Is This Love?

It is hard for me to describe the physical aspect of what happened next. It was madememorable only by my incompetence in everything that followed upon Catherine's firstdisencumbering kiss: the first nervous explorations, the fumbling with buttons and hooks,the awkward impasses and shameful lonely climaxes.

Even if I could describe it without being meretricious, I would still be false to mymemory of the event, which matched at only a very crude level the usual adolescentfantasies I'd had about the savouring of unknown pleasures.

The revelation was of a different order, and in it lay all the sweetness of that moment-- the moment I wanted to prolong; indefinitely, for it had awakened a part of me I hadnever known. It came to me later, in a calm moment after the disorder of the physical act,as I lay next to Catherine, listening to her endearments, her declarations of love -- thedeclarations she said she had long wanted to make to me, and which I reciprocatedclumsily, making her laugh -- watching her face, so tender and beautiful, in thecandlelight, the vision reminding me of the first time I saw her, playing the tanpura,sitting very straight on the mat, her face bathed by the golden light from the flickeringdiyas.

I couldn't get over the affinity that had so abruptly and spontaneously sprung upbetween us, this intimate proximity with someone who seemed until a few minutes ago aremote and unsettling stranger. Our nakedness; Catherine's glowing face, which had neverfailed to hold me and which was now so close to mine that its features took on anunfamiliar cast; the infantile nature of our conversation; our quick easy laughter oversilly things -- it all appeared miraculous.

Is this love? Is this love? I kept asking myself, more insistently thanin the recent past, when I witnessed it only from a distance, and the part of me that wasmade uneasy by the unreal quality of it all -- listening to Catherine's words of love forme, which referred to someone other than the person she saw before her -- was soonoverwhelmed by the part that embraced eagerly the possibility that Catherine had seenthings in me I hadn't, the part that wished to surrender to the mood of the moment, to thenew intense emotion it released within me -- the emotion which was also a suddenly acuteawareness of the great yearning that had lain suppressed within me for a long time.

I wanted the moment to go on for ever; I wished never to let go of itsintensity, and the morning, when it came, felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

I had stayed awake for a while after Catherine drifted into sleep, herhead resting on my shoulder, the shadows from the candle still swaying across the wallsand ceiling of the room. I felt restless and exuberant; strange wild thoughtscriss-crossed my mind and then faded out of sight. At some point after the candle burneditself out and the room plunged into darkness, I too fell asleep.

I woke up, and the first wakeful moment was suffused with the thrillingmemory of the previous night's events, before being almost immediately assailed by panic.

Catherine was gone.A mess of bedclothes and wrinkled sheets were piledwhere she had lain the previous night. Where was she?

Then I heard the noise of the tap and the din of water falling into asteel bucket. She was in the bathroom, and between registering this rather too plain factand the panic of finding her absent from my side, I felt the memories of the night recede.

The room itself looked ordinary, stripped of drama, in the bright glarefiltered through the dirty green curtains. Random sunbeams fell on discarded backpacks,untidy huddles of clothes and shoes; there was something monotonous about the even noiseof the river.

The tap in the bathroom was turned off. I heard the quick, squelchysounds made by her flip-flops and then, after a short mysterious spell of silence, theflush toilet with the rusty chain roared and gargled.

The door opened, and Catherine appeared wrapped in a black towel, herhair wet and glossy, tiny beads of water on her bare shoulders, which were bunched upagainst the cold. She didn't turn to look at where I lay, half propped on my elbow. Withshort mincing steps, she went up to where her backpack rested against the wall, rummagedfor a brief moment through it, brought first a white T-shirt, then her underclothes, andholding them in a bundle she turned, as I knew she would, towards the bed, where her jeanslay on the floor.

She noticed my gaze. She walked towards me, a small reluctant smile onher face. I smelled the sandalwood soap she had used on her face as she leaned down toplant a quick kiss on my forehead. She withdrew abruptly and untied the towel around her.

Naked, her breasts shaking slightly, she dressed herself and 1, stillsupine on the bed, couldn't help but watch: first the underclothes, and then the T-shirtand jeans and the woollen jumper. All this -- elastic straps slapped into place, hooks andbuttons fastened, zippers zipped -- was accomplished with a practised ease and amatter-of-factness that left me oddly flustered, and the exchange of tenderness that Ihalf hoped for as she came into the room began to feel inappropriate.

She bent her torso to one side and began to dry her thick mop of hair.

She said, between the sneezing sounds the towel made, 'I see . . Indianwomen . . . doing this . . . in Benares . . . They do . . . it really . . . well.'

So composed and remote she already seemed, so different from the tenderand high-spirited person I had held in my arms. It was peculiarly painful to hear herBenares -- the larger world that the last few hours of our intimacy had managed to keep atbay and to which we were now going back.

Every time Catherine hit her hair with the towel, a fine spray of waterrose from her head and briefly passed through the golden sunbeams crossing the room.

