Chapter 2 – The Art of Imitation

 

            Evenings near the school ground had a personality of their own.

            They arrived slowly, like someone unhurried, dragging their feet across the day before finally settling in. The sun did not disappear all at once; it lingered above the trees, turning the sky pale gold and then bruised orange, as if reluctant to leave a place that still held laughter. Dust rose gently from the open ground, catching the light, floating like tiny forgotten wishes.

            The school building looked different in the evening.

            Without teachers, without bells, without the sharp edges of discipline, it softened. Windows reflected the sky instead of authority. The corridors that echoed with instructions in the morning now stood quietly, listening. The iron gate remained open, no longer guarding time.

            This was when the ground belonged to the children.

            Bicycles leaned against walls with careless trust. Some lay fallen, wheels still spinning, as if they had given up mid-sentence. Shoes were kicked off and forgotten. Shirts came untucked. Voices grew louder, then softer, then louder again, as though the air itself was playing along.

            Kamal arrived almost every evening.

            Sometimes on his bicycle, sometimes walking with a friend, sometimes alone. He never announced himself. He just appeared…quietly slipping into the rhythm of the place like a familiar note in a song.

            He liked the edge of the ground best.

            Not the center where games demanded shouting and competition, but the boundary…where the ground met the road, where the dust thinned and the world beyond the school waited patiently. From there, he could see everything without being pulled into it.

            That evening, he stood with one foot bent against the low boundary wall, arms folded loosely across his chest.

            He did not know why he stood that way.

            It had become a habit, adopted unconsciously, like breathing through the nose or blinking when dust rose. One leg bent, heel resting on the wall. Weight on the other leg. Arms crossed, but not tight…never tight. His posture suggested waiting, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

            He watched boys racing their bicycles, daring each other to let go of the handle. He watched a group of girls sitting in a circle, plucking grass and braiding it into rings they would never wear. He watched the sky deepen.

            And then…he felt it.

            Not a sound. Not a movement that demanded attention. Just a shift in the air, as if something invisible had stepped closer.

            Kamal did not turn immediately.

            He knew.

            There were some presences the body recognized before the eyes did.

            A few steps away, near the same wall but not touching it, Monica stood.

            She faced the ground, her back half-turned to him. Her hair was tied loosely, strands escaping to catch the evening breeze. She held her school bag in one hand, letting it hang like a forgotten thought.

            Then, slowly…deliberately…she bent one leg.

            She placed her heel against the wall.

            Kamal’s eyes flickered toward her without his head moving.

            Monica crossed her arms.

            Not tightly. Not loosely. Exactly the way his were.

            He straightened instinctively, unsure why.

            Monica straightened too.

            He tilted his head slightly to the left.

            So did she.

            It was subtle. So subtle that anyone else would have missed it. To the rest of the world, it looked accidental. Coincidence. Nothing worth naming.

            But Kamal felt something unfamiliar tighten and loosen inside him at the same time.

            He uncrossed his arms.

            Monica uncrossed hers a heartbeat later.

            He bent his knee again, slower this time.

            She mirrored him…slower still.

            Now he turned his head.

            Their eyes met.

            For half a second, there was nothing playful in her face. No smile. No challenge. Just awareness…pure and electric.

            Then she smiled.

            It was not a wide smile. Not a grin. Just a curve at the corner of her lips, like a secret folding itself neatly.

            Kamal looked away first.

            Not because he wanted to, but because his chest had suddenly forgotten how to stay calm.

            Behind him, he heard laughter.

            Not loud. Not teasing. Just the sound of someone enjoying something without explanation.

            That was how it began.

            No introduction. No words. Just imitation.

***

            From that evening onward, the ground became a stage for a performance no one else knew was happening.

            Some days, Kamal arrived early and took his place by the wall. Other days, Monica reached first. Whoever arrived later would adjust themselves…not to match the place, but to match the other.

            If Kamal sat on the wall, legs dangling, tapping his heel against the stone, Monica would sit a few steps away and swing her legs in the same rhythm.

            If Monica leaned back on her palms, face lifted toward the sky, Kamal would find himself doing the same without deciding to.

            They never discussed it.

            They never acknowledged it.

            But it continued, growing more daring, more detailed…like two musicians improvising without ever agreeing on a tune.

            One evening, Kamal picked up a dry twig and twirled it between his fingers absentmindedly.

            Across from him, Monica searched the ground until she found a twig of her own.

