Andrew was the safe haven of my youth, and I was precipitously transported to that time. I wanted to close the space between us and throw my sweaty self at him, have him hold me forever. These are thoughts that should have no place in my head, now that I am almost engaged. Sometimes, though, the past catches up, no matter how hard you run.
‘Th… thaannks,’ I managed.
I wanted to ask him what he was doing there, but I had no idea where I was. I looked around for a sign, a hint, but it was dark and there were no street lights.
Andrew was driving back from a political meeting when he caught my gait. I was in the opposite direction of the traffic. I had broken from my run. He drove past thinking I was on my evening stroll (as if I’d ever do something as weak-hearted as an evening walk). After he’d driven for a kilometre or so, it struck him that I didn’t live in the direction I was headed in. He took one U-turn and then another and was behind me again.
‘I followed you from a distance, not wanting to intrude. It’s late, there were some men around, I wondered where the hell you were going,’ he said, pointing in the direction of his car.
We started walking towards his car. Sweat was streaming down my face, or was it tears? I noticed a half-constructedwall, and suddenly, I wanted to sit down. I walked ahead of him and perched on it.
I would’ve loved a coffee, but it was too late for that. Something more potent perhaps.
‘That was quite a pace. When did you start running?’ Andrew asked, joining me on the parapet.
‘While you were away,’ I said. I was smiling. I was feeling light-headed. Blame it on the endorphins.
He nodded.
Andrew was always a relaxed presence around me, even in public. He wasn’t stiff, putting a distance, pretending to be indifferent. That was him, Andrew Brown. Remarkably without affectation.
I told him about running, it being my refuge, and also my time with my mother. I nudged him, tickling his ribs, and told him he was intruding. He bowed in mock apology.
Everything was forgotten. I was living in the moment. The credo of a pop psychologist who never lived.
I had made peace with the world. Had Meena passed me now, I would’ve jumped up and enveloped her in a hug.
‘How much do you run? Miles?’
‘Depends,’ I said, looking at my watch to check the distance. ‘A little over 12 kilometres.’ I stressed the measure as a reminder that he was in India and not the United States.
‘About eight miles,’ he said, refusing to budge. We played these little games. A word here, a point there. Mental Monopoly.
‘You don’t listen to music when you run?’
‘No. Not most times at least. It’s a prop people use to take them a little further. One more song. A bubbly beat. A distraction to fatigue or boredom. I just want to be with my thoughts… and my mother.’
I didn’t have a target, and the music of my life would suffice.
He nodded.
‘Besides, I don’t run such great distances.’
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t think it’s safe,’ he said, suddenly, looking at his watch. It was close to 9 p.m.
‘Five more minutes,’ I said, tugging at his sleeve. Had I drummed up that ready-to-eat empire idea, it would’ve been plated in five minutes. That’s my pace.
Andrew turned and looked behind the wall, using his phone as a torch.
‘Why are you here, Andrew?’
He turned instantly. His gaze met mine.
‘Not right here, but here in Bengaluru, inMorning Herald?’
Put like that, the sum had a whole different look.
‘Why did you decide to come back?’
