Seahorse by Janice Pariat

they were, was the unmistakable mark of boredom.
    Soon, we readied for the event; I followed the other writers taking their places. People shuffled around choosing seats, the back rows filled up while the front remained stoically empty. A few chairs away to my left, Santanu tapped the microphone—“Good evening, everyone… important things first, there is wine after…”
    The room rippled with laughter.
    The next half hour was filled with small speeches and readings—a poet from Taiwan, a writer from Hong Kong, the Nepalese artist who’d contributed the cover art. Soon, I heard my name—“our Royal Literary Fund Fellow from India…”, the title of the journal I worked for in Delhi.
    â€œThank you, Santanu.” My voice was soft, too soft. Louder next time. I didn’t want to lose everyone to whispers. While I read, the room fell silent, apart from a sudden car horn outside, and a jangling cell phone. The person stopped the ringing, but stepped out to answer the call.
    I stumbled over the word “obfuscate” and wished I’d never used it in the first place. Perhaps this was the wrong piece to be reading. I’d picked something I’d written on a photography exhibition of Delhi in the 1970s, inspired by a review I’d read on Rembrandt that spoke of “reversing the gaze.” The reviewer imagined the painter’s self-portraits coming alive at night, in the quiet of the gallery, and I did the same— I can see them, those grainy black-and-whites frozen on the wall, prisoners of paper and light. They are ghosts—the people in the photographs, the city, the photographer herself. These multiple selves spill from the frames, and the rooms, though empty, fill with shadows…
    The writer endowed Rembrandt’s paintings with sight, envisioning how they had watched the centuries move past before them, the faces they, in turn, had seen. When I reached the end, I read slower, lingering on my treasured line: As you stand looking at them, they look back. Sometimes, a photograph reviews you.
    I glanced up. It was disconcerting, to see everyone’s eyes turned to me. I was glad I’d finished. Eva and her friend were quietly conferring; I caught Eva’s eye and she smiled.
    The blonde youth at the back was checking his phone.
    My reading was followed by one more, and then it was over.
    The wine was brought out in gaiety and an impromptu bar set up in a corner. People walked around holding long-stemmed glasses, seeming to know each other so fondly and casually. Clusters gathered around Santanu and the Nepalese artist. Out of nowhere, Eva appeared at my shoulder. “Nem, you were marvellous.”
    Compliments tend to made me nervous; I laughed. “Well… thank you,” I said, trying to salvage some degree of graciousness.
    â€œNo, really. Tamsin thought so too…” She turned to make quick introductions. Tamsin was the in-house designer at the Institute. “She makes all those beautiful posters and programmes for our events.” Her friend, like Eva, had dark hair—though longer, falling loose over her shoulders—and she was taller, her frame more voluptuous. Something about her made me think of the British women’s magazines my grandmother collected from the ’60s. The Russian-red lips and cat-eye make-up, the slim-fit cigarette pants and beaded top. I thanked her for coming; charmingly she said it was quite alright in an accent, slight but noticeable, that I couldn’t place.
    â€œAre you”—I plucked it from out of thin air—“Scottish?”
    â€œClose.” Her mouth tilted into a smile. “I’m from Cornwall.”
    â€œYou’re coming over later, aren’t you?” asked Eva.
    I hesitated.
    She placed an arm on mine. “Do come… it’ll be a small crowd.”
    I said I’d see her there.
    Eva reached out in a way few people did in this city.