            She twirled it.

            He switched hands.

            She switched hands.

            He stopped.

            She stopped.

            This time, he looked at her fully.

            “You’re copying me,” he said.

            It was the first sentence he had ever spoken directly to her.

            Monica tilted her head, pretending to think. Then she said, “Am I?”

            Her voice surprised him.

            It was lighter than he expected. Clear. As if it carried laughter even when it didn’t use it.

            “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

            She looked at him steadily. Then crossed her arms.

            Kamal crossed his arms too…without realizing it.

            She raised an eyebrow.

            He froze.

            Monica laughed openly now, the sound escaping before she could stop it.

            “See?” she said. “You do it too.”

            He felt heat rise to his ears.

            “I wasn’t…” He stopped. There was no point finishing the sentence. The truth had already betrayed him.

            She stepped closer, her shoes brushing the dust into soft arcs.

            “Maybe,” she said, “we are both copying something.”

            “Like what?” he asked.

            She shrugged, eyes drifting toward the sky. “The evening, maybe.”

            That made no sense.

            And yet…it felt right.

***

            As days passed, the imitation became their language.

            They spoke less to each other than anyone else, yet understood more.

            If Monica kicked a pebble twice before sitting, Kamal would wait until she did before choosing where to sit himself. If Kamal suddenly stood and stretched, Monica would follow, stretching her arms in a way that made the air seem wider.

            Sometimes they exaggerated it, turning the game into silent laughter.

            One day, Kamal yawned deliberately, loudly, stretching his jaw.

            Monica yawned too…far too dramatically…nearly losing her balance in the process.

            He laughed.

            She bowed slightly, as if accepting applause.

            Another evening, Monica pretended to tie her shoe painfully slowly.

            Kamal tied his shoe too…painfully slower.

            Children ran past them, shouting, pushing, colliding with the joy of being young. Dust rose, settling on their uniforms, their hair, their unspoken understanding.

            They were not hiding.

            They were simply invisible to everyone else.

***

            The school ground itself seemed to notice.

            The banyan tree near the corner stretched its shadow longer in their direction. The boundary wall absorbed their weight without complaint. Even the road beyond…the one that carried buses, bicycles, strangers…slowed its noise when they sat together.

            One evening, clouds gathered unexpectedly.

            The sky darkened in patches, like a painting unfinished. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of rain that might or might not arrive.

            Most children ran home.

            Kamal remained.

            Monica remained.

            They stood under the banyan tree, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

            Kamal folded his arms.

            Monica folded hers.

            Rain did not fall.

            But something else did…soft and heavy and unnamed.

            “Why do you do it?” he asked quietly.

            “Do what?” she replied.

            “Copy me.”

            She looked at him then…not playful, not teasing.

            “Because,” she said slowly, “sometimes I want to see how I look from your place.”

            He did not know what to say.

            So he copied her.

            He looked down.

            She looked down.

            They stood like that, mirroring silence, until the clouds finally moved on.

***

 

            The consequences were small at first.

            A friend noticed.

            “Why do you always stand like that when she’s around?” someone asked Kamal one afternoon.

            He shrugged. “Like what?”

            “Like you’re being held still.”

            He laughed it off.

            Monica faced her own questions.

            “Why do you sit there every day?” a girl asked her. “You don’t even play.”

            Monica smiled. “I am playing.”

            They didn’t insist. Some games didn’t invite explanation.

            But inside Kamal, something had shifted.

            He began to wait for the evenings…not for games, not for freedom, but for alignment. For the moment when his posture would find its echo.

            On days she didn’t come, the ground felt wrong.

            Too wide. Too loud. Unbalanced.

            He caught himself crossing his arms, then uncrossing them again, as if correcting a mistake no one else could see.

            When she returned the next day, relief washed through him so quickly it almost frightened him.

            They didn’t talk about it.

            They never did.

***

            The first real fracture came unexpectedly.

            One evening, Kamal arrived late. The sun was already low, shadows stretched thin and long. He scanned the ground.

            She wasn’t there.

            He took his usual spot anyway.

            Bent one leg. Folded arms.

            Nothing answered him.

            Minutes passed.

            Laughter faded.

            The sky cooled.

            Then he saw her…standing at the far end, talking to someone else.

            She laughed.

            She leaned forward.

            She copied someone else’s posture.

            Something inside him went still.

            He straightened.

