Mahesh Rao's 'Half Light': A novel about class, homosexuality and their power to shape relationships

Pavan watched them for a few seconds and became aware that someone might be watching him watching them. His face hardened. The rest of the world, for whom perhaps nothing had changed, closed in again. Construction workers jumped down from the back of a truck and began offloading metal rods. The sugarcane juice seller a few feet away continued to crank his wheel as he fed stalks into the machine. In the restaurant at the corner, the fish thalis kept coming, borne aloft by harried waiters. Pavan walked on…

He walked past a patisserie, an expensive and forbidding place he would not normally enter. The shopfront was glazed by the evening sun, its signage the pink and yellow of cupcake icing. Through the window he could see a few women sitting on little spindly chairs at little spindly tables. When he pushed the door open, none of them took any notice of him. He walked the length of the glass case, the choice overwhelming, the fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla filling his lungs, temptation pooling in his mouth.

The woman behind the counter smiled and said: “Take your time, sir."

One of the cakes was layered with all the colours of the rainbow, as if they had known all along. He felt as though all the different shades and flavours would be too much for him. His eyes settled on the double chocolate gateau. It looked rich, sedate and satisfying.

‘This one," he said, pointing. “But I need only one piece."

“Of course, sir. To have here or to take away?" she asked.

He glanced involuntarily at the women on the spindly chairs. “Take away," he said.

“Of course, I’ll just pack it for you," she said with another smile, also glancing at the women.

The cake would be destroyed on a packed train so he decided to take the bus. He held it close against his chest as he boarded the bus and then settled it in his lap when he managed to get a seat two stops later. There were no more celebrations on display and the streets looked the same as always. Silhouetted bodies inched along scaffolding, pyramids of boxes on handcarts came into view, a taxi driver yelled at a scooter weaving in and out of the lines of cars.

Steam rose from enormous karahis on the pavement. The surge of euphoria began to ebb and his heart contracted with a sharp spasm. He had no right to partake in their jubilation. They had all worked towards it: They had marched in the streets, spoken on stage, written in the press, argued in the courts. He had hidden and cowered and lied. He thought back to his time in the hills when he had witnessed Gorkhaland protestors demanding a separate state. They would block all traffic to and from the hills. Children in pristine school uniforms would sit on railway tracks in neat columns. Women wearing thick cardigans over their saris would brave the cold for hours as they stood in town with their placards. He had learned a little about their grievances—the lack of respect for their language and culture, the neglect suffered by their hill towns—and he admired their tenacity in acting for their cause. He had a cause too—he knew he could have several—but protest would mean making himself identifiable. His preference had always been to stay in the dark.

By counting himself in their number he would be committing a grave fraud. Then a thought came to him as though a comet had flashed across the sky in front of his eyes. They did not care about his lack of contribution—there was no account to settle. Pavan realized that by their actions, whether they knew it or not, they had swept him along with them. They had made him one of them.

When he arrived home, he placed the cake box on the ledge beneath the window. He washed, changed into some comfortable clothes, spooned coffee into the filter, heated some water, laid a plate on the table. Through the thin wall he could hear his neighbour’s music, a modern version of a Punjabi folk song, which put him in mind of film heroes and heroines cycling past mustard fields as they exchanged coy glances. When his coffee had brewed, he poured it into a steel lota and sat down to have his celebratory piece of cake.

Through the mesh screen on the window he could make out the trails of light that covered the building across the street. They were celebrating, too. A new sanitaryware wholesale outlet had opened its doors earlier that week, sweets had been distributed, silver balloons attached to the railing, long lines of lights draped over the front of the building. As the dusk drew in, they twinkled.

He discovered that the cake was best savoured with eyes mostly closed. Its silken intensity meant that any other stimulation was a distraction. He sipped the strong coffee. The slight bitterness of the dark chocolate was chased by the more potent bitterness of the coffee. He felt a touch of wooziness after all he had seen that day. Next door, the song played again. It would be heard many times. That would be his neighbour’s routine for the entire evening. When Yasin latched on to a song, his devotion was unshakeable. It might have annoyed him at other times but on this night he simply listened, his hand sometimes tapping the beat on his thigh.

When he had finished, he disposed of the cake box, washed the plate and lota, and returned them to their shelf. He unrolled his bedding and lay down. The courts had said they were finally free. This time it felt different even to him. He knew no changes would occur in his daily life, but a small surge of satisfaction seemed to crest within him. He could not be sure—but it felt a little like pride.

Excerpted with permission from Penguin Random House India from ‘Half Light’ by Mahesh Rao.