One could call it a house in the woods.

Except, these weren’t the woods. If you parted the trees, you could see the hills, their tips sharp as spindles.

Flax clouds.

Snow.

We were in a mountain town. We were in a house that doubled up as a hotel. Right at that moment—and this is the scene I wish to describe-we were in an outdoor cafe attached to the hotel.

I was seated on a cramped sofa; even now, I can smell the cushions, stale, the sweat of bodies.

Before me, a stranger. He had asked if he could join us— may I?—and he had seemed nice enough, and I had nodded.

He pulled up a chair, and I noticed his hands—-perfect like things drawn by an artist desperate to show off, long fingers, delicate nails, a shiver of hair by the middle phalanx. And I said hey, it was polite; besides, those hands, they deserved acknowledgement.

I think I spoke to the hands.

A girl-her hair loose, a sheet, almost black—entered the cafe.

I could have missed her. Missed the parted-in-the-middle, ruler-straight hair; the face it grazed; the mouth, flat, stuck on to the face—so unremarkable.

But she looked at us. And at that moment—I blame the light, the way it fell-she seemed unlike herself. Her hair, a slow wave; her mouth, plump, alive. So, I wanted to call out to her, say her name—Yana.

And maybe I did.

She smiled.

Tar was by my side.

This was meant to be momentous. I mean, not the meal at the cafe, or Yana’s arrival, or the stranger’s, but our escape to another world, two hundred miles from our city.

I liked the mountain town —the scent of hot momos, the local girls who did not need rouge on their cheeks, the roads that dwindled and became nothing and didn’t mind becoming nothing.

Mostly, Liked myself in the mountain town, who I was, who I could be, when in love. That devil-may-care stride. Huh-deliciously cynical when articulated right—was my new favourite word.

Tar was meant to propose to me. This was something I knew.

We had common friends, most of whom weren’t at all discreet—they’d learn circumspection in time, we all do-and I had been told that Tar had been shop-hopping, looking at jewellery, the kind I had told him I fancied. Never diamonds, so banal, and not a ring, it was without subtlety. But a silver anklet. Yes.

That.

Feet are interesting. I had said as much to Tar when we had been introduced. I had been wearing a beaded anklet.

Tar and I had been assigned adjoining office cubicles, and the vertical panel between us stopped twelve inches short of the ground. His first day at work, I watched his black Osho chappals. Such a cliche for an editor, I had thought. It was all I saw of him for the next hour.

It was enough.

I had just broken up with Akhil. An unmemorable break-up, the kind that happens at exactly the right time, after the newness, before things turn rank. And while I wasn’t hurting, I was, well, adrift.

We need a body to anchor us, Mummy had told me. She would know.

As a body, the new boy’s seemed rooted. I was going by his feet, of course, that’s all I had. The fact that they were firm-none of those nervous twitches, the anxious leg bounce.

The fact that they were unselfconscious— the hot pink Disney Band-aid on the left toe was fresh and loud. A gift, obviously, from a niece or nephew. He hadn’t bothered peeling it off.

But this, especially. The tact that they knew they counted
‘So we beat on’. A bookish ankle tatto.

One day, I was convinced, I’d touch the words. I’d touch
them and whisper a poem.

But which one?

‘Hey, I’m Tariq?

I think I started. I know I did. I recall the cup of coffee tipping over. I recall saying cripes… and really, who says cripes?

‘Cripes.’

‘Glad the cup was empty.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I guess.’

I watched Tariq.

It felt odd watching Tariq-this creature who had sprung up from a pair of feet; who was now leaning across the panel between us; who was saying …

What was he saying?

I had stopped listening.

‘So … Fitzgerald,’ I interrupted.

‘What about him?’

‘On your ankle.’

‘You noticed?’

‘Feet are interesting.’

‘Are they?’

Yeah. It’s why if I marry—when I marry—I will not wear a ring. No. I’ll flaunt a silver anklet.’

A laugh.

That’s when I saw Tar. Dmean, really saw him. His hair, lightly dishevelled, but groomed just enough that he wouldn’t appear unkempt. His eyes, neither young nor old. His mouth, limber-how easily it laughed.

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Do. You still haven’t told me though, Tariq…’

‘Told you what?’

‘Fitzgerald. Why?’

‘Well… what’s there not to love about The Great Gatsby?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the writer’s relentless male bias.’

‘Oh, please…’

‘If I had to choose a last line for a tattoo, I’d go with Zelda—that thing she said about the twilight flowing.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

I walked off.

Or Yana intruded, and I withdrew.

‘What’s her name?’ I heard Tar ask.

‘Poppy?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Well, Priyamvada. But I wouldn’t call her that. She hates it.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m Yana, by the way. From marketing. Also, Poppy’s oldest friend.’

I was by the coffee dispenser. The beaded anklet tinkled.

I was wearing the anklet in the mountain town. It was rowdy and just what I needed to distract myself from Tar’s voice.

Things had gone well to begin with. We had hiked six kilometres the first day—a scraggly path giving way to rhododendrons, a hiccup of red. We had overeaten the second day-vegan pizzas and noodles and hot chocolate, the marshmallows oozing sweet. We had refused to leave the house the third day.

It was the fourth day—the day before we were meant to depart-that posed a problem.

We had planned to attend a yoga class, a half-hour walk from our accommodation. I was surly—it was the weather, how it shifted, warm, then less so; but also because I knew that something was coming.

Anytime now Tar would leap at me, anklet in hand, and ask, will you …? I would say yes. This was a foregone conclusion.

