The office returned to Bangalore.
Sudharma did not. He had extended his leave for a week.
Most mornings he woke up late. He met old college friends. Mostly he stayed home. His mother had stopped asking for explanations years ago. If he was home, he was home.
The week had no particular shape.
He helped with small things around the house. One afternoon an uncle asked him to come to the bank because the forms were in English. Another day he went to the market with his mother and carried vegetables back because she had bought more than she intended.
He slept more than usual.
He did very little.
He spoke to Ganavi every day.
Sometimes she called. Sometimes he did. The conversations lasted a long time.
Office gossip.
Who had reached Bangalore first.
Whether Harsh had recovered from the trip.
Pacchu’s driving.
Ratna Aunty’s cooking.
Somebody had apparently left a towel behind.
Someone else had gone home with the wrong bag.
One evening she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“What kind of nothing?”
“Nothing important.”
She laughed.
“You are wasting leave.”
“That is why people take leave.”
Another day she said, “Everybody is asking when you are coming back.”
“Everybody?”
“Not everybody.”
“How many?”
“I didn’t count.”
The conversation moved somewhere else.
That week his phone had another habit.
Messages.
The first one came in the afternoon.
We are missing you. When will you be back?
He looked at it for a moment and replied.
Who is WE?
The answer came after a while.
At least I am missing you.
He smiled and typed one more message.
Why?
The reply came almost immediately.
I don’t know.
He did not send another message.
That evening he spoke to Ganavi as usual.
He did not mention it.
He himself did not know what to make of it.
Thursday morning there was another message.
It had arrived around four.
When will you be back?
He had not seen it when it came. He read it much later.
He had already decided.
Saturday night bus.
No reply.
After lunch another message came.
Come soon. I am missing you.
He read it twice.
Then he put the phone away.
The rest of the afternoon disappeared into small household errands with his mother.
Around eight in the evening, the phone rang.
Jahnavi.
He answered.
“Hello.”
“This is Jahnavi.”
“I know.”
She was quiet for a few seconds.
Then she asked, “Did you read my messages?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
He waited.
“I think… I have feelings for you.”
He looked out into the courtyard.
The words did not fit anywhere in his mind.
“I know about Ganavi,” she said softly. “I know the two of you are close.”
“Yes.”
“I know you may not feel the same. I am not asking you to promise anything.”
He sat down on the steps outside the house.
The line was silent.
“I just didn’t want to keep it inside.”
He held the phone a little tighter.
“I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to.”
Neither of them spoke.
After a while she asked, “When are you coming back?”
“Saturday.”
“Okay.”
The call ended.
He sat there for a few minutes.
His mother looked out from the kitchen.
“Coffee?”
He looked up.
“Yes.”
She nodded and went back inside.
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