Chapter 4

In his cabin, after a shower, he sits at the edge of his bed and picks up the book he always keeps on his bedside table, The Way of the Mountains . There is nothing special about the book itself, secondhand, yellowed, with a tear in the cover held together with scotch tape. Ayaan does not even find the contents all that interesting, though he thinks the use of language itself delicate and charming, like a spritz of light perfume. His grandmother had bought it for his mother when his grandfather had passed away – that had also been the same year his parents had divorced. Ayaan’s mother in turn had given it to him on his eighteenth birthday, with a note in purple glitter gel written in her old-fashioned handwriting on the first page: May this be a treasure to you as it was to me.

He does not open the book, but he holds it in his hands, running his fingers over the embossed lettering on the cover.

The next day, Yachi insists on taking Ayaan for an open-air tram service established a century ago that still groans and creaks around Azehi. They wait on the two stools at the tram stop, which once evidently had an awning but is now bare to its metal skeleton.

“Never wanted so badly to build an impromptu cooler,” huffs Ayaan.

“Is that your hobby? You build things?”

“I’m an engineer; it’s part of my job.”

“I was under the impression you were a researcher! Do you enjoy the work? I have no talent at all for physics and mathematics.”

“It’s all right.”

Yachi cocks their head to the side. “I do know that any work with the IPL is demanding. Why take it up if you do not enjoy it?”

Ayaan unclenches his fist. “My mother is sick. A heart disease. I’m the opposite of you – I’m not good at anything but physics and maths, and I needed something that could cover her medical bills and allow her to live comfortably. My friend – Onkar – he recommended me to the IPL through a connection.” His voice wobbles as he says Onkar’s name. “I plan to return and take care of her – I won’t have her catered to only by nurses and caretakers. I won’t have it.” Ayaan should be the one by her side; he’ll be damned if he turns out like his father.

“I did not mean to force you to reveal something so personal,” murmurs Yachi.

“You didn’t force me. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just dumped all that on you.”

“You humans are so funny. What do you have to apologise for?”

Ayaan laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

A Farish totters up next to them, dabbing the sweat from their brow with a handkerchief. Their skin has a greyish tint to it, and their shoulders are blunted. Ayaan stands up, waves to get their attention and gestures to his seat. If he doesn’t give it up, he’ll be hounded for the rest of his life by the image of that person swaying in the sun while he kept sitting even though he had the energy to stand. The Farish looks at him and speaks, and Yachi puts in, “They are asking if you are sure.”

“I am.”

Yachi’s face bears an expression that Ayaan cannot name, unhandy, coltish, blooming. “Then I will stand with you.”

“Oh, for – no, hey, Yachi, sit down – ”

The tram’s metal seats sear the back of Ayaan’s pants. It grates along its path, only slightly faster than a brisk walk. There are no pamphlets, but Yachi puts a hand on Ayaan’s shoulder and points out the sights: the still-functioning bakery that was established 312 years ago (one of the first buildings in the town). The statue of the mathematician Adasini, intended ( intended ) to increase tourism and commerce. The cordoned-off echo of a long-vanished civilisation – rubble, stone foundations, a half-collapsed kiln. Yachi leans out to take photos with their tablet, and Ayaan grabs the back of their tunic to keep them from toppling off.

“Is today a holiday?” gabbles Ayaan, to divert Yachi’s attention from braining themselves on the road. “All the shops are shut.”

Yachi answers while still displaying an astonishing lack of self-preservation. “Yes, it is a bit like Sundays for some Terrans. You will not find any shops open except for food and maybe medicine. Sometimes not even those.” They fall into silence after that, responding to Ayaan mostly in monosyllables and hums.

The trip on the scooter back to the IPL base is devoid of Yachi’s usual nattering. Ayaan wonders what they are thinking of, if they are upset about something, if he is the cause of it. As he slides off, Yachi snaps their fingers. “That was it! I’ve not played music for the plants in a while; they must be getting lonely. Poor things! It’s no wonder they’ve been drooping.”

“Is that what you were brooding about? How can plants be lonely?”

“They can! It’s bad for them. You should know. Can’t humans die of loneliness?”

“That’s…a very simplistic way of putting it.” Ayaan makes it a point to not think of such things. To remember when he’d been carted off to college, and he’d been away from his mother for the first time, and the loneliness was tight and kept growing tighter, like a screw, and he thought it might strangle him.

“So you can?”

Ayaan gives up. “It depends on the human, I suppose.”

“Does your spouse think similarly?”

“I don’t have a spouse.”

“Ah. I know some Terrans choose not to marry.”

“It’s not that. I’m not certain I am made for any kind of relationship.”

“Why would you say that?”

Ayaan remembers the sting of antiseptic. His mother: No, I’m not crying. Finish your saag. He knows, he knows that he and his father are separate entities. He thinks of his ex-girlfriend, who he’d dated because she was nice, because she was interested, because he’d never had a girlfriend before; any time they got into an argument he would leave the room; any time he got really angry he would take out his phone and stare at a picture of his father – the only one he ever kept. “I’m just not cut out for such things. Some people aren’t.”

Yachi frowns. “Earlier, you gave up your seat to a Farish who looked tired, though they were not pregnant or injured or carrying a child. I do not find anything but purity in that gesture. Surely anyone who does that has the capacity for any type of bond?”

“You think too highly of little gestures.”

“They’re not little!”

Ayaan knows that Yachi will not listen, so he says nothing more.

But Yachi is not finished, and they grasp Ayaan’s wrist. Ayaan does not know why he is surprised at how strong their grip is. Their skin’s rich mahogany is striking against Ayaan’s wheat; their calluses scrape against him. “I feel, at times, that you are unhappy,” they say.

Yachi does not cut an imposing figure, but Ayaan is nailed in place by the chaste forcefulness of their gaze. A smooth coil of dark hair brushes the side of their neck.

Ayaan rips away from Yachi, his heart drumming into his throat. “I need to – I have some work, I just remembered, sorry.”

“Haah? But you’re on shore leave.”

“I’ll see you later.” Why did he say that? Now he will have to follow through or risk being rude. He skitters away through the gates.