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When I was leaving, she had asked if she could use my computer in my absence. I just nodded in approval, trying hard not to look at her. Whenever I look at her, my eyes tend to stay there for longer than necessary.
She is a writer. I was surprised to find her story in a magazine that I picked casually. It was a poignant story, her writing style refreshing and engaging.
'I didn't know you write.' I said when she was serving dinner. She looked at me, surprised. 'I read it in the magazine. It's good.'
I've returned after six months. It's early morning and the home greets me with a familiar warmth. She is in the backyard, planting a sapling in a colourful pot. Her wet, long hair resting carelessly at her back. It's rare when she leaves her hair loose. She turns and it feels like a fresh, cool breeze in a summer morning. And I'm suddenly embarrassed by my disheveled look and unshaven face.
Our eyes meet and she immediately gets up. Then she gathers her hair and ties it with a rubber band that she wears around her wrist, not realizing or maybe not caring that her hands are muddy. Maybe my gaze has made her conscious. I told you my eyes tend to linger when I look at her. I avert my glance.
At the tea table, Mita, our house help, shows me her first book that released two months ago. It pleases me to hold her book in my hands. I was actually waiting for it. Right then, she joins me at the table and I congratulate her. She says a meek thanks, with a barely visible smile. Lately, she's always like this, especially when I'm around --- too conscious, too gentle, too quiet. She is older than me and sometimes, she behaves like a caretaker.
Seven year age gap is not a big deal, is it?
She arrived to stay in my house some ten years ago. I was just seventeen and I was so displeased about it. She was an orphan, married off too early. Ma rescued her from a bad rather dangerous marriage. After all, she was Ma's dearest friend's only daughter.
I was relieved when I went abroad for higher studies. But then Ma passed away, suddenly. So many things changed after that. My feelings for her, too. But this intense feeling is new, burgeoned recently. When and how, I don't remember. I keep it to myself. Sometimes my heart feels like a clenched fist, unwilling to reveal any emotion.
I enter my room and the first thing I notice is the neat, organised computer desk in the small study attached to my room. And then my unironed shirts on the bed, neatly folded. I somehow know that she has folded them. Mita doesn't enter my room, and she cannot fold shirts like this. And by the way, who folds unironed shirts like this? I wonder if she missed me or even thought about me when she touched and folded my shirts.
I sense her presence and turn to find her standing right behind me, with a plate of banana almond cake. My favourite! I know she made it for me. But she won't admit and I won't show that I know.
She turns to leave and then stops. 'Want to say something?' I say, as I put the plate on the table.
'Er...yes. Now that you don't use this computer, I was wondering if I could take it to my room.'
A strange sense of anxiety grips me. I say a firm 'no' before I could stop myself.
She's taken aback by my response. 'I work till late at night and I didn't want to disturb you.'
'That's not a problem,' I say. 'Actually I use this computer sometimes, for certain things,' I lie, keeping my face expressionless.
'Oh, okay.' She turns to leave.
'Feel free to work whenever you want. I don't mind really,' I say. She just nods and leaves.
I know she thinks that I've set a limitation for her. But how do I tell her that this computer desk is a precious connection between us? That it makes me feel good that she is working in my study, even though I am not there. Even more when I can have a glimpse from my bed while she's engrossed in writing. That I am afraid of losing this connection.