            Uncrossed his arms.

            He didn’t know why it hurt. He didn’t even know if it was supposed to.

            When Monica finally looked his way, she froze.

            Their eyes met.

            She adjusted her posture immediately…mirroring him now.

            But it was too late.

            The echo had arrived after the sound.

            She walked over, hesitant.

            “Sorry,” she said. “I was late.”

            “It’s fine,” he replied.

            But he didn’t bend his leg again.

            She waited.

            Then, slowly, she bent hers anyway.

            He didn’t follow.

            For the first time, their reflections broke.

            Monica lowered her foot.

            They stood awkwardly, unfamiliar in their own shapes.

            “I didn’t mean…” she began.

            “I know,” he interrupted. “It’s okay.”

            It wasn’t.

            But neither of them knew how to say why.

            They stood there until the ground emptied, the sky dimmed, and the road swallowed the evening whole.

***

            That night, Kamal lay awake longer than usual. He folded his arms over his chest. Unfolded them. Turned on his side. Turned back.

            He realized something then…not in words, but in weight. Imitation had taught him attention. Attention had become attachment. And attachment…quiet, unspoken…had begun to ask for exclusivity.

            Love, he understood dimly, did not begin with declarations.

            It began with alignment. With the desire to stand where someone else stood. To move when they moved. To feel incomplete when they didn’t.

            The next evening, he arrived early again. He stood by the wall. Bent one leg. Folded his arms.

            And waited.

            When Monica appeared, breathless, hair loose, eyes searching…she saw him instantly. She smiled. She bent her leg. She folded her arms. This time, he mirrored her back.

            The balance returned.

            The ground exhaled.

            They said nothing.

            They didn’t need to.

            Because before language, before promise, before knowing what to call it…They had learned the art of imitation.

            And in that art, something irreversible had already begun.

***

            After that evening, the game changed…not in rules, but in weight.

            The imitation was no longer playful alone. It carried awareness now. Each mirrored movement came with a pause, a glance, a question that wasn’t asked aloud. The innocence remained, but something else had settled beside it…something alert, something careful.

            They became gentler with the game.

            If earlier they exaggerated, now they refined. Less obvious. More precise. Like two people afraid of breaking something fragile they didn’t know how to hold yet.

            One evening, Kamal arrived with a scraped knee.

            It was nothing dramatic…just the kind of injury childhood collected without ceremony. A fall from a bicycle, a careless turn on loose gravel. Dust had mixed with blood and dried into a thin, rust-colored line.

            He sat on the wall, stretching his leg slightly, not because it hurt badly, but because he wanted space around it.

            Monica noticed immediately.

            She always did.

            She didn’t ask what happened.

            Instead, she adjusted herself…sat with one leg stretched too, the other bent carefully, as if protecting an invisible wound of her own.

            Kamal watched her out of the corner of his eye.

            “You don’t have to copy that,” he said.

            She shrugged. “I know.”

            “Then why do you?”

            She looked at his knee for a moment. Then she mirrored his gaze…looking at her own leg.

            “Because,” she said softly, “some things shouldn’t be carried alone.”

            The words landed quietly.

            Kamal swallowed.

            That evening, when he rode home, the scrape stung less.

***

            Their imitation began to include absences.

            If Kamal arrived tired, shoulders drooping, Monica’s energy softened too. If Monica came bubbling with laughter, Kamal found himself smiling without effort.

            They were tuning themselves to each other without understanding the mechanism.

            Once, Kamal deliberately tested it.

            He stood straight, hands behind his back…an unnatural posture for him.

            Monica hesitated.

            She watched him closely.

            Then slowly, she placed her hands behind her back too.

            Their eyes met.

            She smiled knowingly. “You’re checking.”

            He felt caught…and oddly seen.

            “Maybe,” he admitted.

            She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Then be careful.”

            “Why?”

            “Because once you start noticing,” she said, “you can’t un-notice.”

            He didn’t reply.

            He already knew.

***

            The evenings near the ground stretched longer as the days changed.

            The sun began setting earlier. The air grew cooler. Dust settled faster. Shadows sharpened their edges.

            Other children changed too.

            Some stopped coming regularly. Some grew interested in different corners of the world. New faces appeared. Old games faded.

            But Kamal and Monica remained constants…like two stones that refused to be moved by the river’s insistence.

            One evening, a group of boys started playing near them…loud, energetic, careless.

