Across the Street

A story about forbidden love.

It was dark and humid, and each chestnut face jostled me as I tried to navigate my way down the uneven sidewalk. The full moon and fluorescent light bulbs lit up all of the shops lining the street. It was hotter than usual tonight, but there were still just as many people out. A wave of purple caught my eye from the other side of the street. I tripped over the threshold of a colorful bazaar, and barely caught myself in the doorframe. The owner of the shop watched me curiously, with furrowed brow. I stood up, brushed myself off, and walked into the store.

A thousand carved eyes bore into mine from the shelves upon shelves of tiny wooden statues lining the wall closest to me. I walked a bit closer, and dared to pick one up to get a closer look. The name Saraswati was inscribed on the bottom. She wore a serene expression as her fingers drifted over the frets of a veena, an instrument that reminded me of a guitar. I ran my finger along each delicate etch in the dark wood. Her attire was light purple, perfect color for a queen. I set her back down in her rightful place, with all of the other gods and goddesses, and turned to leave. I smiled at the owner, still watching me cautiously, and left with a friendly wave.

I was back into the way of traffic. I accidentally gave the person in front of me a flat tire. I cringed, expecting a sharp word or two thrown at me, but they kept walking on, unfazed by my slip-up. I thanked God New Delhi wasn’t anything close to Boston and kept walking.

I noticed a solemn group of women across the street. I strained my eyes against the distance between myself and them to get a better look, but it was no use. People were weaving in and out of foot and cycle traffic like ants rushing to collect their rations before a big thunderstorm. Every once in a while there would be a break in the flow, and I could get a glimpse over to the other side. I finally stopped on the outside of one of the seemingly endless bazaars.

I tried to blend in, leaning my back against the flimsy partition of the bazaar. I hated being stagnant. I let the phantom music floating down the street inundate me. Each pling of the sitar stirred my soul.

I scanned the endless sea before me, looking for shiny fish to catch my attention. A legion of colors assaulted my vision. Golden bangles glittered on dark feminine arms, and stained kurtas hid the gaunt silhouettes of men.

My mother was the one who learned me in the art of people-watching, from the tender age of seven. My passion for people-watching was born and raised in the Shady Ridge Mall in Massachusetts. I never thought it would accompany me all the way to New Delhi. I tried not to linger on one person for any length of time.

I glanced, hopeful, at the other side of the street once more to try and catch a glimpse of the mysterious women, and there she was, my goddess incarnate, and she was looking straight at me. A smile was fighting its way onto her red lips, but she defeated it, her fingers dancing playfully over her mouth. Dark, raven hair flowed down to the small of her back in waves. She wore a gauzy lavender top that framed her physique perfectly. I smiled back.

She was a magnet, her flux lines pulling me in.

Girlish giggles and the shouts of street vendors weaved their way right into and then through my fantasies. Rasana turned back around to face the other women, leaving me nothing more than the memory of her smile, but my eyes lingered. Her posture became more reserved; her shoulders slumped as she crossed her arms in front of her chest, seeming to mock the other women in the group. She allowed herself one more glance backward at me, and her deep chocolate eyes locked onto mine. I winked before she turned away. I shoved my fists deep into my jean pockets, walking in step with the music drifting down the sidewalk, my foot meeting the pavement on every downbeat.

The music was busy and rhythmic; a young boy sat on the sidewalk clapping along, grinning ear to ear, while an older man stood somberly at his side, tapping his foot anxiously. There were only two musicians, but their music engulfed the entire block. The man playing the tabla drum licked his lips in concentration during the fast parts, and his cupped hands were perceived as a dark blur by the mostly indifferent audience. He massaged his tired wrists in between each song. The other man’s fingers seemed to float over the sitar frets, resisting the end of each note. He closed his eyes and let his head loll back in release.

A satiny hand sought shelter in my own, and slipped out just as I was about to grasp it. I looked over and was greeted by Rasana’s warm smile. Before I could even say hello, she was immersed in the duo’s music. She swayed back and forth, eyes closed and her face raised to the starry sky.

I was distracted by a young man, around my age, across the street from us, wearing a brown business suit and carrying a matching briefcase in his left hand. He was frozen to the corner, his eyes raking up and down Rasana’s body as she swayed. I stepped behind her, blocking his view.

“Rasana!” I heard a voice cry in recognition behind me, only a matter of seconds later. She froze and her eyes shot open, lightning reflexes. I hadn’t even turned around yet. It was the guy from across the street. He had crossed over to her side and threw open his skinny jacketed arms, undeserving of her embrace. She didn’t move any closer, so he had to close the entire distance between them, bringing her close to his chest in a tight, one-sided hug.

Before releasing her, she put her big smile-mask on, and said something in a language that I still couldn’t understand. She glanced at me and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” With that, she grasped his arm and led him far down the sidewalk; far away, but close enough where I could still see them. I tried not to question who he was. I was almost afraid to know.

