Seahorse by Janice Pariat Page B

imagined, solid and liquid at the same time. I kept my arms up, like a bird, to push myself forward. I could tell the ground was dipping lower, but I ventured forward, keen to impress. To show I was as comfortable as he was in this space.
    He leaned back, his face to the sky. In a moment I would reach him.
    But the world suddenly fell away beneath me. All I needed to do was heave myself up and move behind to safety, but I didn’t know, I hadn’t learned yet. I flung my hands out instead, reaching for something concrete; they slid through water like air.
    I lurched back, trying to throw the water off my face, my eyes, my mouth, but there was so much of it. Surrounding me endlessly.
    Underwater, something stops. There is no time. No sound apart from a low roar of silence. I remember feeling—not thinking—that this would go on forever.
    Until hands grasped me under my shoulders, driving me up and back, pulling me across to the edge, propping me against the side. The infinite safety of solidity. The bar, the blue tiles. The gritty, firm cement.
    â€œIt’s okay… you’re standing…”
    â€œI can’t…” I gasped. The water was a living, breathing thing. “I’m sorry…”
    â€œWe’ll do this slowly…” His voice was low and soothing, close to my ear. His breath warm as life. “See, you’re fine…”
    He was right. The water only reached up to my chest now. It had retreated.
    Nicholas moved closer, his skin studded with drops. “The first thing we need to do is teach you how not to drown.”
    He didn’t. For on all occasions after, I pleaded not to return. I made excuses. I was busy. I wasn’t well. I had a pressing assignment to complete. Myra accompanied him joyfully when she visited Delhi; they went to the pool almost everyday despite the winter cold. I never did learn how to swim.

    Time is tricky. You organize it into days. You break it down to a second, and build it up to a century. A millennium. You shift, and stack, hoarding time into holidays and long weekends. You peel away the calendar pages. Carry it around in smartphones and computers. It has a shape. A design. Hands and digits. Glowing figures. And yet, it can’t be tamed. Constantly in our grasp. Constantly out of reach. All it takes is a tremor to bring it down, the carefully staged arrangement. Precarious as a falling leaf. Time is riddled with fault lines. Slim as paper. Delicate as swirls of ink.
    In the bookshop that evening, after I read Nicholas’ note, I tried to drag myself back into the present. But there’s a reason why time is likened to water. It is viscous. It resists. I drank more wine. Suddenlyexhilarated. I think I conversed with strangers, my voice louder than usual, my laughter more urgent. Everything seemed heightened. It lasted even when I was in the tube with Santanu, when we were making our way to the south-west of the city, to Eva’s place. Above the carriage door, we spotted a Shaadi.com advert— The smart way to find your life partner. Neha, 25, Model, Loves modern art and boxing. Sanjay, 29, Businessman, Loves Stallone and wildlife.
    â€œSantanu, 34, Recalcitrant Academic, Detests everything,” I offered.
    â€œNehemiah, 32, Wastrel.”
    After we’d run out of colorful insults, he told me, “By the way, when we get to Eva’s flat, look at what’s on the dining table…”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    That evening, I’d have preferred to settle for fewer surprises. “Tell me…”
    â€œI will. Later.”
    And I couldn’t get any more out of him as we jostled along. At the next stop, a man stepped in and stood in front of me, sporting a military-style haircut and a shiny black leather jacket. On his neck, below his jawline, a shaky tattoo of a pair of dice.
    Eva lived in Wimbledon, close to the Buddhapadipa Temple, in a compact yet quietly