The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER III

The moment he laid eyes on her, a part of him cracked and slipped under the sky and latched itself under the parchments of her skin. She had wild hair, an absurd structure with high hips, her legs long like that of the branches of a tree.

The first time, she had walked in the cafe only to buy a bottle of water. The second time, she came in with some friend, or father or some man who was older to her. She ordered Bun Maskas and two glasses of Irani Chai for them. They spoke, and then they laughed and became serious and had a very low argument. For those two hours, his eyes followed her movements like clockwork. He attended some customers who approached the place where his father once sat, took their payments, returned their change, hooked a copy of their receipt onto something and answered the monotonous question— how is baba now? — fine, he said.

For the following weeks, she came here for several meetings, at least thrice a week, with a thick laptop, and spoke to clients, had chai and went. She smiled at him often, and he tried to return the gesture. A handful of times, his fingers brushed against her polished nails while taking her payment. The days she wouldn't visit, he'd close his eyes like draped curtains being pulled and imagine her there, just like he'd often imagine his mother.

Rumi drew to her like a strong magnet. But he never left his life. He never stayed extra hours for her. They spoke almost every time she showed up. And he'd work, and leave, just like he normally did. She was a fresh feeling, something new, rather colorful than what his past had shown him— the smell of fresh herbs, of petrichor.

She liked his rope(y) rough hair, his gloomy eyes, his tired and thin skin, the weak smile that welcomed her. Her lips involuntarily spread across her cheeks, her teeth flashy, when her eyes would latch on Rumi. He seemed so delicate, almost breakable, yet too calm and quiet. These were the things she liked about him. Who was to say if some other man had these qualities, she'd like him too?

What Rumi failed to hide and she failed to see clearly, was that what his eyes displayed was despair, hopelessness. They were hazy, and carried too many questions about love. At first, she questioned him in her mind. Eventually, she realized that she could do nothing about it. She realized that whatever life he lived, he lived with a huge hole. And it was impossible to fill that kind of abyss. That kind of ravine never sparkled with joy. That kind of volcano never erupted— it was long gone and dormant, so much so, that it's sources to the other volcanoes had closed. No earthquake could shatter it.

When he touched her, he did it with hesitation, his skin being crawled on by a million insects, his new experience turning into something familiar. And he hated that. He hated the fact of how he loved her, yet he couldn't feel her. He couldn't understand her. There was something about her that made him feel secure and terrified at the same time— there was nothing in between.

She couldn't understand him when he spoke in poetry. And he never expected her to. She was never expected to understand that the eyes that bothered her, offended her, were the same eyes she'd find in Rustom's eyes or Rumi's mother's. That the emotions and questions and fog in his eyes were the kind that could only be inherited through blood and love.

And so, Rumi asked her to walk away. He then lost a customer.

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