Aurelia's Scarf

Aura is a word, often used by ballers. It means a certain air of indifference, and talent. Here, a twenty year old hypertalented footballer sat, aura-less, in front of a married woman, who considered herself to have no real flair.

They sat apart, in a cafe. It was dark wood walled, cedar floors and Nepalese trinkets hung on the walls. Fatima was forty, and tired skinned. Her brown eyes closed under slightly arched eyebrows, blinking slowly. And she wore a dress and overcoat, while sitting with her husband, listening to their children Sahil and his little sister Sadie. A loafer tapped the floor, ever so lightly. Maher felt it, sitting halfway across the cafe. Flirting its colour, like skirts, against the wall -- the trinkets fluttered in the wind. Fatima adjusted her scarf, tying in a way to compensate for the breeze, and for her hair which was just beginning to lose poof.

Nobody noticed, not her husband talking about an audit, nor any fellow females in the cafe, but Maher. He was boyish, angular faced and turned his dark hair slightly towards her. A flowing neck fell into a lean chest, as he looked at her. Fatima was pretty, still at this age. And he was a curious boy, breathing in the cold air of the resting stop, as she tied her scarf in a complex way.

And even though it was cold, Fatima moved easy, dressed in cream and cashmere, draping her scarf. As pretty and best, as she could. Compensating for a loss in hair volume. Maher was in knits, black sweats and two hoodies, stiffly bracing the wind. Flowing into the cafe, and ripping through it. Maher's body was broken, and he wanted to watch Fatima decorate hers.

Maher watched her tie the scarf, and felt both her and the cold air enter his chest. Imagining it like a hyperbaric chamber, one he would need towards the end of his playing career. But he was just twenty, and beginning out, halted by torn ligament. That, Maher swore, he felt pull sometimes, like a phantom pain. It was cold in the cafe. He was due in warm air, like Europe. But the last talent agency hadn't replied. So, Maher came on the trip because it was advertised, it was cheap and mom had wanted to come. Fatima came, because she had a family. They planned vacations around slivers of time, between school terms, and after multinational audit schedules of her husband.

They were both from the same suburb, same Instagram marketed circles, on an agented trip to the Himalayas, and other Indian cities. Currently, in a Himachal Pradesh cafe.

A hot chocolate was brought to Maher's table, bringing him back from her scarf. His mother, Hafsa, urged him to wrap both his hands around the cup, before it lost heat. Maher did, but waited to see what the scarfed woman had ordered, before sipping. His mother's tea arrived, and Maher could mentally depart, again, to see what the married woman waited for. They seemed plush, and from suburbs where lavender bush and cinnamon buns met under the window. They weren't in awe, of the cafe. They had ordered coffee. The couple buttered croissants, for their children. Perhaps they had visited many places like Switzerland, Europe -- before returning to their warm home in the suburbs, where broad leafed plants flared against the fence, fighting the wind guarding the unflinched curtains at the window.

The couple seemed to know, that they were going home to extra cotton and linen, neatly packed in the cupboards. Warm laundry, and ordered closets, of fine woolly jerseys. And that this cafe and cold air, was just a temporary thing. But Maher was returning home to frostbite thoughts, and winter dead uncertainty. Suddenly home felt cold, stranger than here. Someone had closed the cafe door, and the chiming trinket colour stopped dangling. Maher held his cup tighter, thinking of his return home.

It was just him and his mom, and he hadn't been paying attention in class, recently. Assuring himself that Maher would be able to afford equal or better for his mother, than what his dad had left for them, was falling in a whirlwind, in his mind. Football afforded it, or greater. A Data Science degree would. But he wasn't succeeding in either, and he was happy to be near the free Buddhist air, that offered acceptance. He should have been in Europe, he was twenty and it was getting late for Europe. Most twenty year olds have passed by scouts' wishes, by now.

In spite of Maher's conflicted mind, neither present in the cafe nor in Europe, he was present in Fatima.

His cup was cold, and he rushed to finish the cold chocolate.

II -

They weren't near the cedar wall yet, fencing God. Or the last of fir and spruce trees. Deo meant God, and Dar meant tree. The Deodar trees were in the distance, with only rhododendrons nearby. A pink flower, called Gulabi Buransh.

And, a homestay. A pine walled home, upon a slope. Extended a few floors, and a few bedrooms, to deal with a group of fifteen. It was quaint, cosy. And inadequate spatially, to avoid someone that you noticed at the coffee shop earlier. It had been few hours since the rest stop, and Maher passed by Fatima at the stairs, as they all made lodging. They were in Kinnaur. And if the homestay was small, and food was inadequate, they would stew apples from the orchards. Choonth they called apple. But if the homestay was small, and space was inadequate, there was no adequate way to deal with it. Passing by strangers, politely, came with eye contact, and that brought a greater hunger, one to the soul, one to meet them over and over again.

