Time and its Conjugations

Dilsher Dhillon

Illustrated by Nirvair S Nath

You’ll remember how excited you were to see her in the days leading up to T’s opening. You’ll remember picking off a magnolia on your way to the Metro and putting it in the front pocket of your blazer. You’ll remember doing everything you could to keep the magnolia from falling out amid the Gadarene influx of commuters at Sikanderpur. You’ll remember succeeding, but just barely.

You’ll remember cutting through Lodhi Gardens on your way to the gallery at the IIC Annexe. You’ll remember how all the joggers made way for you to pass, colluding with you in your pursuit of the perfect memory of this night.

You’ll remember visibly frowning at the absence of free wine upon reaching the gallery. You’ll remember how you pretended to be immersed in the nearest painting – the one of the bird-women fornicating – the second she walked in. You’ll remember how poised, how self-assured, how radiant she looked in her gold sequin jacket. You’ll remember thinking, that’s an entrance. You’ll remember being cripplingly aware of her presence right until the moment she came over to say hello-fancy-seeing-you-here. You’ll remember affecting a smile like you’d known her all your life. You’ll remember being reminded by your sweaty palms that this was only the second time you two had ever spoken.

You’ll remember her saying that she couldn’t stop thinking about a question you’d asked her right before her eyes caught someone else’s. You’ll remember her shuffling off to meet this person (a man, incidentally) by the sculpture of the multi-limbed demigod, leaving you quivering in excitement and dying from the suspense. You’ll remember that you’d asked her lots of questions at your first meeting in a crowded bar (a regrettable cliché). Intimate questions.

 You’ll remember waiting for her to come back to finish the conversation. You’ll remember moving on after five minutes. She’d come back eventually.

You’ll remember the pit in your stomach growing larger as ten minutes turned to twenty. You’ll remember thinking your life was essentially over when you turned around to see a room without her in it. You’ll remember deciding whether or not to send her a message as you made your way out of the gallery. You’ll remember sitting in the front lawn of the IIC when a decision cohered.

You never told me what question you were referring to.

You’ll remember the rush of yes-fuck-yes when the notification of a reply came.

I’ll tell you at the afterparty. You’re coming right?

You’ll remember resolving to wait six whole minutes to respond. You’ll remember telling her (two minutes later) that yes, you were on your way to T’s house.

You’ll remember deciding in the autorickshaw that a little bit of flirting was harmless. You’ll remember thinking that she did not like you in that way, and that was a good thing. A great thing, because it made your predicament a non-predicament. And then, you’ll remember permitting yourself the fantasy of her declaring that she did, in fact, like you. What would you do then?

You’ll remember concluding that an easy, unencumbered life wasn’t a cinematic one.

And neither was a punctual life.

You’ll remember wondering how you always reached before her. You’ll remember looking down to see that the magnolia was missing. You’ll remember thinking the pit in your stomach required preventive filling. You’ll remember her waltzing into the party and proceeding to sit down opposite you at the dining table. You’ll remember her eating from your plate while simultaneously carrying out several different conversations about how digital tokens would facilitate a top-down redistribution of wealth in the art world. You’ll remember noticing the stray morsel of spinach stuck between her teeth as she evangelised. You’ll remember thinking, that’s a woman.

You’ll remember seizing a momentary lull in the conversation to tell her that her jacket was ‘awesome’. You’ll remember resolving to scrub that pitiful adjective from your vocabulary. You’ll remember her saying that it was ‘just something someone gave her’ and that the blazer you were wearing was more her style. You’ll remember exchanging jackets with her and then looking like a fool because hers didn’t fit you. You’ll remember her smiling at you like she’d known you all her life. You’ll remember thinking how poised, how self-assured, how radiant she looked in your dark blue blazer.

You’ll remember engaging her in a game of thumb-wrestling. You’ll remember the electricity that surged through your body every time her thumb subjugated yours. You’ll remember when T walked by and whispered in your ear that it was discernible that this girl liked you, but that you better not do anything because you were committed.  You’ll remember only hearing the first part of what T said.

