The Magic Bangle Shastri Akella (bio) Kartik makes a decision the day his father strikes him: on workday evenings and weekends he’ll pretend he’s a tourist in his home-town. His real home—where he belongs—is a place, he imagines, where it’s safe for him to love men. That Thursday after work he visits the Golconda Fort. He enlists the services of a tour guide, who takes him from the watchtower on the rampart to the courtroom in the heart of the fort. The tour guide tells Kartik about the fort’s many tricks. Alcoves for soldiers to hide in plain sight. Unseen vantage points from which to pour hot oil on intruders. Kartik likes the clap trick best. When the watchtower soldier clapped, the sound traveled all the way to the courtroom: two claps for an approaching friend, one clap for a foe. A happy future is the sound of two claps, Kartik thinks. On Friday he tells his parents he’s going to the Delhi office on a work trip and leaves home with a suitcase. At work he tells his colleagues he’s going to see the Taj Mahal for the long weekend. The office will be closed on Monday for Holi. He takes an Uber to his hometown’s old district and checks into a hotel. His fourth-floor room has a balcony that overlooks the Charminar. He changes into a red kurta, straps his camera across his shoulder, and goes down to join the street traffic: scooterists, pedestrians, buffaloes, and peddlers of steel vessels, velvet pursers, and plastic roses. The air smells of jasmine and stagnant water. He crosses the Jama Masjid, whose stone courtyard is packed with Friday devotees. Men in kurtas lean towards one another, haloed in dusk’s violet glow, their murmurs a collective buzz. The women’s praying quarters, he guesses, are tucked away, out of sight. He takes a right and enters the Bangle Bazaar. He pauses frequently to click a photograph. In a shop empty of customers, a man sitting behind the counter holds his attention. Camera to one eye, Kartik [End Page 20] zooms in on him: his face in profile, illuminated by phone light, his skin the color of chai. A manicured stubble dots his angular jaw. There’s a slight shift in his posture, as if he knows he’s being watched. Not immediately, but at length, he lifts his head and looks. Kartik hones in on the man’s green eyes, framed by his thick lashes, punctuated by a mole on his temple. Click. Kartik lowers his camera and walks into the shop. He occupies the chair the green-eyed stranger points to. What kind of bangles are you looking for? the man asks Kartik. Glass? Enamel? Metal? He speaks a mixture of Urdu and Hindi, and his voice brings to mind the sound of a stone skimming the surface of water. What do you recommend? Kartik asks, holding one hand up. He points to his wrist. The man rubs his jaw. He knows it’s his most attractive feature. He knows Kartik finds him attractive. Kartik can tell, from the tilt of his neck, from the slow movement of his gaze. Bidar, he replies. Silver, with an antique look. A man shuffles out from behind a curtain that leads to the back of the shop. He has a small white beard and wizened coffee skin. He nods at Kartik, then says, adjusting his skullcap, I’m off to pray, Shahrukh. The man’s departure seems to unknot Shahrukh. His shoulders relax under his brown kurta; his face opens like the door of a cage. My parents met at a Shahrukh Khan film, he volunteers. Ammi was selling tickets, and Abbu was buying. He stands and opens the display rack. His hand darts with practiced ease. He extracts six bangles. They release six sonorous clinks as he places them on the glass counter. Which one? Kartik asks him. You pick. Shahrukh sits down and leans forward. Kartik smells the perfume on his neck. A scent full of smoke and wood. His left cheek is scarred somewhat; the tip of his...