Maher was passed by Fatima, and he pressed back into the wall to let her pass. Fatima carried a bag, her husband was upstairs, and the kids were somewhere behind. Their eyes made brief contact, and they passed, and that was about it.

In the light, her eyes were deep and brown, and curious with questions of her own. Fatima looked up, to pass. And her thinning hair slipped further underneath a scarf. Maher's eyes were dark, almost black. Hiding all his nightly thoughts. He had sharp sunken eyes, an innocent small rounded nose, and fairly taut cream, or bisque skin. Fatima was sandier, and her skin just slightly sagged.

They acknowledged each other, by a stare and faint pull of their lips. Polite. And even though they were from the same suburb in South Africa, on the same trip, same flight and voyage for the past few hours to make it here, only now did the two get to finally meet.

Maher stood, pressing into the wall. Fatima passed, making sure not to touch. And suddenly, she was concious of her sagging hips, and rounded-ness. A middle age kind. Maher leaned back out of the wall, his small back and angular pelvis. He was slender, compassionate and kind. Fatima tried to disappear fom view, and Maher turned away, modest. Even though she was in his mind, earlier in the cafe.

Maher had thought her pretty in the cafe. And he thought her pretty again, at dinner. She wore a knit dress, long and flowing in black. Her scarf was pulled tighter, a little. And she wore slight makeup. Her warm ankle boots clacked, she sat with husband. Maher wondered if it was for her husband, because she sat with a charming grace, On a date, like. A sandstone shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Ambient lamps subdued the day's tramp across terrain, and their legs rested under tables, tavern and poker like. Above which, wafted a scent butterflying over the troupe, by black jeera spotted and hing wings. Basically, it smelled like cumin and warm spice.

The banquet, for the first night, was no mystery. Karahi and paneer, grills and fries, dals and fried woks emptied into trays, naans and sesame breads. And a sweets table, being set up for later. Finally noticing each other, above the walnut dark tabletops for two, the night became a roundtable for assessing people, rather than the food.

Hafsa, Maher's mother, had from the dal. They were homely people, and broke and shared a piece of naan. Some of the others were soy inclined, trying out the stir fry. Her husband and Fatima looked for warm Nihari. And it told stories of how each of the group's lives were going. They were from the same suburb, but some of them were familiar with the latest momo hipster joints in Greenside, others were more conventional and homely in their tastes. Faraway food also told a story of home economics. Fatima looked for her husband finishing roti, replacing it with some. Alternatively, others towered over their plates, like lone rangers. Perhaps, they were having an affair.

But, Fatima was a housewife. And Maher felt just a little jealous. Her hands were graceful, and he wondered how she passed her days at home. Perhaps, shuffling by ivory walls in flats. Finding wayward fruit loops, swept up. Packing Sadie's toys away. Scribbles. Unplaced laundry, and things. They had a helper perhaps, but organizing the endless nothing of running a home, is a full time thing.

Despite the couple's income.

The night was cold, the lamps were low. And Maher wondered what would happen later in their room, when it got colder, and the light turned off.

The couple each other, to warm.

Maher felt connected to Fatima, as they both wore knits. And he felt just a little jealous.

III -

After dinner, the first evening's arrival banquet, in the Himalayas, some strolled out onto a slate floor, into a courtyard.

It was half walled, on three sides. The only light was a lamp, by the dining area's exit. Spotlighting the entry and exit of everyone, from the courtyard. Avoiding the shadow. It was after coffee, for a bit of air, before hibernation to the warm stuffy rooms for the night. Maher was standing, bracing the breeze, as Fatima exited into the courtyard. She had her hands folded under, bracing the cold. Maher had his sleeves over his hands. They acknowledged each other's existence, in the courtyard. He wondered how she kept warm, under just a shawl. Her son was soon by her side, and Sadie was inside with her husband. And Maher turned his head slightly away, to give her space to respond to the kid.

Alas, the kid loved football. He was telling his mother an impossible to understand story, of a football tournament. Sahil, a twelve year old, was rambling on with how a private tournament had a greater coverage for academy scouting. The younger boy was still starry eyed, and the older boy had fading eyes. One still reached for lights, the older was dim. Take an initiative, stake a claim. Rather than playing grassroots football every weekend, hoping a scout walked up to your window.

Sahil was right, Maher thought. Kids these days, know what they need. Maher further wanted to explain body orientation, scanning and the importance of having a game map in your head. Proofing the kid's game understanding by eighteen, because at twenty it was late, like Maher was feeling. He was a little shy, that he had to turn to the next generation, his own hopes fading. But the chance of speaking to Fatima, was worth it. Maher wanted to step in, but her husband was soon out with their daughter Sadie. And the conversation moved on, to timing other things.

Maher thought of winging the couple, finding a ball and keeping the kids occupied, for the couple to have an hour alone. It was clear, that they were young enough like him to want things, and stifled enough by old time. Maher empathised, because he understood what it felt like, to be running out of time. But, he kept formality, sitting away on the half wall made of slate. Until the kid spoke, of a bad first touch.

