She looks into my eyes.
I lower my face, search for answers on the ground.
I don't want the responsibility.
This unspoken guilt is enough for me.
She waits patiently.
I prolong my quest to eternity.
Denying acknowledgement of her sight.
Acquiescence is not part of my life.
Silence begs to be excused for a while.
She cries.
I hand over my handkerchief.
I raise my eyes from the paperback to watch her take the vacant seat across me. Too many bracelets, I notice. Metal nudges metal gently as she rearranges her orange-coloured skirt almost playfully. I hear a wind chime in some other time, some other space in my mind. Gypsy, I say to myself. The train jerks into life and starts a slow locomotion that begins to rhyme with my heartbeat. I watch her from behind the safety of the book. Safety from what? Before the question is formed in my head instinct takes over and makes the choice for me. The book rises an inch or two in my hand to hide my face from eyes downwards completely.
She sits still watching the concrete world outside blur into a pulsating mosaic as the train gathers speed. I try to look down at the page open before me. Each line takes three times the energy and time than before to read. Words suddenly seem lonely. Meaning disassociates itself from the dried ink on the pages and floats somewhere in a vacuous world between her and me. Ten minutes pass slowly, meaninglessly. With each minute comes a strange sense of foreboding that fills up my being. Damn gypsy, I say.
Some say that when faced with certain death on battle fields a soldier can display a delirious courage which isn’t courage at all but an irrational surrendering to the inevitability. I close my book and place it on the seat next to mine. The coach is largely empty. Her sitting across me cannot be an accident. I look down at my combat boots for a long while before I raise my eyes again to look at her. She looks straight back at me. I hold her gaze. Or does she hold mine? I find it hard to differentiate.
Two jet black irises from underneath long dark eyelashes blink once as if in warning. A tumultuous hurricane hangs in her eyes precariously, ready to be unleashed with abandon at the world – without remorse, without mercy. This is no goddess of the rainbow, something tells me; this is the goddess of stormy seas and sunken treasures. There is the ruthlessness of a killer in those eyes but they are not a killer’s eyes. I see a poignant emotion in them – a sparkling, victorious pain that a woman giving birth would have in her eyes. A pain that was pregnant with joy. She raises her right hand to smooth down an unruly strand of hair that doesn’t exist. Metal against metal again, the wind chimes begin to sound inside my head. I forget to be civil. I forget the courtesy of the smile. I stare at her. Without shame.
Then she smiles at me. There is a hint of understanding held between those lips. Can she read my mind, I wonder. Does she know the emotions crashing like giant waves on the seashore of my heart? As if to emphasize her well-defined gesture a train passes by our window in a thunderous roar, shaking the very earth under its many a hundred iron wheels. Time stops and space recedes into the far corners of the coach. I hear my heart beat from outside my body. The air between us fills up with a rhythmic beating of my throbbing heart. I open my mouth to speak. Something. Anything. A raspy ‘hi!’ escapes my throat and leaps towards her as if to possess her consciousness with its underlying meaning thereby making all further pleasantries unnecessary. ‘Hello!’ she says. Her voice breaks from her being like a large iceberg and falls into the cold sea of my soul. I am jolted back into life. The iceberg starts melting inside of me. I start to choke with a rising feeling of displacement. My thoughts are disappear into the void of nothingness. A certain blindness of mind overtakes my body. The moments become pure sensations. Touch, taste, smell, sight and sound. She looks at me as if in anticipation of my next move. A provoking playfulness gleams over her face.
My left hand fumbles in search of the book lying by my side. She is still looking straight at me with amusement growing on her face like a sunrise in winter. It lights up her eyes, her high cheek bones, her aquiline nose. The roar of the waves turns into a thunderstorm in my ears simultaneously. It’s too late for me to escape into the book. Or to the back of the coach. Or to the far end of the world. An unfamiliar kind of certainty places its iron clad fist around my heart. Do I wish to escape this joyous pain? This visceral delight veiled in the mystery of a world I have vaguely visited in my dreams? My heart answers in negative instantly and my mind is in a limbo to offer an alternative.
The coffee-boy slips into our world unnoticed. ‘Would you like some coffee, sir?’ I hear his voice though I hardly turn to see where it came from. ‘Two, please.’ I say without hesitation. I offer her a cup which she takes graciously, thanking me. The unnaturalness of our actions doesn’t go unnoticed in my head. But the sensation of familiarity, a familiarity that is hard to put a finger on but still lingers with the power of a trance, is overwhelming.
