Sophie is sitting with her back to my back, busy with email and messenger. The connection is slow-slower than a tortoise, slower than a snail- the slowest Internet connection ever. Guinness might be interested.

Things have moved faster in real life. In the last 2 weeks, I have been introduced (indirectly) to and started liking (not loving) Sophie's laughter. She laughs like a bell- a clear bell with a pleasant sound. A bell that manages to ring with sweetness- even when it is hit- without any feeling. The bell of humility. Her laughter reverberates inside the hollow walls of my heart- striking the inner cords and exciting them- a happy, beautiful laugh on an innocent face.

I have not fallen in love. I know that. Maybe I just like the 'laugh' part of her. The centre of happiness in her brain. Her vocal cords. The muscles of her face that contract and relax to create ecstasy in the onlooker's eyes..
 
I push myself back, away from the glare of the blue screen framed in the dullness of white plastic. The chair screeches. Nobody seems to notice. I know they do, but time is running up. They type away furiously at their keyboards, desperately- against the silent chimes of the wall clock. The white bricks bearing the brunt of the end-hour, rising up with character after every punch of the fingers. Rising up from suppression- with dignity.

"What time are you leaving?"

My question startles her. I look into her eyes. They are uncertain, and uncomfortable -at the thought of my being at her side while she sits with her compose box open, typing out a message.

No privacy.

I look steadily into the black circle, inside the brown circle, inside the white circle. Her gaze is fixed on me. Trying to retain my attention away from the radiating screen? She is too self conscious to close the window at my sudden appearance. I keep thinking(hidden thoughts) and looking at her, maintaining my mask of virtuousness.

The privacy respecter.
No peeping Tom here!

"At ten," she says. Then adds, almost as an afterthought, "why?"

"I want to have a word with you. Maybe I could drop you to your hostel if that's ok."

"Fine," she gathers. "Are you going to be here till ten o'clock?"
A thin line appears across her cheeks, suggesting a half-smile.
A half of a half-smile perhaps!
She looks at my face. Question mark writ on it.

"Yes. Just let me know when you are about to leave." 
I turn around with a slight air of self importance. Nobody seems to have noticed the talk. The blue screen beckons me. I walk the couple of steps to the chair- dull and blue- pull it back, and take a seat. There are no creaks or screeches this time. I have lifted the dullblue screech-maker and placed it with dignity.

"Rahul, let's go."
I have been waiting. Waiting to hear the light, husky voice, again. Trying to figure out (inside my head) the possible combination of words she would use. Waiting for the change in the air.

I keep looking at the screen, closing the windows one by one, while my hindsight tells me that multiple pairs of curious eyes are looking at the two of us- a girl(Rubyite) standing by the chair of a guy(Diamondite)- waiting on him. I can feel the glances moving between us. Ruby-to-Diamond. Diamond-to-Ruby. Alternately, with interest, meaning, interpretation. The air has changed with her voice, her call.

"Just a minute," I manage to utter to the blue screen, confident that the sound waves will be reflected by the screen- with a bluish tinge added - to her. She would miss the tinge- sound is supposed to be colorless. She hasn't had a science background anyway.

Reminds me of their placement brochure- cheap brochure, printed at Calcutta, the multiple colors making it dirtier. Her bio-data with the picture. Sophie Sinha, BA English Literature, Delhi University. Diploma in Journalism. A lady standing in a group- in the backdrop of the pale yellow wall of her department. A knowing smile on her face, a sky blue sari on her body-the sari speaking of unease, of a Virginal body beneath, that is yet to get used to wearing it. It has not yet experienced the intimacy of the five meter silk cloth, with Mughal type designs -curved stems, red roses growing horizontally in S shapes- in private moments; moments of solitude, of being one with her.

The sari has been worn for this shoot- a pretence at womanhood? - To keep lusty eyes of prying recruiters at bay? Asserting the Indian ness, the grown-up, mature, feminine, traditional face of the laughter girl. The cheap brochure with a snap in sari.

