Years have a peculiar way of smoothing jagged edges without eliminating them. By this time Maya was a senior consultant and headed a team who trusted her instinct. The work of Arjun had taken on a slower rhythm; he lectured and tutored students. Neither was that one who had cowered behind rigorous listings.
Their meeting was an uncertain olive branch. They were introduced in the same room by a friend who was organizing a small fundraiser in aid of a community arts Centre. It was near her turn to leave, when Maya caught sight of Arjun coming across the crowd, the same easy smile with its hint of things they had both acquired: time, life experience, a trace of vulnerability.
Present that first they were embarrassed; then more profound when the horror had melted away. They were frank about the years between them: the errors, the decisions, the things they could not have corrected without shattering their own selves. Arjun felt bad about leaving and it struck Maya in a way that she had not anticipated. She explained to him, in a steadiness she astonished herself with, how lonely she had been, and how she had relieved that loneliness by work and friends and little insurrections.
What was happening back then, Arjun said, was that we both loved different things and we were thinking that loving the person would mean he would have to stop. He reached for her hand. I do not want to be what we used to be, I want to know who you are now.
Maya looked at him. She recalled his fingertips which were of clay and how he looked at street performers like one who was recording miracles. She also recalled suffering, the empty places where people have gone. However, at this moment she experienced something akin to curiosity instead of the pang they both had felt.