He dug and dug and dug. Under the scorching summer sun, Balram toiled endlessly. He wore a dirty white dhoti. It was wrapped around his waist carelessly but with precision. It looked like it would fall off any second but it never did.

Sweat dribbled down his temples and seeped into his pores. As he bent his upper body to the ground and raised his shovel to the sky to attack the ground, his biceps cramped and his core felt hotter than the sun. His coworkers’ presence offered some respite–he knew he wasn't alone but not with the person he wanted.

He counted the seconds before he could go back home. There were 7389 left. At home, he would be greeted by the dusty curtains and the brown earth. He had nobody. He was a bachelor who had moved away from his family to earn money. At 9 pm, 231 minutes later, he would start cooking dinner–a watery dal and doughy roti with some achaar made by Amma to make it seem like he was having a nutritious home-cooked meal.

After dinner, Balram would drink with his friends under the peepal tree. They would sit there until someone had the urge to inflict their wife or children with abuse or until someone was too sleepy or if they got bored with company and wanted to be in their thoughts. Balram had three pegs too much that day and was too drunk even to walk straight. Ahmad walked him back home with one arm on his shoulder and the other on the curve of his waist. It was almost as if he was hugging him. They were the best of friends. They met three years ago when Balram first came to Kolkata. Since then, they have drank together every night without fail. Except when Ahmad’s wife Suhana died. That day Ahmad drank with her on her grave and left the bottle there as a memory of all those nights they got drunk together on the roof overlooking the mosque and dreamed about their life outside of being a tailor and a housewife. A life where they had the simple pleasure of time and rest. They loved each other. But the circumstances were such that they got distant. Work, kids, alterations, and cooking came in the way of marital affection.

Ahmad was putting Balram down on his bed when he slurred the words “I miss my family, Ahmad. I want to go home.” Ahmad did not reply.

“You're the closest thing to home for me. You're more than a friend. I can't understand this feeling.” Ahmad’s heart stopped. He stood in silent shock.

“You're like a brother to me yaar.”

Ahmad closed the door behind him as he left.

He did not forget to keep a glass of water beside Balram’s bed. He also did not forget to lay the blanket on top of his body like a mother would her child. He did it so gently that it felt like the air was enveloping Balram. He did not forget to tuck in the blanket beside his chest and hips just as he liked. As he was leaving, he gave Balram one last glance and smiled. It was a simple misunderstanding. Balram was just his friend, right?

Balram lay there unaccompanied until the car horns and street hawkers woke him up.

Balram filled Ahmad’s heart with affinity. It tore its seams–overflowed its limits- and ripped its edges. His fondness towards Balram knew no end. He loved Balram not like he loved Suhana. He was fond of Suhana. But for Balram, he had a burning love. He was a moth to his flame. A love not even extinguished by the Ganga.
At first, he confused his fondness for fraternity. But on the day Balram was coming out of Ganga–water dripping down his back and hair slicked back, Ahmad realized he was in love with Balram. He was dumbfounded. Did not say anything for two minutes and three seconds- Balram counted. Puzzled, he questioned him but received an unsatisfying answer.

But Balram did not want Ahmad like that. That's what he told himself every night. Balram was a simple man who did not indulge in such things. He thought about Balram and how his lips move when he speaks, or the rhythm of his shoulders while walking, or how his hair flirts with the air on the Howrah as he slips into a slumber. Solitary on his cold bed.

The next day was Shivratri, a holiday. They met at the city square at Nadeem’s Cafe at 1 pm and spent the next forty-three minutes drinking chai and chatting. The cafe was generally white- of course, no white in Kolkata is completely white. There were chai and coffee stains on the walls. Flies circled the food on the counter and the lousy waiters offered their uninviting service. Diverse topics were discussed by the duo. From women to magazines to soil to politics to wrestling- everything etched their tongues. As they got up to leave, they wondered what their next stop should be. They decided upon the secret waterfall nine kilometers from the Howrah Bridge.

The waterfall was in a desolate spot. A sequestered piece of untouched heaven that they visited on special occasions. Balram leaped into the water as soon as he sighted it. He loved swimming. And Ahmad loved watching him swim. He hid behind his Satyajit Ray book as he stole glances of floating Balram and breathing Balram and diving Balram.

After sixty-three minutes, it was all silent. Only the crashing of the waterfall on the rocks beneath and the buzzing of crickets were heard. A distant train horn echoed along the clouds and pierced through the rustling of leaves and exhalation.

A long, deep breath later, Balram uttered the words “You're not my brother. I think I like you. I thought a lot about it--for 2 years and 372 days and I don't like you like a friend or a brother. I like you like how you liked Suhana. Sorry. I am sorry.”

Silence. A pause of three seconds. The chirping of the koel. A pause of two seconds. A squirrel runs away. A pause way too long to be quantified “I like you too. Not like I liked Suhana.”

Disappointment. A breath. “I like you more than I liked Suhana. In fact, I love you and it's fine if you don't.”

The earth flipped over itself. Waves of the pond ceased. The koel's chanting intensified. The squirrel found a walnut and the train reached its destination. Not 0.2 seconds later Balram blurted out “I love you too”.

His white dhoti turned red. The mud stains on it withdrew. The distance between them closed. Ahmad’s skin was warmer than the waterfall. Touching every inch of it was like diving into a new world. He felt better than swimming. More comfortable than his bed at home. More assuring than drinking under the peepal. More intoxicating than the desi they drank each evening. More homey than Achaar. A habit. An addiction. A routine. Home.

That night, they did not lay unaccompanied. His mattress was too small for two people which is why they decided to sleep on it together. The blanket was not tucked. Ahmad’s arms kept him warm for all the 428 minutes they slept until they had to toil again.

October 31, 2024