Her hairs shifted in the breeze that made its way into Aspinwall House from the sea, the familiar smell of hair oils tinged with sweat reaching him. They were curly today because the hair was still wet and there was too much oil in them, with thick wavy strands where dry.
“കിളിവന്നു കൊഞ്ചിയ ജാലകവാതിൽ..”
A middle-aged uncle urgently attended to his loud ringing phone, shuffling in embarrassment and looking around in apology for his ringtone, in all likelihood a mistake by an impatient adolescent son or a daughter. A short woman, probably his wife, identified the song and turned from the queue ahead in front of the black-and-white freedom photographs.
The song brought to mind ill-lit library aisles, shining bright eyes and shy faces too close to each other. The young couple looked at each other and grinned.
“Your armpits are a river.” Her humour was either inappropriate or scathing.
“Yea Kochi’s melting.”
They moved out of the building. Sure enough, everyone on the grounds stuck to the shades of trees and the building, from volunteers to visitors to students running to avoid the sun. Their faces glistened in perennial tropical sweat.
“You know, I think I could’ve squeezed in my final year workshop project somewhere here, it’s got more effort to it than this representative solitary tyre with a measly description.”
“It’s the message that counts, isn’t that what they say. Plus they’d have arranged a JCB and all that.”
“Why aren’t you in a sari? I expected you’d be.”
“Well I expected you’d come naked.”
“Some day. You’re welcome though.” He grinned.
The rooms on the first floor were filled with portraits.
“I’m pretty sure we’re missing something. Something big and important. I’m getting bored.” She leaned up at him staring at a frame.
“She’s got a snake on her face.”
“Snakes.”
“Maybe she bites.”
“It’s probably the rest of the world, not her.”
“Is it poisonous?”
“Should I google?” He had already taken out his phone.
“Let’s just go paint.”
On their way down the stairs was a wall with rows of “Don’t die” handwritten and struck out, right next to suicidal diary notes and pin-ups.
“How much do you think the model was paid to wear snakes on her face?”
“Aaa, ariyilla.”
“If you could put up a single exhibit here, what’d you keep?”
“Us?” He knew he didn’t have to pitch in, the question wasn’t really for him. And yet, between being romantic and sounding cliché, he always leaned towards the latter, armed and betrayed by his limited creativity (which I wouldn’t say is a crime.*)
“I’d keep a picture of me, staring back at everyone from my photo,” she attempted to sound arrogant, answering her own question.
“What are you?” He played along.
“Just me, out-of-step with the world and compressed into a frame – and they’d pass me by, mostly bored and blank. A few make attempts at decrypting me, to make sense. But none of them do, and I stare back at them.”
“Isn’t that what I said? Us?”
“Okay, you’re good today.”
Smart quips were his novelty.
She drew a heart on her portion of the glass wall. A little further away, he painted a house with 2 squares on either sides for windows, a door and a sloping roof, already fading as the water dried.
She extended a long arrow from her fading heart and pierced it into the fading door.
“My heart is a heart and yours is just a door”, she smiled stupidly and made a face at him.
“Mine’s a house.”
“Oh wow I hadn’t thought of that.”
-pause-
“Kollaallo.”
They watched their paintings vanish. A tease once in a while was okay.
She was too proud to lose and he liked her too much to let her.
*That’s me placing up my disclaimer inline, much like Prithviraj in Lucifer
Trust Me, You're Alive 
Great post 🙂
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Thankyou 😊😊
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