The train changes tracks with a deliberate jolt. I imagine the sparks flying as iron wheels slide over iron tracks. The grating noise of metal on metal reshapes my vision into a memory. A boy of ten stands on a platform reluctantly waving farewell to his family. His heart is heavy and eyes full. There is a stranger standing next to him whom he calls his ‘aunt’ but has ambivalent feelings about. He is afraid and lonely, and is trying to put up a brave face. As the train pulls out of the station slowly groaning he hears the faint sound of a wind chime from a faraway place. Or was he imagining it? The aunt tugs at his arm signalling its time to leave. He closes his eyes shut to the world outside of him. Two large tear drops slide down his cheeks slowly and hit the dusty platform floor as pounding drills that were meant to burn holes into the core of the earth so that the hot magma inside her heart could be released into the open wounds of his young soul. He turns around and walks behind his aunt into a world without his parents – into a world peopled with strangers who spoke in stranger tongues, observing him as a curiosity. With a single step he turns from a little child to a circus clown. And the drills pound the earth silently. Through the nights. Through the years. And as he lies in the dark of his room he remembers with gratitude a face in a school uniform smiling at him from across the table during lunch breaks. And he remembers the distance between then and now, he remembers the sneaking coldness that took over the future as present fumbled to find a sure-footing. He remembers a recurring dream that allowed a young boy to keep on believing in dreams. All this time was this where it was all leading him to? Sitting across a stranger who has laid claim to his consciousness as her inviolate right?
“You can talk to me, you know. That would make our journey interesting.” Her voice is reassuring, her tone pitched to an effortless command. It breaks off my reverie. I smile, for once, as one should – without effort, without the gesture overshadowed by feelings of obligation, and lean forward unknowingly. A faint smell of fresh lilies welcome me. “Of course, I can,” I reply. I am ready to take my first step out of my dreams. The crushing wheels of the train spin relentlessly taking her and me forward to some unfathomable future which at the moment holds no significance to me. For this moment is complete with her in it.
The morning weather, I remember, was particularly pleasant that day. I was walking down the side street, picking up lilies and lilacs from the shoreline of my fantasies, heading towards the City Hall for a public engagement when it happened. I tripped and fell. Face down.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Is that really you, Mr. D?” I hear a delicate feminine voice exclaim in my ears. “Is that really YOU?!” She repeats before I lift myself up from the ground with the dignity found in gentlemen of certain social standing after falling flat on their faces in public places.
“Oh My God! I must be dreaming!” The delicate voice coos again. I try to focus on the origin of the sound while brushing off dust and invisible particles of embarrassment from my clothes. Discreetly, of course. A knee-length black skirt comes into view followed by a black top without collar or sleeves. Two tiny eyes sparkle at me from a rather demure young face. I am reminded of a cat that has spotted a rodent on a hungry day.
She gushes forth, bringing in an intoxicating aroma which I deem is how money smells when it transforms into little bottles of perfume. “Oh, but it IS you! I can’t believe this, Mr. D. I’m a big fan of your work.” My right palm is grabbed at, and finds itself tucked neatly between her two tiny hands. Tiny they might be but they sure were strong if one can judge such things simply by the vigorous shaking my right arm was being subjected to. I admire her pale green nail polish for a moment before the shaking gets more enthusiastic and breaks the spell. What was that she just said?
”A big fan?!” It is my time to exclaim.
”Oh, C’mon, Mr. D. I’ve seen your pictures! Hundreds of them. And I know it’s you. But if you are going to pretend it’s not you just to discourage this meeting I can understand. I’d be heartbroken though.” She’s still pumping my hand – with the kind of generous vitality ‘big fans’ display on bumping in to the object of their adoration on pleasant mornings. I like her face. It’s quite symmetrical and all. But her child-like enthusiasm and girlish charm fascinate me more. And, of course, the look in her eyes — Ah! The kind that makes toils of the worst sort seem worthwhile.
”I want you to know this.” Her quaint voice, trembling with ricocheting emotions reaches out again and beats against my ear drums while they are still buzzing from the headlong fall. “You are a genius, Mr. D. A genius! I have read all your books. Every one of them! “
I remain silent. Not because I want to discourage her or dampen her enthusiasm. When your brain feels like it has been sandbagged out of its secure place and little bells are ceaselessly ringing in your ears and you have just found yourself in a horizontal position on the road while vertical is what decent folks must strive for, it isn’t quite right to expect instant or sane answers. Upstanding citizenry finds a surreptitious silence befalling their very beings on such occasions.