I suddenly remembered something. 'There is a woman who lives right nextto my house in Assi,' I said. 'I can never see her face but I hear her drying her hairevery morning.'

She didn't respond.When she stopped and straightened up, herexpression was solenm. She was panting slightly; loose strands of hair fell over her eyes.

She said, her voice neutral and low, 'We must not let Anand know whathappened last night.He would not be able to deal with it. It would crush him, and I can'tlet that happen. I feel responsible for him. I love him too, you know,'

My thoughts had been far away from Anand; this emphatic reminder of herconnection with him -- after that already painful reference to Benares -- couldn't havecome at a more vulnerable moment. She saw the puzzled hurt on my face. She leaned down toembrace me. I smelt the sandalwood soap; the wet cold hair against my skin made me shiver.

Then, as it was too uncomfortable to hold me while standing, sheslipped into bed next to me and held me tight against her.

She repeated her endearments of last night, her conviction of alifelong friendship. Soon, we were babbling in the childlike way we had discovered,without, it seemed, any effort on our part. when, a few fervent kisses later, we werere-enacting the rituals I had learned the previous night.

It was done with only a bit more competence on my part. Catherine jokedabout it and then, seeing me slightly put out, burst into laughter.

'You men are all the same,' she said, laughing, her teeth large andwhite, dimples on her cheeks. 'You all worry about these things.'

The thought came to me, with a pang of jealousy, of the men she hadspoken of last night, the men who had not worked out for her.

But the moment passed; I was eager to fall in with her cheerful mood.

Catherine mimicked the chokidar's gait as we packed up our things; shespoke excitedly of the journey back through the mountains. As we walked away from theresthouse, weighted down by our backpacks, Catherine stopped abruptly and turned back.

'One last look,' she said in a cheerful voice. The sentimental gesturesurprised me at first; but it was gratifying to notice her sombre face and sad eyes whenshe turned towards me.

Later, while waiting for the bus to Hardwar, we sat out on the rock bythe river, eyes half-shut against the blinding reflection from the water. So new the worldseemed, and everything of value in it present in this moment, when neither thediscontentments of the past nor the desires for the future existed, everything touched bythe pure happiness I felt -- the snowy peaks, glorious in the sun, the rushing river, therope bridge, the grassy hillsides spangled with dew, the whitewashed temple and the ochrepennant fluttering from the very top of the oak tree.

The sadhu from last night performed his morning rituals a few metresaway, a picture of grace as he stood facing the sun, pouring water from a glittering brassjug, his long hair wet, his muscular torso gleaming with oil.

How remote and neutral he appeared to me now, so easily blended intothe brilliant morning scene, all the complex of melancholy feelings he had brought on lastnight defused and almost unrememberable.

He nodded at us as he left. I suddenly noticed Catherine watching himunseeingly, her face a mass of quick conflicting emotions, and she broke down as soon ashe had disappeared from sight.

She felt oppressed by the confusion of her life, she said between sobsthat shook her entire body, the confusion and the uncertainty. And it was getting worse:there was her attachment to Anand, with all its attendant responsibilities, and now therewas a new one, to me, and it had come with its complications. Instead of detachment, shewas getting more and more involved with other people.

Even in the midst of her tears, it was heartening to me to be spoken ofas an encumbering attachment. I tried to console her, and after some time, she stoppedcrying. I brought her water in a plastic cup from the river; she washed her tearstainedface and wiped it with my handkerchief.She gave me a quick surreptitious kiss,complimented me on my gallantry. Some of her gloom appeared to recede.

But the pattern was set. Her moods kept changing; and by following themas anxiously as I did, I became a prisoner to them. My eyes didn't stray far from herface. The few moments of pleasure on finding her calm would immediately be cancelled outwhen she collapsed into a fresh fit of remorse and self-pity.

There were more tears from Catherine on the bus -- tears hastilyconcealed when inquisitive peasant eyes turned in our direction. The landscape so closelyobserved on the way to Kalpi -- the villages teetering from high cliffs, the neat littleflowerbeds in dung-paved courtyards of houses along the road, the ancient men with wizenedfaces smoking hookahs in chai shacks, the primly dressed schoolchildren, the hook-nosedshepherds with white dust on their beards, the clean blue sky overhead and the whitemountaintops -- all of this now slid past unseen in a blur.

At Hardwar -- where we went intending to take a direct train to Benares-- a tout at the bus station led us to a dungeon-like guest house in a lane crowded withgarishly decorated sweetshops and vegetable stalls. We remained there all day, tooexhausted from the bus journev, to do much, and drifted in and out of sleep. People cameand knocked randomly on the door and then went away. Tinny devotional music blared throughthe windows and a voice on a nearby loudspeaker kept announcing the numbers of lucky-dipwinners.

Between spells of sleep, Catherine broke into fits of weeping. Onceagain, I tried to console her, but was helpless to do so. Her tears seemed to come from asource unknown to me and often moved me to tears myself; but they were also puzzling andfilled me with every kind of fear and insecurity. They created a new physical awkwardnessbetween us: lying close together on a narrow hard cot, under a ceiling fan with broadrusty blades, we didn't kiss even once.

