the most of their holiday, dashing in and out of the water. Badal made his way towards an isolated nook further down, where Raghu tended to laze most afternoons. The sun was a million crystalline pieces in the sea, glittering far into the distance. Badal never wore glasses against the sun, looking directly into it sometimes, daring it to do its worst.
He turned the curve and there Raghu was, half hidden by the prow of an upturned boat. The tea stall was shut. The boy could have gone off, but he had not. Had he been waiting for Badal? He must have been.
Badal came closer. He saw that the boy had gnawed at the skin on his chapping lips until the lower one – the fuller, fleshier, darker one – had bled. Burst open like a fig, Badal remembered from somewhere: your lips, bitten when kissed, burst open like a ripe fig.
Was it only two months ago that he had met Raghu? Three? He had been sitting on the tea-stall bench recovering from a quarrel with his uncle. Raghu had come to him and put down a tiny clay cup of tea unasked, saying, “Careful, it’s hot,” and Badal had looked up into the largest, darkest eyes he thought he had ever seen. The boy’s voice had a husky edge that made the words taper off and retreat where you could not follow them. It left Badal wanting to hear him speak again, so he had said, “You’re new?” Raghu had smiled in reply and Badal had caught sight of the dimple in his left cheek. All his annoyance had dissolved into euphoria.
It must have been the sight of the bleeding lip that made Badal sit closer now than he had dared before. Raghu said nothing, he held out his packet of gutka to Badal. They looked at the water. They never spoke much, but Badal had only to be within sight of Raghu to feel a deep contentment, as if he needed nothing more in the world than silence and the knowledge that Raghu was in it somewhere. He sensed that Raghu felt this too. Once or twice he had hidden himself behind the hull of a boat and watched Raghu look up each time a man approached the tea stall and droop with disappointment when it was just another customer. He was not a hundred per cent sure, but then what was a hundred per cent sure?
Badal’s days now existed for the mornings and afternoons when he could escape clients, family, customers, priests, God himself – and run to the beach to sit holding a clay cup of Raghu’s tea – just sit with his voice within hearing, his body within touching distance. Raghu brushed past him – on purpose, he was certain of it – as he went about serving customers, rinsing cups, doing whatever he did at Johnny Toppo’s stall.
Ten days ago when he was at the tea stall and Johnny Toppo not there, Raghu had asked him out of the blue, “Have you ever been beaten? Thrashed?”
Raghu had not called him “Babu”, as Johnny Toppo did. Badal paused over the thought. Raghu did not call him anything. He used neither his name, nor the deferential Babu, or Sahib, or Dada. It felt loaded with meaning, how he took care not to distance him that way.
“Many times,” Badal had said. “After my father died, my uncle used to clobber me till my teeth ran around in my mouth like dice. With anything at hand – his shoes, his belt, even with the stick the bastard killed rats with.” He smiled as he answered Raghu’s question. He had suffered, he wanted Raghu to know, but he was nonchalant about it.
Raghu pulled up his shirt to show Badal a welt on his back. “Yesterday.” He had said nothing more.
The rage and tenderness that had flooded Badal that afternoon came back again. He wanted to ask Raghu about the wound – had it healed? Was Johnny Toppo the bullying swine who had done it? The boy was gazing at the sea, a finger in one of his ears, then scratching something on his leg, his jaws working the tobacco in his mouth. The lusciousness of that itch, that hand moving from ear to leg – a boyish, scarred, beautiful hand, the wrist bone jutting out in a knob. What beauty –
He turned the curve and there Raghu was, half hidden by the prow of an upturned boat. The tea stall was shut. The boy could have gone off, but he had not. Had he been waiting for Badal? He must have been.
Badal came closer. He saw that the boy had gnawed at the skin on his chapping lips until the lower one – the fuller, fleshier, darker one – had bled. Burst open like a fig, Badal remembered from somewhere: your lips, bitten when kissed, burst open like a ripe fig.
Was it only two months ago that he had met Raghu? Three? He had been sitting on the tea-stall bench recovering from a quarrel with his uncle. Raghu had come to him and put down a tiny clay cup of tea unasked, saying, “Careful, it’s hot,” and Badal had looked up into the largest, darkest eyes he thought he had ever seen. The boy’s voice had a husky edge that made the words taper off and retreat where you could not follow them. It left Badal wanting to hear him speak again, so he had said, “You’re new?” Raghu had smiled in reply and Badal had caught sight of the dimple in his left cheek. All his annoyance had dissolved into euphoria.
It must have been the sight of the bleeding lip that made Badal sit closer now than he had dared before. Raghu said nothing, he held out his packet of gutka to Badal. They looked at the water. They never spoke much, but Badal had only to be within sight of Raghu to feel a deep contentment, as if he needed nothing more in the world than silence and the knowledge that Raghu was in it somewhere. He sensed that Raghu felt this too. Once or twice he had hidden himself behind the hull of a boat and watched Raghu look up each time a man approached the tea stall and droop with disappointment when it was just another customer. He was not a hundred per cent sure, but then what was a hundred per cent sure?
Badal’s days now existed for the mornings and afternoons when he could escape clients, family, customers, priests, God himself – and run to the beach to sit holding a clay cup of Raghu’s tea – just sit with his voice within hearing, his body within touching distance. Raghu brushed past him – on purpose, he was certain of it – as he went about serving customers, rinsing cups, doing whatever he did at Johnny Toppo’s stall.
Ten days ago when he was at the tea stall and Johnny Toppo not there, Raghu had asked him out of the blue, “Have you ever been beaten? Thrashed?”
Raghu had not called him “Babu”, as Johnny Toppo did. Badal paused over the thought. Raghu did not call him anything. He used neither his name, nor the deferential Babu, or Sahib, or Dada. It felt loaded with meaning, how he took care not to distance him that way.
“Many times,” Badal had said. “After my father died, my uncle used to clobber me till my teeth ran around in my mouth like dice. With anything at hand – his shoes, his belt, even with the stick the bastard killed rats with.” He smiled as he answered Raghu’s question. He had suffered, he wanted Raghu to know, but he was nonchalant about it.
Raghu pulled up his shirt to show Badal a welt on his back. “Yesterday.” He had said nothing more.
The rage and tenderness that had flooded Badal that afternoon came back again. He wanted to ask Raghu about the wound – had it healed? Was Johnny Toppo the bullying swine who had done it? The boy was gazing at the sea, a finger in one of his ears, then scratching something on his leg, his jaws working the tobacco in his mouth. The lusciousness of that itch, that hand moving from ear to leg – a boyish, scarred, beautiful hand, the wrist bone jutting out in a knob. What beauty –
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