The wait before the question-the wobbliness of the hours that stretched before us (now he’d ask as we walked together; now as he hunkered down, squeezing his body through the branches; now as he dusted his yoga pants; now)—it was getting to me.
Tar was getting to me.

‘Aren’t you the least bit concerned?’ he asked, his voice a hammer.

‘What about?’

‘What about? Events. A city. The country.’

‘Hm?’

‘These bloody Tally cards.’

‘Ah.’

‘Now, or soon, an updated system of points. All of which will impact housing allocation. Impact work. Impact you and…’

‘It isn’t certain.’

‘Really? That’s what you have to say? That it isn’t certain? That Palash Bagh isn’t certain? That Door Mohalla isn’t certain?’

‘Okay. Have it your way. The rumours aren’t reassuring.’

‘These aren’t rumours, Poppy. Quit diminishing them to…’

‘I’m not.’

‘But you are.’

What’s your point, Tar?’

My point… my fucking point is that I had to borrow Pankaj’s Tally card to make this getaway happen.’

‘Tar…’

‘My point is that things are spinning out of control?’

‘Huh.’

‘My point is that it’s time to leave.’

‘Yeah. We’re leaving. Tomorrow.’

‘Immigrate?’

‘What?’

‘It isn’t safe, Poppy.’

‘And you think it’s safe elsewhere? You think that dreadful governance is a phenomenon specific to this country?’

‘It’s relatively safer …’

‘Until you get there. And then you’ll see there’s no Shangri-La.’

‘Fine. All right. Fine. Dismiss the idea.’

‘Tar…’

‘You can afford to.’

‘What does that mean?’

Tar walked past me. By the time I caught up, he had elbowed his way into a class, his yoga mat right by the teacher’s.

This wasn’t our first quarrel. We had dated long enough-five years, no, more-to have argued and parted.

And returned.

We had returned after our first fight on our first date. remember that day; it was a Van Gogh painting, all yellow. It was the colour he wore. It’s what I wore. I was standing awkwardly by a shop selling summer bouquets. Yellow fairy lights.

A part of me was still chafing. I had said yes too soon, too easily. A day after introducing himself at work, Tar had asked if I would join him at Qahwa, and I-displaying the impulsivity of a three-year-old-had said sure, why not. Yes.

I longed to redeem myself.

To establish that this overture for a date had come, not from Tar—so smug; so bloody smug—but from me.

I paid for a bunch of flowers, flashy and stupid. I stuffed them into Tar’s hands when he arrived. Proof. This evening— the idea that was this evening—had been mine all the way.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Really.’

‘These flowers are for me?’

‘Yeah, Tariq. For you.’

‘For me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well…’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘It’s sweet. Really. Except…’

‘Go on.’

‘I mean, what does one do with flowers?’

“You want to debate the utility of flowers?’

‘They’re pretty…’

‘Yeah.’

‘And then they die.’

‘That’s true for most things.’

‘And the water. In the vase. After a few days…’

‘You know what? Forget it. Give me the damn flowers.’

‘No. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not communicating well.’

‘You’re doing a fabulous job.’

‘Can I start over?’

‘No.’

I bought a sandwich from a stall by the road while Tar followed me, the yellow carnations gathering around his chin, an inelegant ruff.

‘What are you doing tomorrow evening?’ he asked.

‘Meditating on flowers.’

‘May I join you?’

‘No. The flowers will disapprove.’

For a week, Tar asked me out. For a week, I ignored him. Finally, on the eighth day, I purchased a single carnation.

A note: ‘The flower concedes: it would like to see you at home.’

Tar laughed.

It was always that. The laughter. It brought us back to a shared orbit.

That day, in the mountain town, Tar did not laugh.

For the first time, we had argued over something more consequential than a writer’s chauvinism or a flower’s rationale for existence.

It was as though, until then, we had been mining for disputes.

‘Garden State? Really? You’re one for twee.’

‘What’s with Hemingway and men and constipated prose?’

‘Sure, we need more angst going around. Radiohead. Bring it on.’

To love was to test what we had built; test its capacity to
withstand.

Now we asked if it would withstand an imploding world. In the yoga class, Tar breathed in and out, nostrils flaring. He bowed before the sun. He lay down flat. Four rows of splayed bodies separated the two of us.

When the class ended, I waved to him. We walked back
in silence.

‘Has he proposed yet?’ It was Yana. We had just entered
our accommodation.

‘Nope,’ I texted back.

‘The grapevine has it that he will at midnight.’

‘Okay.’

Yana had come along at my behest. She was easy to travel with-willing to tag along, willing to retreat, willing to read our every cue. Willing.

In truth, she stripped the getaway of serious inten, Sure, Tar would propose, but until he did, we were three colleagues hanging out in the hills. It was simple.

It was meant to be simple.

‘Since, y’know, Ammi lives abroad, I’ve considered joining her. Working overseas.’

It was Tar. I was changing into a favourite dress. Balloon sleeves. A thing of promise.

‘I was trying to tell you…’

“What d’you mean—considered?’

‘That it’s an idea. An idea I’ve debated. And now, I’m
conveying it to you.’

‘And what d’you expect me to say?’

I don’t know. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d disapprove.’

‘No?’

‘I assumed you’d be on board. That you’d come along. And be glad for this.’

‘What?’

‘Really, Poppy. You know and I know we’re wary things here.’

‘I’m wary of many things, Tar. Maths. Mosquitoes. Hell, men. That doesn’t mean I isolate myself from them all?

‘I’m not isolating myself.’

Excerpted with permission from like Being Alive Twice by Dharini Bhaskar  

Publishing/ Penguin Random House (2024)

You can buy your copy here.