And Maher stepped in to explain, that a first touch on the ball doesn't have to keep the ball under your body, but to take it into free space that you wished to attack. It was a concept in football, called directional touch. It was something the kid would likely learn in a few years, but grasped it now with delightful eyes. And the parents appreciated it from the young man. They greeted with nodding eyes, and urged the aspiring Sahil to listen to Maher.

Maher explained further, with shadow gestures, imagining the game around them, shadow-players and directions. Using the ghastly trees as monsters closing in, how to open up your field of view in the pitch black night, how to evade. But, more so Fatima's husband, the parents seemed tired. Maher curtailed his lesson to a halt. Maher had a way, with things. And the couple greeted, returning to their room.

Just like that. Leaving him alone.

Maher sat back down on the half wall, thinking of what to do late night alone, in a faraway place. Maher had no agemate companions on the trip, but had no friends back home, either. They all would probably meet at a late night garage, with pizza, imported chocolate and foreign cereals. Acting young and carelessly free, living the night in cars, before returning home to warm beds and agreeable dads. All the boys and girls and prismatic ambiguous androgynous coloured souls, his age. But, Maher would probably be sitting alone at home too, like here. He had a mom, some Balkan adversary who played for North Star FC, and his desktop -- where he often spent Saturday nights by a lamp. Cumming, sometimes. He knew of girls and boys that romanced in the suburbs, in cars and bathrooms on Friday nights. But, Maher felt no connection to them, and maybe if he was a baller, or in Europe, or richer, he would find refuge in some Greek model, and a kinkier story. A romance as stimulating as the pitch. Because at home, they got avo toast in the mornings after trysts. Those relations weren't as fascinating, as the ones on the pitch. And Maher preferred fluttering curtains, over his chest in the morning, that had been left open all night. And the morning sea salty air, that cleared last night's filth. Maher sat in a chair, cumming into a sock. Alone at home on Saturday nights, like now. Why fake despair, just because it's a faraway place?

Perhaps, he needed a holiday. Or, a girl. Or, girls. Or, a wife. Because he was brown. A homely wife, like Fatima.

Because why was he thinking of her husband sending her into the headboard, or asking for her touch under the blanket. Surely, the couple couldn't be loud, or rough. The stay was pine walled, and built on a steep slope. The dwelling would come down, and they'd all fall off the cliff. And everyone would know what they had done. Certainly, if the couple touched tonight, it would be soft.

He stared up at the dwelling, and Maher left for bed.

People to spend empty time with, keep your dark thoughts from running.

IV -

In the morning, Maher sat alone at his table. Hafsa was still in the room, with a slight cold. He sat, with a cup of bitter black coffee. Watching morning rise, patrons enter. Maher asked his mother if she had wanted anything to eat, but Hafsa was warm under thick blankets, promising she'd get soup later. Besides, the group was scheduled to trek this morning.

The morning was brisk, Maher held his cup.

Fatima and her husband, Asad, sat nearby. They noticed the boy sitting alone, and asked about Maher's mother. He explained, and they offered that he sit with them. Maher hesitated, out of decency. But, they insisted, and Maher accepted. Maher brought over his cup of black coffee, and sat. They had eggs, toast, and cereal swishswashed in the kids' bowls. And they offered Maher, from their plates.

"Milk at least, for your coffee?" asked Asad.

Maher smiled and refused.

"Trying to have less milk." gently answered Maher.

"Why? Isn't it bitter?" asked Fatima.

"I'm, uhm, recovering from something." Maher said, polite.

His voice was low, and warm. And hers curious, and guilty. He had hot chocolate yesterday, that was Maher's limit for two days. Asad rose to fetch butter for his toast. He offered to fetch, croissants or nutella, or bananabread, but Maher declined with a warm smile. It was just him and Fatima at the table, and the kids crunching on cereal.

"I thought milk is good for bones." Fatima said.

Maher answered, softly.

"It is, but the stuff they give cows, the antiobiotics and preservatives, sugar in the milk is a little inflammatory." he said.

Fatima buttered her croissant, with guilt.

"You heard Sahil, no more fruit loops and coco pops. It's not good for you!" she said, directing at her kids.

The kid sighed, and ate perhaps his last bowl. Maher felt guilty.

The light was cold and grey, slithering in like silver or mercury, looking for warmth in the dining area. Sahil's rich brown coco pops, seemed warm. Maher was reminded of his rich hot chocolate from yesterday, and her tying a scarf. The silver light warmed, when Maher thought of Fatima.

"Are you going to play professionally, some day?" Fatima asked Maher.

The metal silver serpent light creeped back into his chest.

"There's a lot that needs to go right, by then." answered Maher, avoidant.

"Like?" she asked.

And he was stumped. If he was good, he was good. Perhaps, he just needed to play. Take the ball, pass, demand from your teammates. Maybe, he just wasn't good enough.