”Where are you off to, Mr. D? Would you please, please have a cup of coffee with me? I mean, this is pure destiny. Or how could I have just bumped into you on a side street? Please, Mr. D. Spare five minutes for me. For destiny!”
I figure sitting down is definitely a good idea. A coffee is sure to help me regain my composure and feel myself again. And five minutes is something I can definitely spare. “Of course, Miss…? Mrs.?” I fumble with grace.
”Oh, I’m so sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I’m so clumsy, Mr. D. It’s Miss. Miss Be.” Suddenly as if waking up from a trance she lets go of my hand, takes a step back leaving a civilized distance between us and offers me a shy smile. “If possible I’d like to get a picture taken with you. If you will allow me, that is.”
I smile reassuringly at the thought of a chair and coffee. My body and soul badly need immediate life support like a patient suffering from serious malnutrition needs IV fluids. “Shall we go and get coffee then?” The question is more in the manner of a pleasantry for I am already leading her into a small cafeteria nearby.
”You are such a gentleman, Mr. D. Such a wonderful human being. Is it true what the newspapers say, Mr. D? About all those barbaric things they did to you while being a war prisoner? Did they really hang you by your thumbs? But, hell, what is more important. You fought for our country. Were you writing back then too? When you were a soldier? Will you show me the bullet wound on your legs? I mean, it’s OK if you don’t want to. I’m so sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m just so excited, Mr. D. To actually see you in flesh and blood.”
”Here we are, Miss. Be! It’s coffee time.” I hold the door open for her as we enter the cafeteria. I can sense her excitement breaking the usual banks of her feminine reserve and flooding the five minutes now before us like an avalanche. Between drinking coffee and her excitement, will I get time to regain composure, I wonder.
We take our seats near the glass panel overlooking the street and ask for coffee. My legs are relieved as my body weight finds firm ground on my hind-side.
”How did it feel to spend six years in a Tibetan monastery, Mr. D? I mean, cut off from the rest of the world. Away from everything you have grown up with and have known? Family, friends… I can’t think of being away from my home for more than a week. Not even on a holiday, Mr. D. That was when you climbed Mount Everest, isn’t it? While in the monastery? Was it the war that made you choose to become a monk? All the blood and gore, killing and dying? Is that it? It is understandable, you know. War can really scar the human soul. Especially a sensitive soul like your’s. It is understandable.”
The coffee arrives. I eye it longingly before succumbing to gentlemanly behavior and address my companion, “Well, Miss Be…” Before I can say any more a large, well-clad young man comes rushing through the cafeteria door, a searching glance running across the length and breadth of the place, and finds what it was looking for in the person sitting across me.
”Be!” The stranger exclaims and comes across to our table in short, swift strides. “There you are, my dear! I have been looking all over for you. You got me worried, you know.” The look of pure relief on his face changes to straying suspicion as his consciousness finally divines my physical presence at the table. “Who are YOU?” His voice changes from the gentle to the guttural in seconds. I sense the menace behind it but thankfully it is well harnessed for the time being. Or so I tell myself.
”This is Mr. D, Pi! Mr. D! The war veteran, a true patriot, a monk, the conqueror of Mount Everest, and the greatest writer in the world today! Not to say, a perfect gentleman too!” She looks at me demurely. I gulp hard a generous dollop of saliva. The man Miss Be was referring to as Pi looks at me for a long moment, then looks at Miss Be. “Will you excuse us for a moment, my dear? I and Mr. D need to have a short talk. You stay right here and finish your coffee. I’ll be back to get you real quick. OK, honey?” She nods in affirmative, and then giggling a bit adds, “While at it you can ask for his autograph, Pi!” Pi motions me to follow him and walks towards the counter – that’s as far one can go from the table I was sitting at while still being inside the cafeteria.
”Who are you?” He asks facing me. He is taller than me, I notice, at least by a couple of inches. “Well, I’m…” I fumble again, this time without much grace. A rather big man towering over you with his hands on his hips – a particularly aggressive posture – is not a conducive sight for quick thinking in sedate souls.
“Anyway it doesn’t matter. I am just glad I found Be.” He gives a quick sideways glance at the girl sipping coffee and a loving smile spreads over his rather non-genial face. “I am just so glad she is safe. You know, she is not quite right in her head. Persistent flights of fantasy, the doctor says. She imagines things, you know. We don’t let her out alone usually. But once in a while she gives us – me and my mom – the slip. I hope she wasn’t any trouble to you. Once again, thank you very much. Now I will take her home.” His voice is gentle again. I find great comfort in that.
