The first part of a short story by Manjula Padmanabhan

HE'LL be there," said Gautam's sister, smiling as she plaited her hair. "Don't worry!" Gautam felt the skin on his face stretch and thin out like an expanding gas balloon, with the walnut of his brain exposed to view, floating within it. Was he so transparent? "I'm not worrying," he said.

"Of course you are," said Sagari. "Look at your face. All wound up! Like a... like a... "She swung her hair forward over her left shoulder, her fingers plucking and taming the black delta of hair into a taut braid, the plump links glistening like paired beetle-wings. Outside the window of her room, the heat prowled and hammered at the glass, willing the air-conditioner to relent and let it in so that it could devour its human prey on this burning morning in May, in summer, the season of annihilation. "What?" said Gautam, interested. "A clock, I was going to say," said Sagari, "but who winds clocks these days?" Her left hand held the end of the plait close to her waist, while her right wove a gold fillet into the end of it, containing it. "So I don't know what you look like any more." She laughed at his reflection in the mirror. Her little brother, cho chweet! She could still see the traces of puppy fat on him, a lingering roundedness near his chin, stubbled now. Stubbled! "Better shave, Gogi. You look like a porcupine more than anything else. And what will she think of you then, your special friend"

Gautam leapt up in frustration.

"It's not fair!" he said. "I never teased you," But he rubbed his chin anyway. Sagari turned around. She made her mouth prim. "What was there to tease?"

"Yah, yah, yah," said Gautam, feeling a peculiarity in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes his sister's beauty made him ache. He didn't like to think of her going away, leaving them. Being with some man. Smiling at some man in that way that he had seen, when he had caught them alone, once some months ago, she and her - he had to force himself to pronounce the word: suitor. Not that it had worked out, but still. And now there was another. This one was going to work. He couldn't enjoy the idea. He knew he shouldn't entertain possessive thoughts about his sister, but he did. He felt helpless against the onslaught of such thoughts. Was he a pervert, after all? 'The Sunday Telegraph' had carried a quiz some weeks ago, called 'Your Sexual Appetites Revealed!' from which he had learnt that his love for his elder sister was almost unnatural. But what next? How did perverts atone for their perversions? Should he give himself up to the police? He silenced his mind and frowned. "There was that guy who came, the first one. You made eyes at him - I saw you-"

"Never," said Sagari, evenly. She had picked up the kajal and was leaning towards the tall mirror to apply it. Her breath fogged the glass. "You saw nothing." She muddied the tip of her right index finger with the oily carbon-black. The hand steadied itself against her chin, while the middle finger held down the skin beneath the lower lid, stained faintly blue with sleeplessness. The index finger lightly skated the rim of the lower lid, leaving a glistening track of night. She released the lid and stood back. The eye smarted and tears spilled out of the pink inner corner. "You must think you saw something."

"You're crying," said Gautam. "Silly," said Sagari, bending her neck so that the tears drained down her nose, where she could dab them away without smudging the eye. "Can't you see it's because of the whatsit? Kajal." She started on the other eye. "Let me..." she paused as her finger traced its line, "let me put some in your eyes and then we'll see who cries!" She stood back from the mirror, blinking, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue that came up in alternating colours, Mauve Ice and Emerald Hush. She whirled around, laughing, her fingertip raised in attack. "Come! We'll dress you like a village boy!"

But Gautam didn't rear back as he was expected to do and her darting finger had to stop short of his nose. He stood his ground and looked down at her from his 17-year-old height, his face heavy even in its baby way. Something in his expression hurt her. "Oh!" she said, her voice shrilling, "you'd look so cute!"

"You are crying," said Gautam, his voice thick. And he left the room. But an hour later, when everyone was gathered down by the door in readiness, there was no trace of tears. Sagari was giggling with her friend Kussum, both of them insulated against the heat within the dense fog of their perfume. Already they had plunged into the ferocious light, laughing and exclaiming, Sagari holding the remote-key aloft like a wand. The little red Zen responded with it ersatz chirrup as they ran, hobbled by their high heels, across the cement driveway, till they gained the safe custody of the car and of its air-conditioner. Gautam was deputed to drive them, while his parents, one aunt and her daughter took off ahead, in the 'Amby' with the cloth-covered seats, driven by the company chauffeur.

The groom's house resembled a collision between an oil tanker and a Spanish villa. There was a sentry at the gate. Under the portico there was a liveried valet to park the car. "...just like a five-star!" whispered Kussum to Sagari, clearly awestruck. Sagari shook her plait over her shoulder and smiled distantly. Gautam, just behind her, saw her thoughts running ahead of her, already in possession of this valet, these steps, this door with its newly antiqued brass studs. Their parents had just disembarked and were waiting for Sagari.

They were ushered into a glass cabinet the size of a ballroom. Inside it, some 20 guests representing Their Side, sat on peach brocade furniture, with the frigid air puddling at their ankles. They looked up, their faces set in the genteel hostility traditional to in-laws as the host rose with arms outstretched to greet the bride-to-be. The two-ton Austrian chandelier, vouchsafe of the clan's business in glassware, hung like a glittering threat above the company. Gautam's family advanced in wedge formation, nodding, folded hands upraised, teeth bared in ritual smiles. Sagari stooped as she bent to touch feet, her sandalwood silk dupatta falling prettily, gold sliding down her fair arm, chinking at the wrist. She was led towards a cut-glass divan, on which she sat with head bent as the groom, in his raw silk ensemble, fussed with her parents prior to sitting down himself. Then they held court to all the gathered relatives who assayed them, comparing their skin-colours, their clothes, their relative heights and pronouncing on the likelihood of attractive children.

Gautam turned his head away, wishing he hadn't come, wishing he could shrink himself to the size of an ant and scurry away. He turned. And Bahaar was by his side."Hi," she said, smiling into his eyes. She was his height. "I knew you'd come. I arranged it."

"What?" he asked. The loud room misted around him. There was only this intoxication before him, of black curls and voice. A voice like burnt rope and ripening mangoes.

"For you to be here," she said, taking his arm. She led him to where a pair of seats was obscured behind a fringe of potted ferns.

"I have certain powers." He could smell her, a scent like powdered rubies. "The last time, when we met, I stole your handkerchief. Remember?" He didn't. "That's all I needed, because in this weather, it has your sweat on it. Sweat is very good for establishing psychic connections."

Gautam had no idea what she was talking about. He felt he might lick her forehead in a moment and wondered if it would taste as much of cappuccino as it looked. He wondered if human skin could be flavoured. "Have you ever wondered..." he began.

"If human skin can be flavoured?" she ended. "Yes," she said, nodding quickly, "it can be, but it takes an effort. And not any flavour. Animal flavours are easier than vegetable. Honey is almost impossible without including an aftertaste of bee." He saw with fascination, that when she looked into his eyes, she could see every thought of his, strung out like washed shirts flapping on a line. He felt wonderfully cleansed.

The loud room misted around him. There was only this intoxication before him, of black curls and voice. A voice like burnt rope and ripening mangoes.