"What happened, your injury?" she asked, to pass the minute.

"A ligment. But I still feel it pull, I think." he said.

Maher widened his chair, and straightened his knee down the side. Fatima looked for the phantom pain.

"Maybe it's in your mind." she said.

"It is a mental game." Maher agreed.

Maher couldn't accept anything, to eat. And he couldn't possibly accept their empathy, either. Because last night, he had wondered what they were doing, pervasively. And this morning, he looked for signs if they had. Intrusively, or involuntarily. Her husband arrived, with lovely sweets. But Maher couldn't eat at the table. He was looking for signs, she was loved. The way she tilted to face her husband, comb her hair behind an ear, keep her fingers clean between morsel, delicately. Not just loved from last night, maybe he would discover from a rogue strand of hair, but if she wanted to be loved from here on. Maher wondered if she was loved, or just the wife. If she wore an earring, if she wanted to be pretty. If she wanted to be adored. Maher made promises to her, one sidedly. And he couldn't eat, from the plate of her husband. Her family table.

He hid pain underneath his fleece. And, in his soul.

Maybe he wasn't as good as everyone thought. Neither a good enough footballer, nor a moral boy. But he liked the way Fatima spoke to him, like a friend on a picnic. Rather than a machine, that the coaches, teammates and even his parents expected of him. Fatima had thinning hair, underneath her scarf. He had dark hair, straight, that would maybe later curl into a wolf cut. But for now, he was her puppy.

They stood up later, for the hike. Maher was five foot eleven, youthful in movement. But he matched Fatima's petite steps, hoping he'd reach the summit by her side.

V -

The trip began, in Kinnaur. After a flight from Delhi to Shimla, and rickety buses to Kinnaur. Why so high? Because the group wanted to reach Ladakh, in time for the Hemis festival. So, they began in Kinnaur.

They would later proceed to Ladakh, return via Dharamshala, to Shimla. A few days in Chandigarh, before the Attari Wahga border near Lahore. But for now, all they had was the Great Himalayan National Park, and the Kinnaur Kailash peak. At around 5000m of altitude.

And when you begin high, progress means to fall. Maher was falling in love, with Fatima, as they walked. It wasn't the Charang to Kailash trek, as that was six days alone. It was a mini version, a one hour walk from Rekong Peo, a village already at the base of Kailash. A journey for families, one with time constraints. Maher stole a slither of time, walking alongside Fatima. And he heard her breathe, trying to steal from the air. She was graceful, tired. Maher was twenty, tired. And they walked by each other, similarly fatigued, by nothing immediate. But, by a million fractures into their future. For Maher, it was a knee, the ball, and the disregard for things his age. Fatima did not know what her fractures were, but when he asked if she had liked sport, it began unravelling the layers of her life, like paint that came undone, when Sahil kicked his ball against the wall in the afternoons.

She immediately thought of an afternoon, when Sahil had asked her to pass the ball back to him in a specific way. And the poor kid held his anxiety, as the ball returned to him in wayward ways.

"Mommy, like this." he had said, politely.

But still, she couldn't. And Fatima thought of all the other middle class wives and moms, who were playing padel on weeknights. She neither had ability, nor friends. And they didn't either, but the pulsing blood probably made them leaner by a little, plusher skinned, possibly more attractive to their husbands, after twenty years of marriage. And if not, she had heard of couples like her and Asad, that had lived colourful lives. She had a vague idea of swinging, now reaching the ordinary suburbs. Fatima didn't find it entertaining, rather inducing.

She wasn't much anything, in her youth. High school, then ready for marriage. There was no mayoon, or turmeric ceremony, cousins from far to celebrate and make her fair. To sit by her feet, glorify her, singing songs into the night. Or clap to Qawwali, being played for the men. No, she sat at a table of elder women, all sharing their routines and stories, of quite unspectacular lives. And she thanked them later, standing at the door, for their anecdotes and support on an important night.

Life is lonely, without the things we call silly.

But, when a twenty year old boy had asked, one who had his entire life ahead, entering a stage of decisions, she was taken back to that night before her wedding. And everything since, felt empty of her own tastes and passion. Fatima was drawn to Maher, because he could choose all over again.

She didn't realise, that he felt stuck, too. She looked at him, sitting by on a rock. They hadn't followed the others, to the peculiar boulder for pictures.

"Not taking a picture?" she asked.

He was thinking about how he dragged a shot, three weeks ago. The shot was on, and Maher had rhythm, falling into the position of shooting. But, he collapsed hips, feeling the phantom pain, pulling his shot wide.

"Too far." Maher said, playfully.

The path to the boulder was flat, and pebbled. It was a joke, but he felt the pebble slipping under foot, and his knee turning in an awkward direction. Quite real. Maher was afraid of the little elliptical lies, and sat behind. Fatima stayed, just a little modest. Fatima noticed his tech fleece, playful cringe, and didn't take him for a shy, or thinking of nutrition kind of boy.

