A kiss! A kiss! A kiss! She felt the kiss right down to its roots. So this was a kiss? So this was a kiss, when it was detached from the rest of the body? When – completely dissociated from the heart, from the consciousness, from even the obstacle of knowledge – a pair of lips united with another? When it was the coming together only of two pairs of lips? An isolated union?

In that darkness, the disembodied lips filled her lips, her tongue and the fleshy cavity of her mouth with the taste of the kiss, and she stood erect, savouring this novel feeling. She was hooked. When the lips left her, ending the kiss, the first sensation that returned was of sound. She heard, in turn, the sound of metal being hammered, of bus wheels rotating, of anklets jingling in a nearby house. The street lamps snapped back on, and the movement of people resumed. A dog howled.

She wanted to cry. She stood there for a long time, pressing her fingers to her lips. All this time, she’d thought she knew what a kiss was. Just as she’d thought she knew what love was, what the body was, what art was. When in fact she had known none of these.

She resumed her slow walk to the bottom of the lane. And then, as she turned the corner onto the main road, the meaning of ‘illicit’ became clear to her.

She had returned to the same lane many times since then, always just as dusk descended. There she would stand still and wait for the lights to go out, for a kiss to swoop down on her.

18

I would have left. But the plants flourished so beautifully in the rains that I couldn’t bear to part from them. The very evening you told me to leave, I bought a casuarina with slender, shimmering leaves.

‘Did you really mean what you said?’ you asked.

I looked at the fountain. There was no one else on the veranda of the club. ‘Yes,’ I said.

You downed your vodka in a single gulp.

‘If that’s what you think,’ you said, ‘then promise me you’ll leave.’

I turned my gaze to you.

‘You’ll need a week or so to recover from your surgery, you can wait until after that.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It’s a deal …’ You held out your hand.

‘It’s a deal,’ I repeated, extending my hand as well. I found your hand excessively cold. Unable to accept my touch.

‘There’s no need to discuss it any further,’ you said.

‘Very well,’ I responded.

‘Come, let’s go.’ Taking the car keys from the table, you crossed the hall and headed towards the portico. I followed you. There was still quite a crowd in the hall. Many of them waved to us, bidding us good night. ‘Leaving?’ some asked. I nodded, smiling, at the familiar faces. ‘Staying or leaving are actually distinct decisions,’ I said to myself.

The word ‘decision’ immediately reminded me of a particular conversation we’d had, a long one, over tea at your friend’s house. Your friend said, ‘This has happened to me many times, you know. I can’t see what lies ahead. Everything seems to be shrouded in mist. Should I advance or retreat? Or perhaps I’m standing at a fork in the road. Two or more paths lie ahead. But I can’t decide which one to choose.’