Read Online Sleeping On Jupiter by Anuradha Roy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anuradha Roy
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how could such beauty possibly exist?
A red bead of betel-juiced spittle trickled from the corner of Raghu’s mouth and he sucked it back in. The sun turned the sea into jagged blades of light. A faraway white-topped breaker gathered speed as it began its run for the beach. On the horizon was a grey, indefinable shape that might be a building or a small island. Was it an island Badal had failed to notice all his life? Arrow-like boats streaked past, criss-crossing. A group of brown dogs chased each other up and down the sand and into the water. Near Raghu’s feet a coin-sized crab dug itself out of the sand and skittered away. Badal looked up from the crab, saw that his island had moved west. And then after a while, further west. Everything stood still and speeded up all at once. The faraway breaker came closer, it grew taller, it roared and bellowed, it flung itself at the sand, and without warning or preparation Badal found his lips on Raghu’s, his hand roaming his smooth bare chest, following the line of the fine hair down into his shorts. The blood on Raghu’s lips tasted of salt and sea and rust. He sucked the grainy tobacco off Raghu’s tongue and felt it going straight to his head, making him dizzy, sending his hand deeper down. And then the boy pushed him off and ran away along the beach, leaving him empty and short of breath.
He clambered up. Everything was in disarray. He stumbled, hunting for his slippers. They had travelled over the sand in two different directions. His legs had turned into stilts, his feet would not fit into his slippers, as if he had grown extra toes. By the time he managed to put them on, Raghu was nowhere to be seen.
He would not try to find him. Not right then. It was a kind of slow magic that had overtaken the day. The sky blazed. The sea shone. The waves came at a stately pace as if they had all eternity. There was time. He searched his pocket for his comb. The feel of its hard plastic teeth on his scalp made his eyelids droop with pleasure. There would always be time. He would give Raghu his gift the next time they met. They would talk, he would buy him a bottle of cola and Raghu would tell him everything. Who had beaten him, where his parents were, where he had come from, where he was headed. Badal knew the answer to that one. Raghu’s wanderings were over, his lonely days were over. He would not go away. And if he did, Badal would be with him.
He covered his mouth and nose with his palm to breathe in the scent of Raghu. He touched his own lips to see how they had felt to kiss.
He wandered the beach that afternoon for longer than he knew, half expecting Raghu to return, running his tongue’s tip over his lips at times. Where had he run off to? How had the boy vanished from a beach so empty? It was almost four by the time he snapped out of his stupor and remembered that he needed to get home, wash himself, change his clothes – all that to be done before he went to meet the Calcutta group at their hotel. Day after day, evening after evening, it was the same: gaggles of squawking hens in starched saris rustling through the temple in his wake without a notion of what it meant to be wasted, scorched, flayed, devoured with the passion of pure devotion. Was his whole life to pass in this way?
He hurried to his scooter. It was not far. He had not thought so – it now seemed further.
When he reached his parking place he saw that a tiny puddle of oil on the road was all that remained of his scooter.
He felt in his pocket for the key. There was his almost empty wallet, his green comb, a soiled handkerchief with which he mopped his sweating neck and face, but no key. He began to wonder if he
had
come on his scooter. Calm down, he said, starting an urgent conversation with himself: You didn’t walk, did you? No, of course not. You came on the scooter. You locked it and put the key in your pocket. Maybe the other pocket – but no, the key wasn’t there either.
He began to walk,
A red bead of betel-juiced spittle trickled from the corner of Raghu’s mouth and he sucked it back in. The sun turned the sea into jagged blades of light. A faraway white-topped breaker gathered speed as it began its run for the beach. On the horizon was a grey, indefinable shape that might be a building or a small island. Was it an island Badal had failed to notice all his life? Arrow-like boats streaked past, criss-crossing. A group of brown dogs chased each other up and down the sand and into the water. Near Raghu’s feet a coin-sized crab dug itself out of the sand and skittered away. Badal looked up from the crab, saw that his island had moved west. And then after a while, further west. Everything stood still and speeded up all at once. The faraway breaker came closer, it grew taller, it roared and bellowed, it flung itself at the sand, and without warning or preparation Badal found his lips on Raghu’s, his hand roaming his smooth bare chest, following the line of the fine hair down into his shorts. The blood on Raghu’s lips tasted of salt and sea and rust. He sucked the grainy tobacco off Raghu’s tongue and felt it going straight to his head, making him dizzy, sending his hand deeper down. And then the boy pushed him off and ran away along the beach, leaving him empty and short of breath.
He clambered up. Everything was in disarray. He stumbled, hunting for his slippers. They had travelled over the sand in two different directions. His legs had turned into stilts, his feet would not fit into his slippers, as if he had grown extra toes. By the time he managed to put them on, Raghu was nowhere to be seen.
He would not try to find him. Not right then. It was a kind of slow magic that had overtaken the day. The sky blazed. The sea shone. The waves came at a stately pace as if they had all eternity. There was time. He searched his pocket for his comb. The feel of its hard plastic teeth on his scalp made his eyelids droop with pleasure. There would always be time. He would give Raghu his gift the next time they met. They would talk, he would buy him a bottle of cola and Raghu would tell him everything. Who had beaten him, where his parents were, where he had come from, where he was headed. Badal knew the answer to that one. Raghu’s wanderings were over, his lonely days were over. He would not go away. And if he did, Badal would be with him.
He covered his mouth and nose with his palm to breathe in the scent of Raghu. He touched his own lips to see how they had felt to kiss.
He wandered the beach that afternoon for longer than he knew, half expecting Raghu to return, running his tongue’s tip over his lips at times. Where had he run off to? How had the boy vanished from a beach so empty? It was almost four by the time he snapped out of his stupor and remembered that he needed to get home, wash himself, change his clothes – all that to be done before he went to meet the Calcutta group at their hotel. Day after day, evening after evening, it was the same: gaggles of squawking hens in starched saris rustling through the temple in his wake without a notion of what it meant to be wasted, scorched, flayed, devoured with the passion of pure devotion. Was his whole life to pass in this way?
He hurried to his scooter. It was not far. He had not thought so – it now seemed further.
When he reached his parking place he saw that a tiny puddle of oil on the road was all that remained of his scooter.
He felt in his pocket for the key. There was his almost empty wallet, his green comb, a soiled handkerchief with which he mopped his sweating neck and face, but no key. He began to wonder if he
had
come on his scooter. Calm down, he said, starting an urgent conversation with himself: You didn’t walk, did you? No, of course not. You came on the scooter. You locked it and put the key in your pocket. Maybe the other pocket – but no, the key wasn’t there either.
He began to walk,
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