She stands outside- in the porch- where a "No  Parking" sign protrudes from a white plate. Its whiteness is no sacred; having been violated by dropping spheres of brick-color, spheres that have adamantly refused to stay on the brush or the walls- and yielded to gravity. The envious ones smearing the white plate with their color. The helpless ones falling to the ground, turning into blots- circles with horns sticking out in all directions.

I grope in the dark for my shoes- straining to catch sight of them in the glare of the monitor screens radiating from inside the room. The power has turned its back on them-leaving the computers struggling on the UPS that is beeping with the anticipation of imminent death.

Tube lights are not privileged. They have been forced to rest- to deprive us of the white rays emanating from the race of electrons inside the tube- by cutting off their lifeline. Computers are eating away at the stored energy. I am deprived of the glow, the brightness, to help me look for my shoes.

Groping in the dark with my foot, I feel the mass of shoes- tiny leather boats- for that familiar touch. The touch of my smooth boat, of little rings through which laces interlace - distributing the strain when they are tightened.

Shoes have left sandy dust on the floor. While my socks-covered foot feels around for the leather boats, it pushes alien-textured ones- which roll on the uneven bearings of sand and collide with other boats to lose energy- and stop.

My sensor-foot finally succeeds in tracing down both the boots within a few seconds of each other. They have decided to yield, to the quest of a fondling foot.

Sophie stands idle, busy staring into the darkness outside, at the discolored "No parking" plate that reflects the streetlight to announce its brick stained presence, along the way down the corridor- alternately. I tie the knots hurriedly, promising myself that the next boat will be a slip-on; no laces, no rings, no wasted time tying knots while a girl in dark jeans waits outside, in quiet, unknown anticipation.

She has started walking. To show me her importance. To show others that she isn't actually waiting. To show all that she adheres to the hostel rules religiously. I follow behind, accelerating. Her black jacket is gleaming, even in the darkness. One moon brightening up another. The moon above shining on the one walking with me. My heart brightening at the moon.

"How is Vishal?" I ask her. She keeps walking, safe in the darkness of the night. Emotions hidden in darkness- the moonlight is handicapped here, just not enough to expose! Reveal?

"Oh! He's fine. He's in Bangalore nowadays."

Good for me. At least she knows now. That I am not after her. That I know of her affair. So what if she's a moon walking under a half moon?

"I need a favor from you," I remark with casual deference.

"Yeah! Go ahead."

I turn sideways-away from her- and fish out the card from my shirt. She keeps looking ahead. Has she sensed my mind?
"Could you give this card to Nisha?"

"Hmm. Sure! Did  you come along just for this?"
She's smiling at me- a bemused smile.

"Well, sort of." I don't know what to say. Was it a silly thing to come for just this thing?

We walk together. She, looking ahead, thinking of me (perhaps) or of Nisha, maybe. I, envying myself- the guy walking with Miss Pretty Pretty. Walk-dating her. Walking with a date. Dating on a walk. On the five minute walk between her two stations. A romantic and a girl. One way romance?

A romantic dates a girl,
on her walk.
Walks on the date,
dates on the walk!

There are no dates here. Dates are grown in Kerala.

He loves her.
She loves him.
She's her!
He's not him.

I walk the lonely stretch back to my hostel. No shit-droppings from the trees. Birds don't fall in love. They sleep at night. No noise of traffic. Guards standing like ghosts. Ghosts with lathis. Guards don't need to fall in love. They eat khaini and carry tiffins filled up by their wives. Dal, bhat, sabji. Some achaar.

Her buttocks impressioned on my brain. The smooth curves in tight jeans. The crown beneath the jeans!

She has got him. I have lost her.

Let's be lovers. For a few months, a few weeks, maybe a few days. Let's sit in the canteen, library, outside the canteen-under the tree. Let's walk, talking to each other. Talking of nothing, of everything, of romantic things, of life of anything.

The street light in front of Diamond blinks at me. It's on when I approach. Goes off when I walk under it. On again when I have walked past.

I walk into the hostel.