"Should I take your picture?" she offered.

Thinking he had no one, his mom was back at the room.

"I feel shy, for pictures." he said.

They were the same.

It would have been a great goal, one where the ball flared and flailed, into the net up high. Guided by the ether, obeying and carrying out the orders of his whimsical mind. But still, he found glory in her flailing scarf, in the wind.

And they were back in Kalpa, in an hour. It was a scam of a trek, because the Charang to Kailash was six days long, and it included sunrise over the tips of the mountain range, sarais or shelters on the flatlands, snow and clouds at the same heights, sometimes the clouds lower than, resting under tilted boulders, stranger boulders -- than the hour's walk they had taken.

But still, Fatima knew he existed now, and that was a peak in Maher's mind.

VI -

At night, the group had fractured -- upstairs, downstairs and most in bed. Fatima was in the kitchen, her family asleep, and Maher entered. A few watched a movie, in the house somewhere. Fatima and Maher, among. The muffled dialogue trickled in, to the empty kitchen. Both needed a late night drink, or snack.

"How's the movie?" she asked.

"The songs are nice." he said.

He was a spotify boy, who barely listened to Indian music. She was a nineties girl, and she knew all the romantic songs of old. He was a little shy, of his heritage. She remembered her youth. Back then a time ago, it wasn't cringe. It was all she knew. Running around, movies with songs and dances every few minutes. Listening to it after school, on casette, cd and dvd. And then it was, for a bit. A teen phase. And then it wasn't. Fatima liked the passe song now, Maher was still a little shy.

He confessed, though. The song made him feel.

They were both Gujarati, from South Africa. Their grandparents had left a long time ago. Although, Maher had an Urdu speaking father, and Fatima was purely Gujarati. They neither knew the language of home, just English. But they were of the same coloured existence, just at different points in time.

Maher, from an age of brown girls who did mirror nudes and 'The Pose', as creative expression. Fatima was from an age that banished, when cameras were barely clear. It seemed a good trade, of time's treats, her explaining the value of the song, and him wanting to explain how her open hair this evening deserved a flower in it.

The dialogue of the movie trickled in, as he tried to open a packet of biscuits. And it burst.

"Why are you fighting with it?" she asked.

Fatima was making milk warm, for her. Maher gathered his broken biscuit, a little annoyed at his own failing body.

"I feel like I don't have control over my body, anymore." he said.

Fatima poured her milk.

"Can you get it back?" she asked.

"Control?" he wondered.

Their eyes locked.

The irony was, that he needed to re establish control over his body, but he wanted to control hers. A song beginning... saved them. And they rushed out playfully, to listen.

There was nothing wrong with Asad, aside from the fact that he found her just a wife. So Fatima turned to the movie, for little flirts of magic. The way the boy paid attention to the girl, chased her just a little, to let her know that she existed. The way he waited for her answer, a response to a gifted flower, rather than her just following a husband daylight saving time zone. The way they sat at a train station, unrushed by time, with a person more important, than the approaching train. But she couldn't dream of it, as she had kid daylight saving timelines, too. Vicariously, a bit of a victim, maybe Fatima wanted a little of it too. Nothing dark, but safe. The playful feeling, of being a heroine.

She wanted to listen to 'her' music, and explain it to another. She wanted to be asked about her day's outfit. She wanted to be teased, glorified. She wanted the lingering claim, seen in movies, that kept you young, pretty and feeling like life was claiming responsibility for you, for attaching you, for making that someone try to make you smile. These days, she was all by herself, trying to look pretty for her husband, responsible for her children. She was being occupied in the day, had at nights, without being asked silly cute questions in the morning, of what she had liked.

So when the movie had ended, Fatima and Maher took the time to watch one more, alone in the watching room. Maher knew how to insert a dvd, surprisingly. And everyone else was asleep, but they watched the sillyness, and questioned it, speaking until late at night.

VII -

And in the morning they were off to Ladakh, where the Hemis festival of masks awaited.

It had been a day and half trip, and on the second day -- a colourful masked dance broke out across the stone floor, by dragon dancers. Dressed in pink and blue flare robes. It was known as the Cham dance. An ancient Tibetan festival, fire-breathing over the monastery courtyard floor.

Fatima and Maher watched, as its prey. A thungka unfurled, the movement burned, and they stood near each other, thinking of their own masks. Maher wanted to get the shadowy layer out, from between his mask and real face. He didn't want to be hers, on the outside, and he hoped it wasn't a feeling present within his good self. But, there was a shadow layer between his pretense and hopes, that wanted her possessively and forever, even if it was for two minutes in a shaded monastery's corridor.

Fatima's mask, was the silliness of the movie, the love story they watched in Kalpa. Her mask was falling, because, maybe she wanted it -- that chimerical silliness of romance, of her being told sweet silly nothings. She, capriciously, felt like running her hands through a messy haired boy.