            A ball rolled toward Monica’s feet. She stopped it instinctively.

            Before she could return it, one of the boys called out, “Throw it here!”

            She lifted the ball.

            Paused.

            Then glanced at Kamal.

            He tilted his head slightly…to the left.

            She tilted hers too.

            Then she rolled the ball gently back instead of throwing it.

            The boys groaned.

            “Why did you roll it?” one asked.

            Monica smiled. “I didn’t feel like throwing.”

            Kamal looked away, hiding his smile.

            That small alignment…head tilt, decision, execution…felt larger than it should have.

            It was no longer coincidence.

            It was collaboration.

***

            Silence grew more comfortable between them.

            Not the awkward silence of strangers, but the inhabited kind…the kind that feels furnished.

            They could sit for long minutes without speaking, sharing posture, breath, space.

            Once, Kamal counted how many times Monica adjusted her sitting position in ten minutes.

            Five.

            Each time, his body followed before his mind registered the change.

            The realization startled him.

            He wondered when exactly control had shifted.

            When imitation had stopped being conscious choice and become instinct.

            That night, he tried to sit differently at home…legs crossed, back straight.

            It felt wrong.

            He changed.

            Peace returned.

***

            The first true consequence arrived disguised as a joke.

            One afternoon, as the bell rang and students poured out, a teacher stood near the gate, watching absently.

            Kamal and Monica walked out together…not side by side, but near enough that space between them felt intentional.

            Kamal stopped to adjust his bag. Monica stopped too.

            The teacher frowned slightly. “Why do both of you stop together?” she asked casually.

            Neither answered. They hadn’t prepared for language.

            The teacher chuckled lightly. “Are you tied together or something?”

            A few students laughed. Kamal felt heat crawl up his neck. Monica glanced at him…then mimicked his stillness exactly.

            The teacher shook her head, amused, and walked away. But the laughter lingered.

            As they resumed walking, Kamal said quietly, “Sorry.”

            “For what?” Monica asked.

            “For making it noticeable.”

            She smiled gently. “It was noticeable long before today.”

            That unsettled him.

            “Does that bother you?” he asked.

            She thought for a moment. Then said, “Only if it starts to matter to us more than it matters to us.”

            He didn’t fully understand.

            But the sentence stayed.

***

            That evening, the ground felt different again.

            Not broken…just aware.

            They were not alone in their game anymore. The world had noticed. And noticing changed things. They sat closer than usual, almost shoulder to shoulder, both leaning against the wall.

            Kamal bent his leg. Monica bent hers. They didn’t look at each other.

            “I think,” Kamal said slowly, “we won’t be able to do this forever.”

            “Do what?”

            “This,” he said, gesturing vaguely…at their posture, the ground, the air.

            She nodded. “I know.”

            “But I don’t want it to end like that day,” he added. “When I didn’t copy you back.”

            She turned to face him.

            Her expression wasn’t hurt…but it wasn’t playful either.

            “It didn’t end that day,” she said. “It just showed us what it costs when it breaks.”

            “What does it cost?” he asked.

            She answered honestly. “Comfort. Balance. A little bit of courage.”

            He absorbed that.

            “Then let’s not break it,” he said.

            She smiled…not teasing this time, not playful.

            “Then keep paying attention,” she replied.

***

            The last evening of that week arrived quietly.

            The sky wore soft gray. The ground was damp from an earlier drizzle. The air smelled clean, unfinished. They stood near the road, bicycles resting beside them.

            Kamal placed one foot on the pedal.

            Monica placed hers too.

            He leaned forward slightly.

            She leaned forward.

            They were about to ride home.

            Kamal hesitated.

            Monica waited.

            He looked at her.

            She looked back.

            “I don’t know what this is,” he said.

            She nodded. “Neither do I.”

            “But it feels like something that started before we were ready,” he continued.

            She smiled faintly. “Most important things do.”

            He mounted his bicycle.

            She mounted hers.

            They began riding…slowly, side by side, keeping the same pace without trying.

            For a few seconds, their movements stayed perfectly aligned.

            Then the road curved.

            They drifted slightly apart.

            Not breaking…just adjusting.

            As they rode on, Kamal understood something without words: Imitation had taught them closeness.
Difference would teach them distance.

            And somewhere between the two, something fragile and lasting was learning how to exist. They didn’t say goodbye when their paths separated.

            They didn’t need to.

            The evening had already spoken for them.