You’ll remember the blast of happiness hormones that propelled you to get up from the table to mingle with everyone else. You’ll remember being affectionate to people you’d never felt affection for before. You’ll remember being indifferent to the fact that you’d left her with two boys, one of whom had a nose ring. You’ll remember imagining her eyes on you as you flitted from one interaction to the next with an exaggerated sense of purpose. You’ll remember turning around a split-second before her gaze shifted from you.

You’ll remember a stray thought crossing your mind. Just this and nothing more. 

You’ll remember coming back to the table and finding her neck-deep in a heated discussion with nose-ring-boy about the outcome of the recent elections in India’s second-largest state. You’ll remember taking her side (immediately). You’ll remember quoting a line from some article – the one labelling the electoral result as an inflection point in Indian politics not unlike the Beer Hall Putsch in the Weimar Republic in 1923. You’ll remember nose-ring-boy looking at you like you were the antagonist in the movie of his life.

You’ll remember everyone migrating to the living room to dance. You’ll remember gyrating wildly to a Gwen Stefani song that you absolutely despised as a child. You’ll remember your lower jaw dropping slightly when she took off your blazer and exposed her bare arms.  You’ll remember realising that you did want more.

You’ll remember the nervousness returning.  You’ll remember the tentative glances you kept on exchanging with her across the dance-floor. You’ll remember her pulling you into a clumsy under-arm turn (your doing) and a graceful dip (hers). You’ll remember realising what it meant to dance with, and not at someone.

You’ll remember the feeling of being flung outside the dimension of linear time, trespassing into a moment that felt final. The “this is it” to cap all “this is its”. You’ll remember opening your eyes with her back turned to you.

You’ll remember the pit in your stomach returning – deeper, much deeper than before - when her friends pulled her towards the foyer, indicating they were ready to leave. You’ll remember her walking over to you with the word ‘goodbye’ written on her face. You’ll remember telling yourself, once again, that this was a good thing. Good.

The universe was ensuring your fidelity to the girl you were in a relationship with. The girl who had, not too long ago, inspired the same feelings in you that you were feeling tonight. The girl with whom you shared an unbeatable answer to the perennial how-did-you-two-meet question (at the bad trip tent at an electronic music festival), the girl who had-

“How long do you plan on staying?”

Those arms. Those eyelashes. That mouth.

You’ll remember losing your balance momentarily. You’ll remember her repeating the question. You’ll remember wanting to say ‘forever’ but cursorily replying ‘20 minutes or so’. You’ll remember her asking if you could drop her home on your way back. You’ll remember doing cartwheels and pirouettes in your head. You’ll remember thinking that an interventionist God did, in fact, exist, and he/she/they/it was on your side.

And then, you’ll remember wondering whether this was a test. You’ll remember that your child-like giddiness at the prospect of leaving with her gave way to a very adult-like feeling of despair. You’ll remember thinking how the girl you had declared your love for in a trigger-happy Valentine’s Day Facebook update the previous month was oceans away, asleep and blissfully unaware of what was happening at this very moment. You’ll remember deciding that you wouldn’t begrudge her for doing the same thing. Of course you wouldn’t. You’ll remember reminding yourself that monogamy was a shelter for the unadventurous. You’ll remember reminding yourself that you and everyone you knew would die one day and that the world would get swallowed whole by the Sun. You’ll remember thinking that your relationship, like 95% of the long-distance type (according to a survey in IndiGo’s in-flight magazine), was doomed because there were simply too many hurdles in your way. Too many.

I’m just 25, you’ll remember thinking. I’m not mature enough to be part of the 5% of Hello 6E readers who make it work. 

You’ll remember reclining on the sofa and looking out at the party as it wound down. You’ll remember her walking over, her eyes on the open spot next to you, only to be apprehended by nose-ring-boy. You’ll remember the two of them shaking hands playfully.

You’ll remember getting up to dance by yourself. You’ll remember her tapping you on your shoulder two songs later, asking if you were ready to go. You’ll remember the both of you searching for your jackets, your search taking longer than hers. You’ll remember saying bye to T, thanks T, congratulations T, to many more solo shows T. You’ll remember T warning you with her eyes not to do anything you’d regret later.

You’ll remember recalling an anecdote about people on their deathbeds actually regretting the things they didn’t do.

You’ll remember it was raining outside as you and her ran to the taxi. (Perhaps this was the only detail you remembered incorrectly, because it had been a particularly dry March in Delhi that year.)

