Free Ode to Broken Things by Dipika Mukherjee Page A

jamming up two lanes would be a great idea.
    This was why he got out of Kuala Lumpur whenever he could, zipping past the hibiscus and ixoras of the north-south highway, building an easy camaraderie with other motorists flashing their lights in the fraternity of us-against-the-cops. Tailgating the slowpokes in the fast lane, he felt an intense companionship with those who valued the speed and power of these well-built machines, a bonding made even sweeter by the certainty of its end. Inevitably, a grinning face would lean forward from the shadow of the passenger seat of a passing vehicle to wave goodbye, or a casual arm would lift in a salute through the moonroof at the fork on the road, making the perfect exit.
    If only all relationships in life were so simple. Abhik drummed absentmindedly on the steering wheel, thinking of the bond that was growing, challenging Agni’s silence. He read Agni’s text again and frowned.
    He couldn’t trust her with an older man; she seemed to have a fetish for them. So Agni never had a father, but she didn’t have a mother either, and it wasn’t driving her into the arms of older lesbians, was it? Besides, being an orphan was different in this country where parenting was such a community activity. They both had grown up spending a lot of time at Pujobari, the Bengali property by the sea where, as children, they would wander off to the five acres of surrounding jungle with a bunch of kids. The jungle was dense with monkeys and snakes that trapped them slyly, sucking in a ball or pulling in a kite that refused to fly.
    But, whenever they headed into forbidden territory, a nearby uncle would spot them out of the corner of his eye. Man, they were always looking out, even as they sat distracted, twirling beers. The children would be marched back and publicly humiliated as a warning to others but, even then, through all the tears, they understood that anyone in that gathering would have risked snakebites to keep the children safe. And they never forgot this sense of belonging. It still pulled him back to Pujobari year after year, now that it was his turn to watch out for someone else’s kid.
    Their grandfathers, and others of that generation, had pooled together half a month’s pay to build on the five acres of land that became Pujobari. All the Bengali children grew up knowing that the dilapidated old colonial building was theirs to keep. He still remembered chasing small geese and chickens, cowering from the dogs, sitting at an open gutter and sucking on ice-lollies while some adult paid the ice-cream man who had phut-phutted into the property on an old motorcycle.
    He and Agni had grown up together, but it was at Pujobari that they became more than friends. As teenagers they took turns volunteering for weekends of Gotong Royong , descending on the old building from as far away as Penang with rags and buckets and mops and ladders for a wild weekend of cleaning and camping, to be supervised by a married couple barely older than themselves.
    The electricity blinked erratically, and the wind howled through the leaky rafters. Ignoring the bunk beds, the twenty of them had huddled in the central hall, playing cards until dawn, until a stormy wind through the bay windows blew out the candle. Then they watched the wind churning huge waves that crashed to the shore, bluish purple in the faint light.
    Someone started a ghost story then, and Agni inched closer to Abhik, sharing his thin cotton sheet, leaning against the warmth of his chest. Sometime during the story, during the magic of the wailing night and the eerie drone of disembodied voices, Abhik had kissed her. It was a chaste kiss, mouths closed, a stupid kiss even. His first.
    It was understood that the parents wanted such things to happen. A community gathering cut through the usual constraints of overnight gender mixing. It was only one kiss, but they both felt awkward. They started avoiding each other, just so that they wouldn’t have to