Their first months were a collage of small rituals. They met for Saturday markets with sticky pancakes; Arjun would order a crazy coffee and pass it on to Maya with a smile on his face as he would be handing over a small trophy. Maya took him to her weekly pottery class where she made clay much like she organized her life: meticulously, mindfully. He stood and waited and admired the manner in which she was able to focus her attention without artifice.
The world of Arjun was mobile and narrative. He would show her images of fishermen having set out their nets in a blue lagoon, of children playing in the dust, of a wayward dog who had turned into a grey halo of happiness in one corner of the picture. Maya provided strategy cards and market research the little wins that she cared about because it was hers. She was inquisitive, like Arjun saw, without being intrusive--it was the wish to know her specific contours.
It was a new country she had never intended to come to but never wanted to leave when she was with him. She laughed more; she gave evenings the length of her days. He photographed the city as a musician hears music in a traffic jam--hearing rhythm in a place where others heard noise. Their closeness increased; they spent silent afternoons with oversized tea cups, text messages which consisted of little more than an invitation to be viewed.
They settled down to live together gradually, the sort of movement that involves folding two little island maps into a single atlas. Boxes came, plants grew on window sills and arguments began to be touchable and moveable instead of disastrous. Love was generous, and uncomplicated, for a time.