“Mmm… by the way, about Mr. D…” I bring myself to speak but Pi is already at the coffee table helping his sister up.
”How was it to walk on the Moon, Mr. D?! Did the President give you medal for that?” Miss Be asks as they pass me by the counter. Pi gently but firmly guides her out of the cafeteria. “Mr. D? Will you write to me sometime?” She stands at the door for a hesitant second then walks out with Pi into their private world. There is a faint trace of mockery in her voice. Or is it amusement? Or maybe I am just imagining things. I stand at the counter undecided between the untouched coffee and a compulsively growing thought – Where can I find Mr. D?
Approximately 3000 meters high above land where life is made better and worse at the same time by Man I have found a certain quiet place to live by myself. On certain nights though people crowd my consciousness like moths around a flame and a strange hope, that I often consider dead, awakens and flutters around my heart. My cape of freedom gets caught for a while in the barbed-wire fence of civility I have dodged all my life. Last evening the twilight brought along two girls in halter-tops and back packs. Lesbians, I said to myself, when they walked up to my shack, and I liked them instantly – two midgets in a world obsessed with 6-foot tall, pouting myths. They were both dark, both short, and both uncomfortable in themselves. One had the page-boy haircut and was built like an adolescent boy – lanky, and disproportionate in form. The other had breasts that stood up in cultivated defiance inviting you to look at them. The rest of her looked emaciated; like her body has decided to shrink in instead of growing out at puberty. The defiance of her breasts seemed justified.
She’s holding a map in her hand. Under the kerosene lamp the blood-red of her nail polish looks dark and dull. Nail polish is an anomaly in a hut. Like dildos in a nunnery. But then strangers are anomalies. In our heads. To our known notions of what is. That is why they are strangers. Like fog their strangeness permeates into my soul. I watch it sullenly. It is dark and dull. I struggle to escape the looming sense of dreariness. My eyes, like homing pigeons, go back to her breasts. They have a confident air about them. Unlike the girls I notice. I picture them making love – these two strangers, naked before each other in their uncomfortable selves. The picture looks cute; cute being how I describe little babies making gargling noises in joy. I like babies. And I liked these two visitors in twilight cause I saw them making little gargling noises in joy as they made love to each other in my mind. Their bodies move in jerky slow motion. Hesitant yet hungry souls in search of an inordinately beautiful dream to share. I wondered what their bodies said to each other while their souls were in the throes of passion. All apologies? Like Curt Cobain sang? What a shame that would be.
‘Hello! I’m Cecelia,” she says – the girl with defiant breasts. I smile without curiosity. I notice the pimple scars on her face. “This is Caitlin.” I nod at Caitlin. She’s standing behind Cecelia, partially hiding herself from me – and generally from the world, I believe. “Are you lesbians?” I ask. “No. We are sisters,” says Caitlin with emphasis, and disappears behind Cecelia completely. I close my eyes tightly.
One.
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Ten.
Ten seconds are good enough to detach from enforced realities. You just need to know how, and keep practicing it. Cecelia and Caitlin might have stayed with me, shared my dinner and snuggled up to each other in the only extra mattress I keep, before heading up the hills. I don’t remember. Things that don’t interest me are not worth remembering, that’s what I believe. Why waste mental space and energy storing things that mean nothing to you. Childlike should one’s approach to life be. In intent and purpose seek a benevolent bliss, I tell myself every morning. In the night I go to bed with a smile and the daylight still intact in my heart. Caitlin and Cecelia, you could have been lesbians. Your strangeness would then have been so special; so tender and so fragile. So much a stance against the morality of the masses, so much a tribute to courage and love. Ah! Your presence would have filled my hut and my heart with so much beauty. What a night of hope it would have been. But you were just sisters – products of a chance relationship, uncomfortable still, and you broke through the 3000 meter barrier I built between us to give me that news! There can be no peace in this world, I reckon uneasily.