The danger, of missing out on dating. Nobody tells you you're pretty, even if it's a lie. Your entire life, untold. Even though Maher had thought she was pretty, he couldn't tell her, because she was married. He waited for her married facade to fall, even though it was the truth set in stone, as this monastery.

Maher's psyche was broken, and he wanted to break hers. In the monastery, they felt unholy.

It was in Dharamshala, as the street was preparing for evening, misty with day carts departing and night carts staying, that Maher said something peculiar. He asked her, if she wanted anything from the dessert bar. Her husband was at the buffet, her kids were deciding what they had wanted, and Maher passed by her table where she sat alone, even if for a few seconds. He intended bringing a plate for him and his mother, and thought it friendly and playful, to ask. Fatima thought the offer bold, extrapolating things in her mind. But, it was innocent. She refused, but still he brought a plate, with some things he had chosen for himself. Chocolate cake, a raspberry tart, some opera looking cake that tasted weak of the coffee part.

Fatima thought it peculiar, because he had asked, and brought, regardless. Whereas her husband would probably ask, accept her answer, and maybe expect her to taste something of his choice. She liked the rebellion of the boy, and wondered if she was a rebel too. But her husband returned, and she submitted, to taste from his plate.

"Who brought this?" he asked, of the mysterious plate.

The one of chocolate cake, raspberry tart and opera cake. Fatima nodded at Maher's table, and it was explained that the boy brought what he thought was nice. Asad had thought Maher had good manners, at least. But Maher tasted the cake at his table, wondering what Fatima usually ordered at malls, or Saturday night dates with her husband. And it was inappropriate, unmannered, because he wondered further, about what happened when they returned home on Saturday nights. Such filthy thoughts, he disbanded them, and tasted the weak opera cake.

They took a walk in the street, after dinner at the restaurant. It was in MacLeod Ganj, a neon lit promenade of grilling restaurants, and late night grocery stores. The group of fifteen spaced away, to buy their own little sweets, each trying to be different from the other. Or to create their own unique mini journey, on a generic trip. There was Ali bhai, and his wife Ayesha. The elderly Alibhai had wanted tea, again. Sireesha was at a cotton candy stand. Amith and Payal bought roasted peanuts. Abdullah and his few siblings wanted ice cream, and went off up a street. Kabir and his new white friend Terence got cola ice, and the white boy didn't feel connected to the town. The hill station towns, like Dalhousie, had white significance of the old colonial era, but it was fading as all kinds of tourists flooded in, rewriting the electric fabric in the air. Terence was lost, his parents were buying some sugarcane and amli sweet. And Maher and Hafsa strolled, filled from dinner. Nearby Fatima and her husband, and their kids hopping, talking about some family issue.

But back at the hotel, upon returning from dinner in the misty street, they met again in a strange lane of the stay. Maher and Fatima, in the narrowed alley to the kitchen. A hallway of small frames, and a wooden side table. The event planner, or tour guide, was the only one else downstairs. After ensuring everyone was warm with blankets, he was going to stay in another hotel, and greeted. Both Maher and Fatima, needed a thing more, before sleeping. Fatima wanted a glass of water, and Maher wanted to spend the time to twelve, by the window. Looking out into the Dharamshala dense morning, of meadowsweet.

And Fatima sat by, to drink her water.

"What do you usually do on Saturday nights?" Fatima asked.

"Football. Sometimes cricket, if it's on." Maher said.

There was no television, here. Fatima noticed his distant stare, into the green.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked.

Maher smiled, and shook his head.

"Why not?" she frowned.

He wasn't gay, no. He just had many things to think about. And, he hadn't met anyone interesting, enough. The brown girls were basic, wanted marriage. He couldn't promise anyone his unattentive mind, yet. He didn't know if he was a starryfoot baller yet, or an ordinary boy next door, that would marry and spend Saturday nights taking her for dinner, returning home to a compelled romance.

Maher didn't know for whom to prepare his mind, yet.

"I need to earn, so I can buy her nice things." he said.

"You can always grow together." she offered.

Maher watched k dramas, random series, but life was neither sapphic and pastel, nor gritty and noir. The middle ground, of whether he'd be footballer rich or data science rich, played him into uncertainty, like he couldn't see the ball in a game he played. He was pressing shadows, closing ghosts, and he didn't know if he was meant for a wife, a party girl, a supermodel. He had not found it, but he didn't know what to look for. Watching Fatima sit, felt compelling. Maybe he wanted a wife, like her.

But she was taken.

"Nice things like?" she asked.

Wanting Maher to elaborate, on what he planned to buy for the future girl. Again, Fatima lived vicariously, through the imaginary young couple.

"What do you like?" he asked.

Pretending her answer would be the average girl's want. But he intended on finding what 'she' had wanted.

"I don't like much." Fatima said. "Maybe flowers, earrings."

Yes, but Cartier or like imitation ones, you pretty older woman?? He wanted to ask. The ones you can choose from abundance on a streetside metal table. That was fun too, or maybe he could afford it better.

