Dalli Maya sat on the handrails of a steel parapet at the entrance of the café. The café was on a cul-de-sac, with alleys wrung in all directions. She wore a red ribbon around her braids, and locks of her hair shone colourfully in the languid September sun. 

Assuming a meek countenance, Goloman produced smoke ringlets which slowly drifted, grew, and then settled on a stray cat. As the ringlets nestled around the fascinated creature’s neck, it gently purred in wonder. 

 

They were living the summer of their lives. They were young, carefree, loving and not yet cynical about life. They spoke to each other with their eyes, smiling, embracing. They admitted to each other things they had never spoken of, shared their hidden desires and outlaid plans for the future. 

 

It was stirring and undemanding. She would make a couple of runs to the ward meetings, pretending to note down concerns. She reported these concerns to the supervisor, a third class gazetted officer. He would nod comatosely till she ceased to address him and then sighing like a smacked child he would reply in an undertone, ‘okay, dhanyabad’, leaving Dalli Maya to join her party of gossipers and idlers in municipal canteen, where she would laze and fritter away office hours.  

Goloman wrapped up his assignment and texted Dalli Maya to meet her at Tings, where he had booked a room for evening. He was interning at a nongovernmental, human rights organisation. He was to write a brief in English on the case of Ganga Maya Adhikari, a woman who had been on a hunger strike for her teenage son, who was killed during the Maoist insurgency. He felt disgust for humanity when he read the case, for the poor woman had to endure the death of her husband as well during the course of her hunger strike. He thought that the case was a sham. A political game of hide and seek. A never-ending search for justice that would never meet its end. A political bargain. A ruin of an innocent family. A public platform for civil society organisations to bring in dollars. And most appallingly, a symbol of transitional justice. 

the door hinges produced a protracted squeaky sound. Dalli Maya appeared all smiles. It was the last day of the month and she had received her first salary. Twenty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty rupees. 

Her happiness knew no bounds and the first thing she did was buy an expensive, ultra-thin, dotted condom pack for Goloman. She giggled at the mischief which seemed to turn him on. They made instant love, skipping tender caresses followed by kisses and foreplay which usually lasted at least half an hour. This sudden violence lasted almost a full minute. 

Dalli Maya didn’t know when she had fallen for Goloman. It wasn’t either love at first sight nor did they gradually allure each other. They never fell in love. They grew into one. Perhaps out of necessity, like siblings or couples who espouse through arrange marriage. Dalli Maya didn’t see a future with him, but she perceived that he was certainly monogamous. 

Goloman lay prostrate with his hirsute limbs. She wanted to make love one more time before she left for home. The strawberry flavoured rubber united with the sweetness of sex sweat unified their thoughts, anguish and moans as the dark blue hues of the evening drowned in the sound of the night.