I hear a knock on my door. The door bell is broken. I haven’t fixed it. Why should I? I am not expecting anyone. Not anyone I can think of. Wait. Could it be? Is she coming back? She did leave in a huff. Could have changed her mind. Haste never is good, I used to tell her. She said I was just lazy. I guess she was partly right. But it evens out. If she was right half the time, she was wrong the other half. That’s how it all works out. Nobody is right all the time. Maybe she realizes it now. That kind of thing happens. When given enough time to think, people see their mistakes. And people do make mistakes. It is part of being human, isn’t it? That’s where the whole idea of second chances come in. That’s how we correct our mistakes. If we want to, that is. Do we take them – the second chances? All of us? I don’t think so. But I have a higher level of faith in my girl than I have in humanity as a whole. She will take that second chance. The time to think. So maybe she thought a bit. Or maybe a lot. You can think a little or a lot in any given time. And she saw she shouldn’t have left in her typical ‘Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff till I blow your house in’ kind of way. So she felt remorse and has decided to mend fences. She wants to say she is sorry. That we shouldn’t have split. But then she is headstrong. She is the kind of girl who would want me to apologize even when she is the one at fault. You know that kind, don’t you? It has something to do with their ego. Or absolute lack of it. I remember reading something of that sort in one of those ‘Man, Woman, & Relationships’ book. Pretty pretentious that lot is. How they make suckers of the common man!
One thing is for sure. She ain’t getting off easy this time around. I am sick of these temper tantrums. It gets on your nerves after a point, you know. I mean, in the beginning it is cute and all. She throws a fit, walks out and you stand there thinking, ‘It’s OK. This is what they do. Take a deep breath and just go and get her back home. Buy her something she wants if that works.’ It’s once again the thrill of the chase for you and the rush of being chased for them. Lovers become a couple on their first date once again in that brief time span. Romantic, right? But after thirty odd encores it is no more fun or OK. Especially when you have run out of new entreaties and the money to buy ‘welcome-back-gifts.’ Maybe she sees what I see. That is why she is back. She isn’t stupid or anything. She understands and she knows. Clever little fox she is, I admit. I remember this one time when we were out for a proper dinner in one of those restaurants where even the waiters seem to dress better than you, and we couldn’t get a place to sit. So we stood there at the reception with a dozen other people; all of us pretending as if we were not really praying for the bastards inside to eat real quick so that we can get on with our dinners. Out of the blue my lady’s shapely knees seemed to give in and before I could say ‘What the Hell!’ she was on the plush carpeted floor making a bed out of it. A kind of civilized ‘ooh,’ ‘aah,’ and ‘Oh my God!’ rose from the assembled crowd in tandem and had turned into a restrained murmur as the restaurant manager walked in. Just as he kneels down beside her my lady opened her eyes and wiped her brow in a proper lady-like gesture.
“Are you all right, Madam?” The manager’s voice showed a respectful and appropriate concern. I wondered if that tone would ever cut ice when proposing a girl.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” says my lady as she gestures the manager to come closer to her. Then she whispers something into his ears. As I watch, the manager’s face seemed to reflect all the things his voice had just a moment ago. He looked at her for one more second before assisting her back on two legs. My lady smiles apologetically at the waiting crowd. The Manager escorts us to the dining room door. Another murmur rises from our dozen odd compatriots-in-misery but does not sound so civilized this time around.
“Oh, ladies and gentlemen, please accept my deepest apologies but this lady here is pregnant and as you saw needs immediate attention. With your kind permission, allow me to take her inside and help her settle into a chair.” Having said that, he ushered us to a table from which he dexterously removed a small sign that read ‘Reserved.’ After he had asked my companion thrice if he could get her a doctor, an offer she firmly declined thrice, and left us promising to return with our dinner in five minutes or less, I turned to my lady and beamed. Clever little fox, this one, I said to myself, smiling broadly at the people around with genuine pride.
The knocking is a bit impatient on the door now. Haste makes waste and often is the root cause of worry, I’d always said to her. But love is not only blind but many a times I have found it to be deaf too. I could have been talking to a wall. She just goes ahead and does what she feels like doing at any given moment. ‘Be spontaneous,’ she’d say. Spontaneous, my foot! Who’s waiting impatiently outside the door knocking to make amends now, Ms. Spontaneous?! Hah! It would be a real pleasure to see her sorry-faced pride now. Wait. That knock somehow seems to lack the grace of a ladylike request for entry into someone’s house. It sounds more angry than apologetic. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s the landlord. Those people are animals, I say. Not an inch of humanity in the whole length and breadth of their bodies. Like ghosts they haunt you till they get their green. Or could it be the neighbor who always wants to know if I’m fine? Pesky fellow that one. Can’t stand him. He can literally chase you down a block or two just to check with you if you are fine. I mean, people with such over-enthusiastic concern about others are real pain-in-the-you-know-where. But it’s a bit early for him to be up and about. It could be… Mmm…Who could it be? I am not expecting anyone really… I mean, no one has come around in a while… The doorbell died a long time ago, you know… can’t think who it could be… I’m not expecting anyone… the doorbell, it hasn’t been fixed…
Is there a knock at my front door? I thought I heard something.