"Do you like fashion?" he asked.

Hoping she'd elaborate, if she liked the expensive kind. But she was ordinary cream, Jo Malone, essentials and dresses in nude or flowery print, and on sale, kind of girl, and she didn't know if it was fashion or not.

"I like comfortable things." she said, blandly.

Maher wanted to know, if she liked dark embellishments on random nights. He had gathered her ordinary mom-next-door ness by now, and wanted to know if she ever liked risque Chanel, or had a Prada something in her closet. Or was she only buying endless scarf from local sellers on Instagram, domestic and homely. Her husband did seem like he could afford both. Did she wear any spectacular something, sometimes, for either her or him?

Maher tried to banish the thoughts, afraid. That he had invaded her privacy, or honor. The town's last remnants of colonial rule, was a colonial lamp post in the town. Maher hated the idea of colonialism, imperialism, uniforms and subjugation, and didn't feel a second wasted in ending his possibly pervasive thought. Even if it was a brown thing too, conquest, a thing across culture and time and place, neither just the white man's fault nor the ethnic majority vs minority fault, it would NOT be his fault. Maher wanted to be free, and he wanted Fatima to be free too. But Fatima was, maybe, already free being married. And now, paradoxically, he wanted to own her freedom. And he felt just like that authoritarian lamp post, in the town.

Because Maher was learning how to love, he let her go without letting her know, that he wanted to kiss her.

VIII -

Because Maher was learning how to love, he noticed how she left an earring back on the vendor's table. Scattered among chappals, flowers, bracelets. The one she had picked up and left, he bought with some rupees he had.

They were in Chandigarh, the second last leg of the journey. It was July, and warmer. And they were here for a few days, before the Attari Wagah border, and finally home. There was not much besides urban strolling, to do. And the group, already tired from rickety buses to the Himalayan and hill station towns, scattered about in the hotel, slumped about doing homely things, like reorder luggage and read namaaz, or as Amith demonstrated with homesick excellence, snore in the commons room.

Fatima was up in her room, planning her last outfits for the last of the trip's days.

Maher held the earring, and wondered why he had bought it. She would have taken it, if she wanted to. There was no money problem, her husband had some black card. He barely knew if EGT would call, to let him know if he was a bum or not. He ignored his missed classes, falling grades. But here he had it, an earring for a married woman, and wondered if he should give it to her, at least to remember him by, her friend from an unspectacular trip.

Maher waited till evening, after dinner. Everybody was going out, to a night garden, and he caught her for a minute in the kitchen, as he brought his plate. It was a semi-home stay hotel, and the decent ones thought to bring their plates to the kitchen. Maher got the earrings from his pocket.

"I got you something." he said, a quiver in his voice.

Fatima noticed the gift, curious.

"Why?" she asked.

"Just something, to remember strangers on a trip by." he said.

Fatima smiled, politely. But was unsure of accepting. Maher had to improve his reason.

"It's a thank you, for the advice. You know, find someone to grow with." he said.

Fatima remembered their conversation, of a few nights ago. And the night they watched the movie in Kalpa. A moment between strangers, of some value. She accepted the earrings, in hand. Fatima looked up, to thank him. But formal. He smiled, it was enough.

And they walked to the nighttime garden later, close by each other. Asad was tending to the children's spirited walk ahead, as he talked to Amith. About some grown up thing. Maher's mother was looking at the leaves of the trees, as she passed. Maher and Fatima walked by each other, like strangers, but their souls began to hold hands for some reason.

"How many years until you finish your studies?" she asked.

"Next year. Then I'm done." Maher said.

"Inshallah. And thennn, off to play soccer?" Fatima asked.

"If they call me." he finally confessed, of his insecurity.

"They will, they will." she said, trying to reassure him.

Maher wished, but his hope was fading.

"And then, marriage." she joked.

"If I find someone, like you." he said, with a playful note.

"Like me? Why like me?" she quipped.

Maher just smiled.

He offered her a rose petal later, in the garden. One that had gone astray. She was used to accepting gifts from him by now.

And on the walk back, everyone had the same arrangement. Besides the kids, they were tired, and Asad carried Sadie. Maher and Fatima walked further away from the group, and no one suspected this late in the journey, that they would become lovers.

Fatima held the petal, between her fingers.

"Thanks for the flower." she said.

"Only those that haven't received bouquets, call petals flowers." he said.

Maher walked by her side, poetic. Making up imaginary poetry.

"Does he buy you flowers?" Maher asked.

Her husband was further ahead. And by her hesitation, he knew.

"He doesn't love you!" Maher said, dramatic.

Fatima wondered if she had broken the sanctity of marriage, by confessing that he didn't buy her flowers. She tried to correct it.

"There's more to marriage than flowers." she said.

"Like?" Maher asked.

And she was stumped. She knew, that it was kids and responsibility. But she began to wonder, what else she liked.

"What would you buy your future wife?" she asked.