Hunger finally forced us out of the room, where mosquitoes had begun tocollect in busy swarms. We went to a roadside dhaba. Catherine didn't eat much; calmernow, she talked about her travels in South India, and drank glass after glass of mineralwater, fetched by an agile waiter-boy, who sat at the next table when he wasn't serving usand stared at us unblinkingly.

Afterwards, we walked through the brightly lit alleys and their crowdof pilgrims and cows to the Har-Ki-Pauri -- Hardwar appearing a miniature version ofBenares-- and sat there watching the evening aarti.

Grey-haired pandits with wrinkled paunches stood before the idolsdressed in shiny dolls' clothes anal waved large brass lamps, tracing great golden haloesin the fog of incense smoke. Tonsured young initiates blew hard into conch shells. Downbelow where we sat, the lights of the ghat glimmered in the blackish river, which, sogracefully serene in Benares, heedlessly rushed on here, cruelly overturning andextinguishing the diyas which devotees had so gingerly set afloat upon it.

Catherine asked me about my father: how did he live by himself inPondicherry? What did he do all day? She said she was intrigued by the idea of retreat andrenunciation.She said she wanted to visit him; she said that parents were often the keyto understanding people you cared for.

'But I am happy,' she added, with a sudden giggle, 'that you are notfollowing in your father's footsteps any more, that you are not a celibate Babaji anymore.'

I smiled weakly, to fall in with her mood, but could not but feel theflippant remark as inappropriate, especially the casual reference to my father.

After the aarti ended, little boys with vermilion marks on theirforehead went around with collection thalis; they sprinkled holy water on devotees, whowarmed their palms and face on the camphor flame and dropped a coin into the thali. Acouple of them came towards us. Catherine dropped several coins, and then caressed my facewith her warm palms.

Disappointment awaited us at the railway station. There were no sleeperberths available on the train to Benares.

My somewhat abject entreaties to a thick-jowled ticket conductormanaged to obtain a single berth directly opposite the toilets. But the door to thetoilets didn't close, and a stench of urine and excrement kept wafting out all through thelong insomniac night. The train languished interminably at morgue-like platforms strewnwith slumbering white-shrouded bodies and then lurched off again, creaking and groaning,into the night. Far-off lights beckoned in the dark, and came nearer and nearer, only toswerve away at the last instant; the train would mourn each such abandonment with aheart-rending wail.

We took turns lying down on the narrow berth. Still sleepless, we satside by side in the end, wordlessly watching the fleeing night through the open windows.Between spells of calm, Catherine cried quietly, and long after the journey I wouldremember how the dust blowing in through the window marked her wet pale cheeks with darktrails.

Morning brought Benares, huddled under a dark canopy of rain clouds;shuttered shops and broken roads and slime-covered drains and defecating men passed ourweary eyes. At the railway station truculent coolies bargained with passengers driven tonear-hysteria by the simple act of offloading family and luggage.Ragged urchins screeched'Chai, chai' while cracked loudspeakers above droned out details of delayedarrivals and departures. Outside, rickshaw drivers with thin, unshaven, moustachioed facesand blood-red eyes jostled, harangued and taunted arriving visitors.

The world, held at bay for so long, was beginning to filter in, but myown gloom was yet to come.

It had drizzled for a brief while earlier that morning and the sky wasstill overcast. Muddy water ran down the broken pavements in narrow self-made channels.The streets were littered with tiny soaked slips of paper and rotting vegetables and cowdung, the profound silence cleft only by the slow grind of rickshaw wheels. The houses onboth sides looked wretched and dark. Here and there on rickshaw seats lay slumberingbodies in cramped postures.

'At least,' Catherine said, as if reading my thoughts, 'at least wehave got another day together.'

She was referring to the fact that Anand was still in Bihar, visitinghis parents.

It pleased me to hear that. I was beginning to long for somereassurance of her affection for me. I wanted to be alone with her again, and it was witha thumping heart that I ascended the staircase with the familiar mural of Rama and Sita.

Catherine leaned forward and kissed me lightly as she turned the key toher door. I followed her into the room to encounter, first, a chaos of sitars and tablasand discarded clothes and overflowing ashtrays, and then Anand, spreadeagled lifelessly onthe floor -- not dead, as I thought in one instant of great alarm, but sleeping.

All through the long journey from Kalpi, I had been more conscious ofthe little time I had alone with Catherine. I had known again and again the sharp,wounding realization that the hours we had between ourselves before we reached Benareswere few and dwindling fast. To see Anand now was to be jolted into an awareness of theproblems that lay ahead.

I felt a new kind of unease: it was the beginnings of the guilt I hadnot known until this moment. Watching him as he lay there, appearing so vulnerable andexposed in his deep slumber, was to have a dark, heavy sense of the relationship that nowbound me to him.