work don't fit together at all! But then, writing is work.”

“Haha, you are trying hard to be romantic about work. But you are just confused, old boy.” I always enjoyed her gentle teasing. I felt we were recovering our intimacy.

“I am just wondering how we are all so desperate to avoid feeling out of place. Do we feel out of place within our own lives? This excess work-love of people exasperates me. Why the hell should people be busy all the time?”

“Let's go for a drink. It's been a long time.”

“Good idea. Let's pour some liquid into this conversation.”

“Yes, let us. Which bar would you prefer?”

“Any cheap bar will do. There's one in E block.”

“Let's walk it. The weather is good. It should take us a few minutes.”

From where we stood, near the Oxford Bookstore, we began to walk towards the inner circle of Connaught Place. The breeze was as mild as the sun. Dusk is the best time for Connaught Place. People returning from work are either headed to the bar or the metro. Young men and women walked on the pavement with blissful steps, their worries of the future not having overtaken their love for today. We must not let our todays pass by like shadows. Today is the only day worth seizing. Carpe diem, as they rightly say in Latin. We resumed.

“What's been happening with you?”

“I always pretended I was born to write. Since old pretensions die hard am giving it a shot.”

“What are you working on these days? I remember you had a novel in mind.”

“That novel is driving me crazy. It is in a shapeless state right now. I have become superstitious talking about it. Each time I declare it, I stop.”

“I see. Well, wish you all the luck. Is it too painful at times?”

“Well, the pain is paradoxical. It is a pain that keeps other pains at bay. Writing is a tricky state. It is trickier than death because there is no finality about it. You die after each sentence.”

“You work for yourself. I work for others. I love reading but I can't bolt myself up for endless days to write. I need to forget about myself. Work helps me do that. I am not unhappy. I am busy. I don't believe in happiness. My life is a daily satisfaction. I love being tired.”

“But do you find yourself back at the end of the day? Do you get time to spend with yourself?”

“I am always with myself, no one else. I know what you are trying to say. The self is a trap. I need to escape it every day and live through work. I am not suited to imagining my life.”

“But at least have time for your friends. They love your company.”

“I am a disbelieving narcissist. My work is my mirror. I want to be lost in my own world. I have been confused for too long about too many things. Work is the best antidote to confusions.”

“You are right. But don't you think in a busy world people would begin to understand others less and less? Don't we need some time together to understand other people, friends, our near and dear ones?”

“I seriously think that is an illusion. Spending time in no way aids in better understanding anybody. People don't change. You will say I am being cynical. But neither my mother, nor my ex-boyfriend changed one bit, when I wanted them to. I am no longer available for insanities. People at work respect me more than others.”

“Since I don't have a workplace, I won't understand how much that helps. But I can understand. I am always sorting out my personal relationships. And the funny part is, I know by now it worries me alone, not others. I have a question for you. Do you think it's you who makes the world appear more difficult, or do you think, irrespective of what you are, the world is like that anyway?”

“I am fine to be the way I am. I don't demand too much from anyone. I don't wish the world to be easier. I work hard. I like it that way. The world outside my window is a different world.”

Vanya showed signs of being in a mood to talk about her life. I was ready to listen to her and find out about my own feelings after this long gap. We reached the bar and went in. We took a table for two at the corner. She ordered whiskey and I took rum. My ears caught the sound of Miles Davis' “Flamenco Sketches.” It was the only bar at Connaught Place where they played Miles Davis.

Not sure whether I was prompted by the music or the rum, I asked her about her love life. I wasn't sure until a while ago if I wanted to ask her. I had never asked after her romantic inclinations, though we did talk about other people's affairs. We were frank with our opinions on everyone and everything. As if we didn't need each other beyond this mutual world of comfort. Was there really something between us? The question was inconsequential now. Except that we were seated across each other after ages. She broke my train of thought.

“I am seeing someone—it has been a couple of months.”

