There it is. The jacket. Hanging on the side of the chair, glowing in the morning light. Iridescent blue, with a tinge of green; its color vibrates like a deep bass string.

Saraswati picks up the tray too fast. Coffee sloshes over the side of the cup, pooling in the saucer, as her feet negotiate through the collage of coats and bags on the floor. She continues undeterred, ignoring the chatter of the children with their croissants and hot chocolates.

As she reaches their table, Caroline takes in a sharp breath. The type that tells Saraswati she is interrupting. She puts the cup down slowly and waits. She can feel the tremor of Ravi’s eyes on her. Asking her to look and resist at the same time. She wipes the side of the cup with a napkin. It becomes immediately soggy and brown. She wipes again, a mound of coffee colored mush forming in her palm. Slowly she adjusts the cup on the saucer. Its mouth is wide and beckoning. Tiny coffee stains wrap around the inner rim.

She walks away, letting her legs take smaller strides to emphasize her figure. The narrow waist surrenders to wide flowing hips that accentuate her plum-like behind. She feels his eyes watch her. She walks a little slower.

At the counter, she rests the tray and turns back just in time to see Ravi take his first sip. His mouth lingers; to feel the foam on his lips a little longer she imagines. He places the cup down and frowns, pushing his fingers into his mouth. She imagines the wetness. The warmth. He pulls out a long black hair.

She leans back on the wooden surface, pressing her behind against it. Her body soothed by the lines of fiber that count time far beyond her own. Her hand reaches up to feel the silver earring that dangles on the side of her face. She’d found it that morning on the shelf by the door. Another present to add to the collection from the mysterious caller. She knows that he, she is convinced it is a man, comes sometime in the morning to leave his gifts for her and take her offering in return. Today she has left a shell. One she’d found on Chowpatty beach as a girl. She doesn’t worry about parting with these things because somehow it seems like she isn’t really giving them away.

She knows that one day she will find out who it is. Perhaps it’s the French boy, the one who always frowns but leaves her a large tip. Or the Bengali professor who likes to stare at her breasts and giggle.

The clouds are softening. Fierce winter sunshine stains everything with transient warmth. She steps into a little pool of light. Basking a little, she lifts her face towards the sunshine, partaking in the golden ambience that is hers alone. Everything is yellow, the pale yellow of spring daffodils. Standing there, she takes out her packet of tobacco and rolls herself a beedi. Her fingers move around the thin paper, twisting and teasing it into place. She runs her tongue along the sticky line, then giving a final tweak, places it into her pocket. She goes to the far corner to pour out a small saucer of milk for Atticus. She leaves it in the pool of sunshine.

He is at the counter when she comes back. The slim lines of his back and waist give him a boyish appearance. His presence at once consuming and repelling. She knows she will make herself weak if she stares too long. She reminds herself to be careful.

“There’s a hair in my coffee.”

She nods and takes the cup, pulling out the strand and draping it across her palm. She foams the milk, the vibration of the steamer pleasurable against her palm. She resists his eyes and offers him the fresh coffee.

He walks back to the table. Dawdling, as if he knows she is watching. She follows, cleaning tabletops, collecting napkins and plates. On the floor, sunshine blends the terracotta of the tiles into a tangerine haze which wraps around her ankles. She wipes another table, her cloth pulling coffee droplets into milky threads that wax and wane on the surface until she coaxes them away.

She hears the familiar staccato of their conversation. Of sentences begun and stopped midway. Sometimes the words free-fall into an argument. Caroline’s face betrays only the slightest emotion; her skin is pulled taut across her high cheekbones, but lines of anger form tall creases along her forehead.

“Why did you order it if you’re not going to drink it?”

Ravi is silent. She feels his irritation. She knows this will escalate into anger as Caroline begins her self-righteous attack. Eventually it will dissolve into a resignation and then silence as they each wash down their discontent with their cups of coffee.

She watches them from the mirror that hangs on the wall. He is tall, rising above the high-backed chair, his limbs falling onto the table. Unruly curls juxtapose against his perfectly oval face. Caroline is slender, with long ginger hair that wraps around her head in a style that speaks of weekly hair appointments. Freckles cover her face and form a disjointed amber necklace around her collar bone. They both work locally; Caroline owns a boutique selling overpriced Asian art displayed on aluminum glass shelves. Ravi works at the law firm. A lawyer, Saraswati thinks must be so good at lying that even he believes he is telling the truth. Sometimes they come in for lunch together. Sometimes though, she sees him in the secondhand record shop instead while Caroline eats alone. Once he’d seen her watching him and pressed a finger to his lips.

