Timespell

By Rajeshwari Bhaduri

Every day like clockwork, I see him on the sidewalk across the street.

Through the blue bars of my tiny balcony, he is a thin figure ambling down flower-cracked concrete, the strap of a school bag slung over his shoulder. Dry leaves follow him in autumn; dust-wind in the summer, raindrops in the rain. I do not know what follows him in winter, because winter has not arrived yet.

His uniform is striped blue shirt and dark slacks. His black hair is always messy, skin like white candle; and his shoes must be dirty, because he never steps around the puddles.

I am not sure what his face looks like, because faces do not have eyes from the second floor.

Every day like clockwork, I see him on the sidewalk across the street: once during my morning tea, and again when there are no birds left on the windowsills. He looks older than me, but you never know with boys: mum says I have a cousin who is six feet tall, but he is only in class eight.

If I went to school, I would not be in class eight. I know this much.

He walks with his head bent down, long legs and longer steps. He emerges from behind the last house on the lane and disappears behind the first. Mum says there is a school nearby; I can hear the bell sometimes, and echoes of clamouring children.

We do not have many children in the lane: just me, and him in his blue uniform.

I have the cup to my lips when I see him again today. It is only late autumn, but he looks covered in steam. The tea is very hot.

—

He never looks up.

—

Today like clockwork, I see him again. But there is a cricket bat, and the clock is suddenly smashed.

There is someone else with him.

Another boy: taller, with the same school uniform and with dark, unruly hair that shines almost brown in the afternoon sun. They walk side by side but with many feet of distance between them. From my balcony, I have seen a lot of walking people. Even strangers do not walk that far apart.

Both of them have their hands in their pockets. The unfamiliar boy has something white stuck to his cheek.

They walk slowly, then briskly, and then almost as if they are racing each other without actually racing. At the end of the lane they stop. I think they are about to part ways. Then they both turn towards the same direction.

They look at each other for a second, then look away.

The taller boy starts walking first, disappearing into the road behind the last house. After a moment, the other follows. His head is still bent down. His collars are all crooked and pointy.

He never looks up.

—

He takes his hands out of his pockets before he disappears. In the light of the setting sun, his knuckles are colourful: red and pink and purple.

I walk back into the house wondering if mum has some nail polish.

—

Inexplicably, the clock is reassembled. Only, the person who assembled it perhaps forgot how it once looked like.

The unfamiliar boy becomes a familiar face by the other’s side.

Every day, they will emerge from behind the last house on the lane and disappear behind the first. Maybe they live close by: mum says the houses on the adjacent lane are big and bright, and everyone wants to live in big and bright houses. My apartment is small and old and all patterned grey bricks. I love my apartment, but maybe others do not.

The empty flats in our apartment are always empty. Maybe this new boy moved into a big, bright house on the adjacent lane and made himself a friend.

They are walking six feet apart today.

In the distance, a school bell rings.

—

They walk differently, I realise when there are no birds and the bars of my balcony have become a little stifling.

The black-haired boy walks quietly: long, soundless steps careful of the world around them, mindful to disturb nothing but the occasional puddle. The taller boy, with his endless brown arms and coffee hair, seems to love disturbing everything: kicking every pebble, brushing every lamppost, tripping over every flower-crack in the concrete. They walk far apart but every now and then they will stumble closer, and ignore that they ever did. Then the taller boy will kick at the air, and jump away again.

One of them respects the world. The other loves it. I do not think they know what to do with each other.

They do not talk that much, like friends do. (I have two friends: Poppo from the flat across the living room window, and Poppo’s big dog Roppo. I talk a lot with my friends.) These two may not be friends, but if you travel the same distance every day, should you not be?

They look at each other when the other is not looking. Once they looked at each other at the same time, and raised a finger.

That’s a bad finger, Poppo told me when I showed it to her later.

Sometimes I do not understand boys.

—

I would tell them all about friendship if they would look up sometimes.

—

On the last day of autumn, the quiet boy walks alone.

He is slower today; careful, almost idyllic. His head is bent so low I can see the skin of his nape. Last night there was a surprise shower; he steps onto a puddle most purposefully.

When he walks back from school, his hands are outside his pockets, fists clenched. His loneliness feels like déjà vu: like the ghost of a clock that stopped ticking, and someone forgot to put it off the mantelpiece.

He is still walking, walking; but the sidewalk feels strangely empty.

—

The taller boy returns on the first day of winter, and it is nice.

They are talking about something as they trudge to school that morning. The quiet boy’s brows are furrowed, hands in his pockets. The taller boy looks like he told his hands to dance and does not know how to make them stop. His legs are not helping.

It is the same new clockwork. The tea feels extra warm in my hands.

Then the strangest thing happens.

The quiet boy trips on a crack in the sidewalk. He stumbles sideways, stops, then continues walking.

The six feet distance becomes three.

When they walk back later that day, it is still three.

Mum asks me why I am smiling so wide, and I point up at the sky.

Sometimes boys do not understand boys.

—

Winter keeps harsh winds. The cap on the taller boy’s head almost flies away today. He barely manages to catch it, yelping and flailing.