He was very close to her, that much I could tell. Whatever they were talking about sure looked important. A few times, he looked over at me, as if he was questioning who I was. At one point he reached for her hand, but, thankfully, she snatched it away. Anger swelled in my chest for a moment, but I reasoned that I was just over thinking the whole thing. I took a deep breath, blew it out, and half-listened to the music. I allowed myself a peek every once in a while.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, he planted a tiny kiss on her cheek and they said goodbye. She started my way and, once at my side, I asked her what all of that was about.

“Oh, he was just an old friend,” she said, putting her mask back on. She turned her oceanic eyes to the tabla player whose hands worked fast, but somehow still picked each beat carefully.

I held out my hand, trying to break through her tense demeanor, “Just this once.”

She took it without stopping to think. She had always been funny about her family seeing us together, but not tonight. We began to walk, our legs pumping us out of the heart of the city and into the veins of the surrounding streets. She was quiet.

“I’ve missed you,” I finally said after a few minutes, and she said that she’d missed me, too. I asked how she was doing, and she said she was fine, and that was all. She looked down at her sandals, her eyes still glassy. Trying to keep a conversation going, I told her of my first encounter with the Hindi gods and goddesses in the store earlier that day.

“One of them reminded me of you,” I said, “She was gorgeous, dressed in that same pretty purple. I say she reminded me of you, only you are much more beautiful.” I swung our intertwined hands back and forth, smiling playfully.

Rasana only laughed at my comparison of her to the goddess. She used to blush and carry on about how sweet I was or how funny I was when I said things like that, but that night she just laughed. It wasn’t her laugh.

After walking for fifteen minutes or so, the music was very faint, and the part of town we were walking through was quiet. It was where Rasana had grown up, and still lived with her family. I didn’t like that section of New Delhi as much. It was much too quiet for my taste, but I always steered us in that direction. I knew how much she loved it.

We walked on, hand-in-hand, like we always did. We didn’t even realize how far we had walked until in mid-sentence Rasana gasped.

“What? What’s wrong?” I asked loudly.

“We went a little too far for you,” she said, pointing down the street a little ways. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Seeing my perplexed look, she explained, “That’s right, you’ve never seen it. That’s my house, down there, the little yellowish one on the left.”

“Well, I guess it’s time for me to turn around then,” I said, reluctantly. She squeezed my hand tight, begging me to stay. She kissed me hard, and I felt light-headed when she finally pulled away. She told me she loved me, and I said the same. I watched her until she made it inside safely, allowing herself one last look back at me. She smiled sadly, and blew a kiss in my direction.

I walked back in the opposite direction with her flowery smell lingering on my shirt. That night felt different.

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Yellow filtered through my window the next morning, waking me up just in time to see the candy sunrise. Pinks and oranges and yellows were strung out like taffy across the sky.

I treaded the same path I had the day before. I was hoping for another day with her, hoping to completely settle the doubts I had been having since the night before. I stumbled down the sidewalk, thinking I’d never get used to it, when I saw her. She was in the same place with all of the same sad women, and one woman standing beside her, with the same raven hair, only with a few strands of grey trickling through it. She didn’t look as solemn as the others: some bodies already had silky shawls draped over prematurely stooped shoulders, most faces were cut deep with wrinkles, and a few had been wearing the same clothes for weeks, unwashed. She was not one of those women; she looked like Rasana, and I knew she had to be her mother. They were waiting for something, too. She placed a protective arm around Rasana, completely blocking her view of me from across the street.

She still hadn’t seen me. I stood in my spot right against the wall, like I had the night before, and waited for her to look across the street. I waited until the sun was high in the sky, and until it started to sink down again, and she never looked. The street got busier and busier, children scurried around with their toys, street vendors yelled, sitar players played, and Rasana still didn’t look my way.

She was dressed up today, in all white. I wondered what the occasion was. Her mother was getting impatient, and the old ladies began clucking to one another, gossiping.

“They’re late,” I heard one say.

“Piscine will be here any time, Rasana, don’t worry,” her mother cooed.

Two men, one old and one young, turned the corner on their bicycles, and, seeing the women waiting, they parked, leaning their bikes against a tiny fruit stand. I immediately recognized the younger one by his demeanor, carrying himself coolly in what looked like his finest business suit. He walked toward Rasana, his stare intent upon her. Once he closed the gap between them, he took her satin hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing it reverently. The same hand that was in my own only the night before.

Finally, she looked over at me, sadly, helplessly. Her eyes were shiny with salty tears as he took her into his arms. Her mother was glowing, nodding her head with the satisfaction of choosing the perfect man for her daughter. Rasana’s heart whispered love as she turned her head to face her mother, who was wiping her face with a handkerchief. My goddess fixed her gaze on her mother’s smiling face and closed her eyes.