The jacket is moving now. Filled into it are the neat lines of Ravi’s torso. Saraswati moves quickly to the counter, pulling out the machine as Caroline waves her card. Numbers buzz around in the invisible spectrum of electronic transactions. They wait, Ravi staring outside and Saraswati pulling on the thread of her cardigan. Caroline stares blank eyed, until the code of four numbers consolidates the transaction. There is a brief kerfuffle as Ravi opens the door and Caroline pushes past him.

There is an empty space where the jacket was. It feels like a void, Saraswati turns away and watches them from the window. Ravi tries to wrap his arm around Caroline, but she strides ahead without a glance back. Saraswati laughs and then puts a hand up to feel the earring.

***

The next day she finds a tiny marble box. The type found in Agra and in tired suitcases. Mementos fiercely desired and then quickly forgotten. She fingers the green and blue inlay, opening and closing the lid for the pleasure of the sound. After a while she reaches into her pocket and places a mara into the space left behind. It is still there when she closes up so she doesn’t lock the door. She wonders if she is being foolish in believing that the bringer of these gifts will also be her protector. But she cannot think otherwise.

She stands by the window looking up the street. When she turns off the last light she catches the glimmer of blue. It grows in size as they come closer. He is laughing, the smile on his face broad and infectious. The group of four slowly glides towards the shop. She hides, watching them from behind the darkened windows. Ravi’s hand is nestled into the small of Caroline’s back. Saraswati imagines it floating just above her skin, the fingers almost touching bone. They pass the window, unseeing. After they have disappeared, Saraswati walks upstairs to bed, her right hand swiveled behind her, caressing the curve of her spine.

It’s colder the next day. She puts the heating on high and lingers by the radiators. When they come in, she makes their coffees. Ravi has the paper and he hands out the supplements to Caroline before reading the news. The jacket sits behind him, slightly subdued. Saraswati curls her hair between her fingers, feeling the smoothness of the follicles gliding across her skin. She pulls a single strand out and puts it in the cup.

She doesn’t have to wait long. She busies herself with replacing milk in the fridge and so her face has the look of genuine surprise when he comes to the counter.

“There’s a hair in my coffee…”

She smiles at him from the side of her mouth and takes the cup, draping the hair over her palm. He taps his feet, his fingers quickly finding the marble box on the counter.

“It was a present.”

“From whom?”

She shrugs.

“It’s beautiful…”

“I’m not so interested in the outside, as the inside…”

He opens the box.

“But it’s empty.”

She pulls out the earring and drops it in.

“No it’s not…”

He smiles a little and closes the box.

“My mother had earrings like that.”

“So did mine… But she was always losing things.”

“Mine too…”

He opens the lid and plays with the earring.

“I went to India once.”

“Just the once?”

“A long time ago. It feels like a lifetime…”

“That’s not so long ago…”

She smiles. He grins back.

“No…”

“Did you ask for a return ticket?”

Ravi shakes his head.

She puts her hand out and he relinquishes the box.

“Always ask for a return ticket. Or you’ll get stuck where you are.”

She passes him the coffee. He takes the cup, carefully pulling the hair with it. He turns so she cannot see his expression.

The next morning there is a peacock feather on the shelf. It glitters in the morning light and yet again the shop is safe and untouched. The colors are iridescent and flow into one another in layers of green, blue and purple. She puts a book of poetry by Meghaduta in its place.

At seven thirty she begins to close up. The cafe is empty and business has been slow. She dishes out the last bit of cat food from the tin, wrinkling her nose.

“Atticus, Atticus!”

The twinkling of the door chimes startles her. It is Caroline. Her shoulders draped in a black shawl; cashmere, Saraswati sneers. Her thin wired glasses have steamed up. Her face looks raw, the tip of her nose effacing the palest red color and slightly running. On closer inspection, Saraswati can see puffiness around her eyes and a fragility hovering around her cheeks. Their gazes meet. Saraswati looks at her unabated. Finally Caroline walks away, disappearing in between the bookshelves.

Saraswati looks over to see Atticus choking back his food into his throat. She strokes his thick white fur, her fingertips trailing through the dense softness. He is a sturdy, lazy cat, easily annoyed. She teases his tail and watches it swish with impatience.

