The question sees Raju frowning down at his hands, not in disagreement, but because he’s realising he can’t remember if it ever has. He can’t remember a time that he’s tried, for any of this.
Well, why would he have?
But talking to this man about leaving, even indirectly— But Francis already seems to know about that, or at leas doesn’t seem to feel the dread and wrongness of it cutting through him in the way that Raju does. So maybe it’s alright. Is it?
Simpler to just explain, instead of deciding if he should. He can do that with Francis in a way he couldn’t have with Seetha.
He tries to brush a thumb against the ragged, more faded thread on his finger, thinking of her. Of course his thumb goes right through. “There’s a thread here. It… it’s not… in good shape. I remember the day I left. She cried. I didn’t… I didn’t think anything of it.”
He remembers leaving, thinking it at Francis: the little boat under his feet, the movement of the river carrying him where he needed to be. Everyone he’d ever known, really known, on the bank all shouting with one voice, led by Seetha. His remembered pride in her, his eagerness and pride in himself, all painted over with the stain of each time he’s thought back on it since with bitter self-recriminations in his heart.
“I…” he tries to go on, but can’t sticks at the base of his throat. He shouldn’t ever be thinking can’t. Not about this. There’s more important things at stake than can’t.
It sneaks itself out anyway, though, written in the threads of the image Raju sends him after: Francis standing in the doorway of the little home they’ve made, looking very small at some long distance, alone there and looking out. Raju leans forward, elbows against his knees, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes with his face twisted up. Before he’d closed his eyes against all of it he’d seen the more unnatural part of that fire escaping here and there over the edge of the brick, and he ignores it. It won’t grow without him, not the way a real one would, and if there’s any problem beyond that he has to trust Francis to take care of it. He can’t manage anything else.
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Well, why would he have?
But talking to this man about leaving, even indirectly— But Francis already seems to know about that, or at leas doesn’t seem to feel the dread and wrongness of it cutting through him in the way that Raju does. So maybe it’s alright. Is it?
Simpler to just explain, instead of deciding if he should. He can do that with Francis in a way he couldn’t have with Seetha.
He tries to brush a thumb against the ragged, more faded thread on his finger, thinking of her. Of course his thumb goes right through. “There’s a thread here. It… it’s not… in good shape. I remember the day I left. She cried. I didn’t… I didn’t think anything of it.”
He remembers leaving, thinking it at Francis: the little boat under his feet, the movement of the river carrying him where he needed to be. Everyone he’d ever known, really known, on the bank all shouting with one voice, led by Seetha. His remembered pride in her, his eagerness and pride in himself, all painted over with the stain of each time he’s thought back on it since with bitter self-recriminations in his heart.
“I…” he tries to go on, but can’t sticks at the base of his throat. He shouldn’t ever be thinking can’t. Not about this. There’s more important things at stake than can’t.
It sneaks itself out anyway, though, written in the threads of the image Raju sends him after: Francis standing in the doorway of the little home they’ve made, looking very small at some long distance, alone there and looking out. Raju leans forward, elbows against his knees, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes with his face twisted up. Before he’d closed his eyes against all of it he’d seen the more unnatural part of that fire escaping here and there over the edge of the brick, and he ignores it. It won’t grow without him, not the way a real one would, and if there’s any problem beyond that he has to trust Francis to take care of it. He can’t manage anything else.