Just a little: and we would have met eyes.

—

Once when there was too much distance, now there is too little.

They talk a lot these days: by way of the taller boy pointing at random things around the street and the quiet boy listening, ever-attentive. Eyes and hands follow leaves under bricks, sandstones among sand, the orange fur of that one cat on the wall who is always asleep. Every day they find something new in this little street of the world— and with them, so do I.

Sometimes their shoulders brush; sometimes they do not. When they do, the quiet boy looks at the other, then looks away.

Once, when they had too much energy and too little restraint, they raced down the sidewalk for real. I could not see who won. I do not think they did either.

Boys are hard to understand. Friends are not.

One day the taller boy tries to step around a large puddle on the sidewalk, and his friend tugs him by the collar and teaches him how to artfully splash it instead. Every day they linger around the street, longer and longer, and it is okay if my tea goes cold sometimes.

Mum asks me about the sky. Poppo asks me about the boys. I tell them both that it changes colours, every single day.

Then one day, they have a fight.

—

When I was five, the big grandfather clock on our living room wall slowed to a stop; and when mum saw it she took it down and prodded and tinkered before rewinding the hands to their rightful positions and pinning it to the wall again.

It is an odd sight: a rewinding clock.

The afternoon sky is red when they come into view, the quiet boy striding with large steps and the taller almost chasing behind. He says something— second floors do not have ears— before he is pulling at the other’s wrist, insistent.

The black-haired boy rips his hand away and turns to face his friend.

They speak in rushed tones, shaking heads and jumpy hands. The taller boy is saying something: quiet, frustrated. Both their striped blue collars are rumpled and pointy.

A brown hand falls on a shoulder. It is shaken off.

Bared teeth, angry words growing loud and louder. There is a sick pounding in my chest. I feel almost dizzy.

The black-haired boy takes a step back. The taller boy grabs him by the collar. They are not fighting, not really— but this seems fiercer than scratched cheeks and bloody knuckles.

Their words have died down, hard only to those who can hear them. The stiffness of their shoulders looks almost painful.

Then several unfamiliar heads come into view.

All school boys, blue shirts and dark slacks. They glance here and there before spotting the boys at the end of the street. Two of them have a cricket bat in their hands. They have not been noticed yet.

The black-haired boy sees them just as they charge forward. He pulls the taller by the arm.

Too late. One of the boys is already swinging his bat back, ready to smash a face in.

I slip my hand through the bars of the balcony and throw down my teacup.

It cracks on the shoulder of the charging boy, dark liquid scalding his skin. He yelps, backing away. Everyone is startled. Everyone is shouting.

Everyone looks up.

I fall to my knees, crouching under the shadows of the bars.

There is some vicious scuffling, and confused running feet: then the distinct yell of Mr. Roy next door, who, despite scientific evidence, considers himself no older than twenty and loves swinging his cane with intricate dance steps as if he is not touching seventy.

When Mr. Roy yells, everything clears away. It is science.

No one saw me, I close my eyes, hands over my ears. No one saw me. No one saw me.

No one comes knocking at the door, demanding for me. Mum still gives me cake after I have helped her with the dishes. Mr. Roy yells and makes enemies of all the pets in the neighbourhood— Roppo barks the loudest— but no one says anything about me.

The boys do not walk down the street the following morning.

—

They saw me, I remember when I am curled up under the covers, cheeks scrubbed raw. Dark eyes and light eyes, both flashing golden under the sun. They saw me, they saw me, and now they are never coming back.

—

It feels like déjà vu: my loneliness. I thought I had taken it off the mantelpiece.

—

One day under a bright spring morning, I see them again.

I am up on my toes with my fingers around the bars before they have even walked into clear view. It has been nine days: nine days of listless pacing and restless nights, with one hard day when I asked mum if schools took you back if you were absent for a week, and she ruffled my hair with a since when do we talk about school before turning back to her laundry.

Since when do we talk about school?

If I ever went to school, I would have liked to be friends with those two.

Those two, who are walking side-by-side and shoulder-to-shoulder down that same cracked sidewalk after nine days of cold teas and undisturbed cats. They are not in their school uniform: the quiet boy looks softer in his faded green shirt and dark pants, a counterpoint to the taller with his bright yellow t-shirt and white corduroys.

They are talking, walking down a familiar path with eyes only on each other. There is no space between their shoulders. Petals follow them like pink yapping puppies: it has been a year, and so much has changed.

There are no puddles on the street. They walk and walk, and I follow them with wide eyes.

Suddenly, they stop. Right where they were nine days ago.

They both look up.

The quiet boy has dark eyes, like black tile. The taller boy’s are lighter, like cloud and smoke, sharp. He raises his arm in a wave, as his friend raises an eyebrow.

I cannot see, but I think they are holding hands behind their backs.

The grandfather clock on the living room wall chimes as I race out the front door and down the stairs, mum’s startled voice chasing behind me.

They looked up. They looked up.

—

These days, they always look up.

By Rajeshwari Bhaduri