I wanted to forget what she said. I wanted to ignore it completely. I wanted her to ask about me. I wanted to tell her about myself. Instead, I asked her about him.

“That's news. What is he like?”

“He's a nice man. He isn't the kind of person I am looking for.”

“What do you mean? You weren't looking for a nice man?”

“Haha, no I didn't mean that. I mean he is quieter than what I like my man to be. He is too self-satisfied. He doesn't worry about the state of the world as much as I do. He hardly reads.”

I realised we had not discussed politics yet. Over the phone, Vanya had brought up the heartbreaking stories of persecution in the country. “The future seems to be dying before our eyes”, she had said in a grave voice. But right now, my mind was on the man Vanya was dating.

“He sounds like a happy idiot. Sorry, didn't mean to say it.”

“Haha, he's not an idiot. He's good at what he does. He is calm and simple. He cooks his own meals.”

“Ah, what is he good at, mutton, chicken, or pork?”

“None of all that. He's vegetarian.”

“I should have guessed that, my apologies!”

She laughed. I always enjoy what delicate sarcasm brings into conversations. With male friends, the tone would occasionally get a bit harsh. But with Vanya it remained perfectly delicious. Davis was playing “Freddie Freeloader.” The mood in the bar was upbeat. There were more people and the waiters briskly moved in and out. I couldn't believe such a nice evening with Vanya had to arrive with yet another insurmountable problem. She was seeing someone. “I am seeing someone” signalled the end of possibilities. I had to find someone else.

Vanya did not ask me about my life, yet. Good that she didn't. She would have found me too wayward. I was switching off and on, from one short affair to the next. I did not love promiscuity. I was just too engrossed in my novel for an affair to work. I did not want my life to disturb the novel. I walked the tightrope between life and writing. I didn't even notice when women stopped seeing me, or I stopped seeing them. I lost ten kilos. I looked pale and haggard. Anjali told me on the phone after she decided to stop seeing me, “Right now, you need a matron. Not a lover.”

It took fourteen months to cross the finishing line. I read the four hundred pages with great expectations, but was left brokenhearted. It did not read the way I expected. There were moments, flashes, striking descriptions, but all were watered down by poor storytelling. I was caught up on trifles. I felt more miserable than my wasted affairs made me feel. This was the most disappointing affair of all. I couldn't have told all this to Vanya thinking she might find it exciting. If she didn't, I was done for. But I was already done for.

I felt ridiculous. I thought this was the best evening to sort out my life. Vanya could be the best matron and lover I could ever ask for. I would prove Anjali wrong. I almost burst out laughing. Vanya was quick to notice a change in my expression.

“You seem amused by something. Tell me?”

“You still notice the slightest of things. I was just amused by my life.”

“Ahan, and what are you amused by?”

“My loveless life.” (Surprised at myself that I said that.)

“Oh, I thought writers always had someone with them.”

“Haha, if writers always had lovers they would be happy, and write nothing.”

She nodded. I felt the conversation took a perfect turn. I asked her if she loved him. She said she thinks so. I did not believe her. I wanted to tell her I did not believe her. I laughed at the sudden pressure that I put on myself. It was her turn to be amused. “What happened?” she asked.

I could barely make out the Miles Davis track that was playing. There were bees buzzing in my ears. Desire is not a word, it is a confession. I told her, with an apology, that I have been in love with her for a long time without realising it. I felt the glass ceiling crack. This was a big occasion for the heart. You realise what is at stake when fate tosses your expectation like a coin. Heads, yes, tails, no. Vanya paused, and looked me straight in the eye. She did not speak. I thought the evening had come to an end. Her glass of whiskey was about to get over. My rum was enough for a last sip.

“Should we head back after this?” she said. I nodded. Is she pretending she didn't hear me? It can't be. Vanya was too confident and honest to ignore what I said.

Finally she said, “I am not chasing love right now. But I would like to see more of you, and more often. Shall we?”

I smiled, and nodded gently. Before I knew it, I was humming a song.