Caroline returns carrying several books. She walks with long strides. Her striped tights and short black skirt show off long, but straight legs. Her chest reveals nothing but a hint of cleavage. But, it is her face that is striking; the angular structure set off by large, green eyes against white, almost transparent skin. She looks like she could smile often, if only her temperament would allow. Caroline fumbles with the heavy hardbacks before putting them on the counter top, ignoring Saraswati’s waiting palm.

Saraswati flips the books on reverse, scanning in the code.

IMPROVING YOUR SEX LIFE
WHAT TO DO WHEN THE LOVE IS GONE

Caroline passes her card, avoiding Saraswati’s eyes. Taking the books from the counter, she slips them into her leather bag. Then, giving a final deep breath, Caroline shakes her hair out, pulls her shawl tight across her chest and walks out.

She is awoken that night to the sound of voices; an argument caught on the howling wind and carried to her sleeping ears. Rain crashes onto the glass before smearing the surface and falling back onto the ground. She sees them on the street below. Caroline shivers in the doorway of the bar opposite; the jacket wrapped around her. The wind billows under her dress and she presses it between her legs. Ravi runs across to her, laughing, throwing the umbrella over her head and then pulling her towards him. Saraswati watches. Her fingertips pressing on the window pane. She turns and runs downstairs. The shelf is empty. She locks the door of the café. Then she lowers herself onto the floor and begins to weep.

Daylight comes quickly. The shelf is still bare. Again she becomes used to the heavy weight of disappointment in her stomach. It swells, so that despite her hunger she cannot eat a thing.

They don’t come for breakfast but she hears about the party anyway. Snippets of conversation that dart around and eventually hit her in the face. A celebration, the Bengali professor reports. He’s become a partner at the firm. He rubs his fingers together and she knows he is about to ask her to come with him. She shakes her head and then gives him a free cinnamon roll.

At closing time, she cashes up early. When she is finished she stares at her watch. She snaps the heater off, instantly regretting it as the door opens bringing in the bite of the evening air. Ravi’s hair is disheveled, but the jacket gleams bright and bold.

“I won’t be long…”

He brushes past, his footsteps disappearing across the floor and upstairs to the mezzanine. Saraswati sighs.

The sound of the wind howling around the street lamps and shaking car doors fills her with dread. People hurry indoors. She puts the heater back on and runs a cloth around the kitchen. The coffee machine shines a dark silver, and she can still smell the distant aroma of crushed beans. She takes a deep breath, the earthy smell comforting her solitude.

He reappears, with a book in hand and a half-apologetic smile. She has turned off almost all the lights and has locked the door.

“I’m sorry.”

He hands her the book.

INDIA – A Rough Guide.

He pays cash and taps his feet as he watches her place it in a bag.

“Can I get a coffee?”

She nods, hoping she doesn’t look too eager. He sits at the counter. Boyish, eyes wide, watching her. She makes two cups and then takes a seat opposite him.

“Did you get any more presents?”

She smiles and passes him the peacock feather from below the counter.

“The feathers of angels…”

Ravi nods and gives her the feather. As if he is giving her a gift. She accepts and puts it in her hair.

“You’re traveling?”

“To ‘where the trees, humming with intoxicated bees, are always in flower; the lily pools, having rows of wild geese as waistbands, always produce lotuses’.”

She stops stirring and smiles full and wide at him.

“So you liked the poem.”

He bows his head and she laughs. Relief washes through her body.

“Flights to India are expensive.”

“Maybe I’ll just ride my peacock all the way there…”

Saraswati stops laughing.

“You won’t get very far… Peacocks don’t fly.”

He smiles.

“So, how often do you go?”

“Once a year. I visit my family and an ashram in the south.”

“An ashram?”

“Yes.”

“What, like a real one?”

“Yes, a real one!” She laughs. “You’ve never been to one?”

“Can’t say that I have, really. But in my defense, my parents grew up in East Africa.”

She nods.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

She doesn’t meet his eye, hoping that he won’t disappoint her so early on.

“The past is done. I want to go now.”

She walks around the counter, pulling up a chair and sits down. He takes the seat opposite, their shadows overlapping on the floor. They drink quickly.

“Well that’s why I want to go.”

She stares into the cup.

“Are you escaping or exploring?”

“A bit of both…” His honey-colored eyes seem to darken as he speaks.

She drains her cup.

“Another one?”