You’ll remember resisting the impulse to reach out for her hand in the car. You’ll remember driving past the Chinese restaurant with the iconic neon sign on Outer Ring Road when she brought up the subject of the question that had stayed on her mind.

You asked me whether I’d rather make the first move or wait for someone to make a move.

I don’t remember your answer.

I said it depended upon the situation.

Right.

What I didn’t tell you is that I’ve never made the first move. And I think I want to start doing that from now on.

You’ll remember nodding slowly and holding eye-contact. You’ll remember rewinding the night’s events and recontextualising her actions in light of this statement. You’ll remember thinking that you were in a scene from a Wong Kar Wai film right before the driver let out a belch. You’ll remember her turning away to look outside the window.

You’ll remember the rain had stopped by the time the taxi arrived at her neighbourhood. You’ll remember asking the driver to wait before you walked her down the cul-de-sac to her house. You’ll remember traipsing under the streetlights, the wind cooing, just you and her, a wealth of feelings communicated in micro-twitches and silence. You’ll remember that she almost overshot her house.

You’ll remember her fishing her keys out of her handbag. You’ll remember her looking at you, into you even. You’ll remember the pang that hit you then and there, telling you that this was it. This was the moment.  And it wasn’t in your control. You were subject to her free will, not the other way around. You’ll remember feeling a desperate need to do something, anything, to take back control.

I have a girlfriend, you’ll remember blurting out, apropos of nothing (but also everything).

You’ll remember praying for a meteorite to hit you then and there. You’ll remember the wry, thin smile that cracked along her hitherto-bemused face. You’ll remember her drawing you into a hug and thanking you for dropping her home. You’ll remember lumbering back to the taxi with the measured shame of someone who had earned a victory because their opponent failed to show up. 

You’ll remember thinking that you would see her again soon and hence, avail of the opportunity to explain yourself.  (You wouldn’t).

You’ll remember dissecting the moment on your way home. Every single detail.  You’ll remember regretting that you didn’t wait it out longer. You’ll remember deciding that your patience, or lack thereof, was irrelevant in this context. You remember repeating the line to yourself, slower each time. I have a girlfriend. I have a girlfriend. I have a girlfriend. 

You’ll remember thinking that your lack of actual wrongdoing was a sign that your relationship would last. (It wouldn’t).

You’ll remember the rush of no-fuck-no when your phone buzzed. You’ll remember not wanting to look when you saw her name on the screen. You’ll remember peeking through your fingers at the message.

fwiw, a few times tonight I forgot I had a boyfriend too. Get home safe.

You’ll remember shutting your phone and purely focusing on the facts. 

1. ‘fwiw’ was hands down the coolest abbreviation ever. 

2. She was concerned that a meteorite might hit you on the way home.

3. She had acknowledged that there was romantic tension.

You’ll remember smiling the smile of a psychotic person. You’ll remember convincing yourself that mutual attraction didn’t need to be acted upon to turn into something more meaningful.  

And then, you’ll remember backsliding into the worry that this night was all the two of you would ever get. Unrealised, squandered potential. 

And then, you’ll remember probing the very real possibility of tonight’s story playing out in the future - only with her replacing your girlfriend and a newer, more poised, more self-assured, more radiant girl replacing her. The exact same night with the roles reassigned. 

Perhaps it was better not to ever find out.  Perhaps it was time to grow up. 

You remember deciding, as you gazed at the Vegas Strip of love hotels on the Delhi-Gurgaon highway, that this night was the only memory you’d ever need of her. In a million different universes, you looked at her, and she looked back at you and that’s all that ever happened. Time froze. And then, the two of you went your separate ways.

You’ll remember concluding that the night was, in a word, perfect because it was untainted and unconsummated. You would be bound to her by the whimsical hope for everything that could have happened, but didn’t.

 And the feeling would last. (It would).

***

About the Author:

Dilsher Dhillon is a screenwriter.  A major theme he explores in his work is the notion of trying to live a meaningful life in an inherently meaningless and indifferent world. He previously daylighted as a consultant and a financial journalist before taking the plunge (an apt descriptor if there ever was one) into full-time creative work. He currently divides his time between New Delhi (where he writes, mostly) and Mumbai (where he finds things to write about, mostly).