He first noticed the man during attendance in the classroom that smelled of chalk and wet wool. The slow clicking fan above kept failing at its job. Names were being called and voices kept answering in a very practiced confidence. When his name came, he said “present” the way he had learned to say it here. Different from his school, it had to be quick, clean, and he had to appear a little careless. That was when the man leaned in from the empty seat beside him and whispered, “That one isn’t you.”

He did not turn and kept his eyes on the teacher ahead if looking could make him visible. The man’s voice was calm, almost bored and eager to make conversation.

“Your chin… you raise it here,” the man said. “You don’t do that anywhere else.”

He scratched a margin in his notebook waiting for the bell to ring. When he finally looked, the seat was occupied by a bag someone had left behind. He told himself that the person must have left because he himself was no fun to talk to.

After class, the man stood near the notice board.

“You speak very carefully in there,” he said, stepping aside as a group passed between them. “Like every sentence is being watched and graded.”

“I don’t know you,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

With friends, he forgot about him and this conversation. He talked loudly in the corridor. They complained about deadlines and some teachers. Someone laughed too hard and he laughed with them. And then when the friend group was about to break, he saw him again

“Your laugh is different here,” the person said. “You agree a lot,”

“Why are you evaluating me?” He asked.

“Just observing. Like you.” The person replied.

It turns out that the person had shifted near to where he lived so there was a journey ahead for them, together. In the metro back home, he became even smaller. He had learned where to place his feet so they didn’t get stepped on. He knows how to tuck his elbows in so as not to touch anyone. His eyes have learned to avoid contact without seeming afraid. He held the pole with two fingers, aware of the dirtiness it carries.

“You disappear so meticulously ,” the man said, following him to the metro and standing like a reflection near the dark window. “Like magic.”

The man’s shoes were scuffed. His shirt was clean unlike his. And he did not touch the pole. He was supposed to be new in his class or so he thinks.

“Don’t,” he said, almost inaudible. A woman nearby looked at him, then away.

“Your voice is so low here,” the man continued. “You swallow your words. You become so careful. I don’t see the chin.”

He stared at the station map. Blue lines, red circles. He counted stops. When the train lurched, he braced himself and the man did not sway. When the doors opened, the man stepped aside to let people pass, though no one acknowledged him. They both remained silent throughout the rest of their journey and got down together at the next station.

At the shop, he became very polite. He thanked too much. He smiled with teeth he didn’t show elsewhere. He let the shopkeeper overcharge him because correcting felt like confrontation and confrontation is something he prefers to avoid, at least when he is not at home.

He nodded to the prices and the man laughed. “You nod like it costs nothing.”

When he reached for his wallet, his hands shook but it was too late. The shopkeeper slid the change back without any comment.

In the auto, he negotiated very badly. He started firm but then he folded. He stared at passing walls painted with phone numbers, graffiti and fading gods.

“You started with a spine,” the man said, on the edge of the seat . “Then you settle for speed.”

The driver spat. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.

The man leaned closer. “You became a different man for five rupees.”

Was there anything he could say? No. He just wanted this shared ride to end. He was already thinking of ways to avoid this because he did not want this to become a daily. Very few of the things in the modern world that are not constantly evaluated are oneself or so he thought. He did want to preserve that.

At home, he was quieter still. He answered questions with neutral tones. He did not bring any of his opinions to the table. All opinions are left out by the door with his shoes.

The man had gone separate ways just after the daunting auto ride. But something in him wanted that man to be there so he tried to mimic him.

“You make yourself small for blood, " he mimics his voice.

During dinner, his mother asked about college. He said, “Fine.” His father asked about his academics. He said, “Okay.”

The next day with friends, he was loud again. He felt like every silence demanded a joke. He had learned what made them laugh and he kept repeating it as much as he could.

“You rehearse,like you perform generosity.” the man said, sitting cross-legged on the table in the café.

A friend clapped him on the back. “You’re on fire today.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Today.” He laughed too hard and spilled coffee. He apologized three times. No one noticed that the man’s shoes left no ring on the table.

With her, he tried to be honest. He always worried about losing her. He was still not sure which part of him she liked so he chose his words carefully. He told her things that he thought she liked. He did not tell her about the man.

“You edit so much of your life. You bring the safe pieces.” The man said, standing by the tree near the bench while she slept on his lap. He watched her breathe. He liked the way her hair fell across her face. He wanted to tell her so many things but he always felt this or that would make her go away. The man did not sit near. He never did.

Online, he was articulate and brave in comment boxes. He wanted to stand out. He wanted to have an opinion. The Internet did not demand for his shoes to be removed and so the opinions stayed with him. He posted photos cropped to angles that suggested he had a life that he did not.

“You are loudest when no one can interrupt. Are you showing them which version you prefer or what they prefer….again?”

There were days when the man did not appear. Contrary to his beliefs, he waited for the man’s interruption and he felt disappointed when it did not come.

Then there were also the days when the man appeared at the worst possible times. Where he prayed he did not. In a presentation, when his voice grew confident and his hands stopped shaking, the man spoke loudly from the bench and said, “Borrowed confidence. You should return it later.” In an argument, when his anger finally rose, the man said, “Careful. This one leaves marks.”

He tried to catch the man lying. He tried to ask him questions with answers that only he could check.

“What’s my favorite color?” he asked, walking with him.

The man shrugged. “Today?”

“What did I eat for breakfast?”

“Enough,” the man said.

“Where were you born?”

The man smiled. “After you.”

He then noticed things. Things like the man never carrying anything. That he never paid. That he never spoke to anyone else. That he knew what he knew before him.

Once, he deliberately left a room mid-sentence just to see if the man would follow. The man was already in the next room. “You walk like this,” the man said, mimicking his gait.

He did try to get rid of him. By ignoring him, the man spoke louder.

“Labels are like furniture,” the man said, lying on the floor. “You can rearrange them as you want.”

“Why me?” he asked.

The man rolled onto his side. “Because you keep changing rooms and you know it.”

On a rainy evening, when he had finally accepted that the man would be with him, they were stuck under a shop awning. Both of them watched people hurry past each other. Each one with a version of themselves.

“Tell me which one you want to keep,” the man said.

He thought of his chin in class. His shrinking in the metro. His nodding at the shop. His folding at home. His jokes with friends. His edited life with her. His courage online.

“I don’t know,” he said.

The man looked satisfied. “That’s the only honest answer you have.”

That night, he dreamt of mirrors that showed him his and the man’s face. In the morning, he woke up with a decision. He went to college and raised his chin. He went to the metro and held the pole with his whole hand. He corrected the shopkeeper. He negotiated without folding at all. He spoke at home without practicing. He told a friend he was tired. He told her something he wanted.

In the evening, alone in his room, he said, “Say something.”

The man stood by the door. “Which one is this?”

“I don’t know,” he said again but his voice did not tremble.

The man smiled, “Good.”

If I am many, adjusting and incomplete, then that is not a failure. Because that, too, is me.