He nods. She stands and turns. Her shadow stretching along the walls as she begins to steam milk and grind the coffee. She looks out. A deeper black has fallen around the shops and houses. Atticus slithers around her legs, pressing her ankles. He meows, looking up at her. Saraswati lifts him to her chin. He is heavy and warm. The steamer begins to whistle. She drops him onto the floor and he pads after her settling down between Ravi’s legs. The smell of old wood, books and coffee forms a cocoon. Saraswati takes a sip of coffee. Her mind whirs as the caffeine and sleep mesh together. They talk of the city’s magnetism that both drains and energizes them. Of the freedom from being anonymous, but the epidemic loneliness that plagues so many. He talks about his desire to break ties and try something new. To finally take a risk. They do not talk about Caroline. They do not talk about the party. Saraswati listens, rubbing her neck. Stops when she feels his eyes on her, his gaze on the fingers that touch her skin.

“You can’t just jump…”

“Why not?”

“If you jump without looking you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Better that than staying still.”

She smiles.

“You’ll need more than bravery….” She stands. “Come…”

She leads the way upstairs. Her room is bare, with a double bed, an assortment of watercolors on the wall and a Chinese screen in the corner that hides the sink. He stops when he sees the collection of objects that she has laid out on the bed. He picks one up after the other, smiling.

“You’ve kept all of them…”

She makes a non-committal sound and curls up on the window seat, pulling a blanket over her legs.

“Where did you find them?”

“From years ago. Things I found or bought… Had forgotten really…”

“A lifetime ago…”

Ravi shrugs.

“Feels that way sometimes…”

“So you want to go back?”

“Do you think it will be the same?”

She gives him a wry smile, closing her eyes. “It’s not the place, but what’s in your mind…”

He stands and walks towards her, gazing over her shoulder and out the window.

“It’s this place. It oppresses me.”

“This place. Or this situation?”

“Come with me.”

She opens her eyes, frowning. He crouches down in front of her. She can feel his breath on her face.

“Show me what you see…”

“I see India that’s all. All of her…”

“We’ll get a driver, check into a nice hotel.”

“A nice hotel?”

“Like the Taj. Why not?”

She plays with the tassels on the blanket.

“To the place ‘where the tails of the tame peacocks, their necks, upstretched to cry out, are always resplendent; and where the evenings are perpetually moonlit and pleasant, and darkness has been banished…’”

“Ravi, it’s not a poem.”

“Come with me.”

She bows her head.

“I don’t want to go alone…”

She sits forward, letting her hands touch his. His skin is cool and smooth. His fingertips play on the back of her hand, she feels them dance in the depths of her stomach.

“You know, back home my mother kept a peacock in the garden. My grandfather said he protected the house. But during the partition someone killed him. Soon after that, they lost everything. Even now my mum still cries for her beloved peacock…”

“She loved him…”

“Perhaps… But he wasn’t for her…”

Ravi holds her fingers. She feels numb.

“We could go… Escape.”

She wants to reach down and pull him up. Feel his mouth close in on hers. But suddenly he seems so far away.

The feather drops onto the floor. She bends down, crouching at his feet. Her fingers wandering between his battered brogues. She smells the faint dampness that is embedded in the leather. She finds the feather and stands, placing it back in her hair.

He rises to meet her, his gaze so fierce she feels she may catch alight. A smile appears on her face but there is sadness in her chest. She runs her fingers along the length of the jacket, marveling at the way it fits. Ravi’s hands wrap around her waist. His phone rings. He ignores it, but the sound echoes through the room. They wait for it to stop.

“My mum asked my ajima why he didn’t fly away. The peacock… And you know what my ajima said? She laughed and said peacocks don’t fly because they don’t want people to see how ugly their feet are.”

“We’ll find peacocks all over India…”

She squeezes his hands in her own.

“Can you imagine? All that beauty but he cannot do the one thing those feathers are made to do? What a waste…”

She traces his neck with her fingertips and adjusts his lapels.

“There are people waiting for you.”

She closes her eyes.

“Wait…” He reaches for her hand.

She shakes her head.

“You’re late for the party. Your party.”

She feels him hesitate. Aches with despair as she feels him move away. Then suddenly there is the wetness of his lips on her cheek and then her mouth. Her body arches towards his, her skin tingling. She pulls away, resting on his chest. They stay like that. His breath on her hair.

“Shall I go?”

She nods. Then she keeps her eyes closed until she hears him leave.

“Travel well,” she whispers.

When she opens her eyes she sees the blue immediately. Folded neatly at the end of the bed, the jacket is pulsing with color. She picks it up, feeling the softness of the material on her skin. She puts it on. It is beautiful but cold. She wraps it close around her, the tears falling unabated.