Gaze

At a lecture on native language and Indian English writing, I first felt his gaze upon me. It had this reassuring warmth, as if I were sitting at the perfect distance from a campfire in mild winter. It came from three rows in front of me combating the harsh air-conditioning, enclosing me in its cosiness - it was like he picked the ideal spot to get a clear view. The gaze was distant, but pointed; it was welcoming I smiled at him, once, and he turned away immediately. After that, I pretended not to notice, and he pretended not to look. The gaze followed me after the lecture, as I walked through the lobby, down the stairs and into an auto.

A week later, I felt the gaze on my neck, from behind me, at a book launch. I was surprised to see him, and that manifested itself in a smile. He was bolder now, he smiled.

I remember his face vaguely - it was shaped like an elongated egg and punctuated by a round nose that ended almost as soon as it started. His hair could only be described the word nondescript. His eyes were as genial as his gaze. He wore a dangling earring in one ear - but that was a fashion fiasco I could live with (or eliminate).

There was this moment, after the launch, when we passed each other, a colony of butterflies fluttering in my tummy, when I hoped he would say something. He didn't.

The gaze was upon me frequently over the next few weeks, at a concert here, a play there, at the beach, even at a bookstore. He often moved in my direction, exciting those butterflies each time, but never said hello.

I am in a concert now, and I feel a warmth that I only vaguely remember now. I turn around, to see an elongated egghead and nondescript hair. I am in the blanket of his gaze now. The earring has disappeared - perhaps he works in a cultured atmosphere - and his eyes look tired, but the gaze still envelops me snugly, and I can still feel it upon me even when I'm not looking.

The concert starts, I drown in the tambura's drone and melt into the song.

The concert ends, I head out into the cavernous lobby. He approaches me, with purpose this time. The butterflies wake up from a six year slumber.

He talks, finally, in a baritone warmer than his gaze, with clarity of expression that suggests he has practiced this speech, "Some years ago, I came across a short story by Haruki Murakami. About this guy and girl who walk past each other, but don't make conversation."
I say, smiling, "They know they are 100% perfect for each other..."
"And yet, they don't talk. They just walk past."
"And the guy says he knows exactly what he would have told her had he walked past her now."
"Yeah. He'd tell her a story."
"One that starts with 'Once upon a time...' and ends with, 'A sad story, don't you think?'"
"Yes... That story."

We pause, breathlessly, and I say, "Sorry for ruining your speech."
He says, "I like the way it went." He pauses, and says, "You disappeared." He wants an explanation, I think.
"I moved. I don't live here now. I'm only visiting..."
"Oh," he says, indeterminately. If he intends to convey sadness, he fails. He asks, "Coffee?"
I cannot, I know, but I make it look like I'm giving it some thought before saying, "I should be going, I'm in a hurry."

I walk away, leaving him jolted. The gaze is on the back of my neck until I disappear amidst the crowd. I walk out to the blustery evening, and wait on the pavement until a car pulls up. My daughter waves at me from behind the glass. I open the door, hurry into the warmth of the car-heating, and close my eyes. The car stereo starts - I drown in the tambura's drone and melt into the song.