"What do you like?" he immediately said.

Fatima look at him smiling, a little stern.

"I'm married." she said.

He stared at her, still.

"What is your name?" she asked, finding his boyish darkness curious.

"Maher." he said.

IX -

At the Attari Wagah border, where two nation's tall guards with crowns confronted each other, in a back-and-forth dance meant to represent both rivalry and friendship, Maher sat close by Fatima, wondering what kind of men she liked.

Tall, dark men with strong arms and hale intention. Or would a slender, petite and graceful boy like him do. He was an elegant standing person, but these men were towering. Did she like the men with sinewy faces, or would a dainty faced boy do? The rugged stubble, and fixed jaw. Or, was the twenty year old boy enough?

Fatima watched the show. On the other hand, Maher knew brown girls pretty and curvy, varying in playful faced-ness, some that laughed more and some less, fairer and golden wheat skinned, willing to play sports and willing to not, and he knew that he wanted Fatima, over all of them. Over the Greek models, over the playgirls that now played suburban boys for fun, over some ideal homely girl his age. Maher sat, admiring her stare, at the strong men.

And he wished he was strong enough, for her to stare at him too. The jaunting men made him wish, that he could lift a finger to her chin, to kiss her -- at a Punjabi restaurant later that night.

They had chicken tikka, and rich methi butter chicken. And in a quiet corridor, to wash their hands, he met her under a dim lightbulb and stared at her lips.

In Amritsar, they kissed.

X -

It was back at the hotel. A palace-like stay, with a courtyard and rooftops. And everyone was down in the courtyard, or their rooms, but Maher met Fatima on the further end of the rooftop. Beyond was dark, with billboards on the highway.

And they stood on the edge of the dark rooftop, above ornate archways. He leaned in, and pecked her. On her lips. He retreated, to see the reaction. She responded, by lowering her eyes. He leaned back in, and closed his lips over hers. Her bottom lip between his, as he tilted to meet her height.

Maher and Fatima's lips parted and closed, over each other's. Nimbly, nibbling. Maher tasted her lips, she tasted like nothing. And he liked it. She smelled, like mild shampoo. Her hair fluttered, in the space between her scarf and neck. And they both counted a few accidental-or-not slips of their tongues.

Slipping in, with greater frequency.

Maher had worn a lean black long sleeved top, silhouetting a narrow body. Fatima wore a dress and jacket, bunching the space around her waist, in modesty. They stood apart, only clothes and lips touching, until he left her lips. Pressing in, and leaning by her neck, they breathed.

He bit, at her lower earlobe. It was just a coquettish flirt.

Fatima sunk her neck in, making it harder to reach. He kissed her, behind the ear. And he made his way down the back of her neck, pecking at her. Her eyes were closed, and she didn't see Maher sink to his knees, before her.

She opened her eyes, he kneeled on the floor between her legs, looking up at her. Round eyed, hers too. And then, he placed his hands on her finally. The outside of her waist, he closed fingers over the rim of her sweatpants. No, she couldn't let it happen. But, he pulled down. And her panties were now exposed to the air.

Everyone was downstairs, this was a far side of the rooftop, partially dark. Probably only frequented by maintenance men, who were now asleep. Maher kneeled before Fatima, with her underwear placed before his face. And he stared up at her, boyish. She looked down at him. He kissed her on the panties, staring up. She barely felt it, through the fabric. He padded his lips, lightly across hers. Maher looked ahead, and she could now only see his dark hair. He was busy, with intention. She was quivering in the breeze less night, preparing for his intentions. Maher brought her panties over, deftly leaving them at her mid thigh. Her bare mound, feeling the dark cool night.

And he looked up back at her, and took a fold of hers between his lips. His eyes, and tapered lips, had possesed hers. And then he licked, up the inside of one of her labia.

Gasp. It was happening. She felt it glide, the tip of his tongue was wet, and small rounded. He brought it back down, and back up the opposite side. Maher brought his tongue back down, to the floor of the crevice diamond, and slipped it in and out briefly. Fatima felt entered, and he compensated, by raising to kiss her on the clit.

Fatima closed her eyes, placed her hand by the side of his head. Standing before the boy, withstanding her reserve. Maher rested his tongue on her rosebud like clit, and began a series of circles. Light, she felt it heavy. Her thighs were loose and big, and felt a stir. He flirted his tongue over her clitoris, in the dark. He closed his lips over, and ate at it softly, like tasting rose petals without it tearing. With care and love, trying to look up at her. Fatima rested her hand by his face, his eyes were honest, and her thighs were feeling. A supraliminal signal, of a kind of electric attention.

Fatima was far from it, and she didn't want the water to mix with electricity, just yet. She would mess, but she quite liked feeling the electricity, for now. But he rose, lightly slapped her.

And he left.

Leaving her, with a billboard in the background, advertising Amarnath oil. Probably lighter than the oil down her thighs. Whale oil, she could burn him if she so wished.

... to be continued.