The Police Inspector’s gaze rested on my face inquiringly as I looked at the three items displayed in front of me. There was no mistaking them. A wrist watch, a single shoe and a wedding ring. Mercilessly scathed by fire and scorched by its fury. Yet I recognized all three.
The stainless steel of the watch now displayed a smoky pallor with bluish-green patches. The intense heat had shattered the glass and the hands had stopped exactly 33 minutes past two. That very moment time had frozen in eternity for the wearer of it. The press reported that the deafening roar of the bomb couldn’t foreshadow the stillness that followed. 137 lives were silenced forever in it.
I picked up the wedding ring gingerly. It still showed the first letter of a name etched on it. The rest of the letters had melted off in the heat. Once a stamp of undying love and affection, now it appeared to be a timeless testimony to a broken dream. The single shoe was said to have been found about a hundred meters away from the scene and hence had escaped fire’s savagery. Dry blood and glass splinters smeared the expensive leather as a repugnant stain on human decency that was reveling in its power to mock humanity publicly.
I remembered numbly that all these belonged to a man I used to call ‘Dad.’ Just two days back, as usual, he had gone to work wearing all the three.
“Don’t bury or burn me. It will only pollute the earth and air. When I die, just dump me in the sea. Let the fish have a grand feast!”
That’s what he would say when he spoke about death. Then he would laugh out loud, as if it were the biggest joke in the world.
Once he said to me, “Son, remember this. The day I’m dead you will find more of my enemies here than my friends.”
He waited for a minute or two as I tried to decipher the loaded sentence, then added, “Just to make sure I’m dead, buddy! Just to make sure I’m dead! ha…ha…ha…” The non-stop laughter followed as if on cue.
That was my dad. A man who laughed at life and death with equal magnanimity. Lived without rancor or spite.
My mother used to say that he was too lenient with his kids. That he was too carefree in life. Things like my grades, our family’s future, my sister’s friends, and our neighbor’s pettiness easily ruffled her. And maybe not in that order everyday.
Whenever he was out on a business trip or travelling, he’d call home every night. That was almost a religious practise. And his first question would not be, “What’s news?,” or “How are you guys?,” but “What worry’s your mother today?” That became a kind of family joke among us.
Once in a while mom would make all the right noises to show her disapproval at this but deep down I think she liked it. And slowly I came to realize why. It was my dad’s own way of stating the obvious – my mother was the centre of his universe, no matter where he was. She was the most important person in his life and in his house. He loved his kids a lot, but he loved his wife a lot more. That’s all.
I remember once my sister fought with my mother. In the heat of the moment, she said something really mean and stupid. I knew it was a mistake. She didn’t mean it. It was just an emotional outburst. But dad didn’t let it slide. He grounded her till she was ready to apologize to my mom. The rules of engagement were clear in the house. No one disrespected our mother. Not even him.
The man had class.
I don’t think he ever sat us kids down and taught us how to live or what is wrong and what is right. We just learnt watching him. Without even realizing it. He just lived as he wanted to. Happily, without losing a second on what was not important. Me and my sister, we just emulated him.
Sitting in a police station, looking at the only remains of my dad that police could find, I felt like a 5-year old at his school interview – helpless, lost and terribly scared. This was not how it was supposed to be - people did not walk into restaurants to get blown off in broad day light. People just don’t go to work one fine morning to never return home. People just didn’t disappear from your life leaving behind a charred shoe, a wristwatch and a wedding ring.
Why dad, why? Why you? Why us? A hundred questions screamed inside my head at the same time. This was not the world you told us about, dad. You said, in the end, good begets good. But how can I believe that now, dad? How can I believe that when I am to believe that the charred remains in my hand is my dad? As tears trickled down my cheeks, an elderly constable patted on my back and said, “He is now with God, son. Be brave. Your family needs you.” I knew the old man was being sincere but I felt like screaming back at him, “What my family NEEDS is my father! He cannot go away. Not now. Not like this! Please, not like this…” But the scream choked inside of me.
Walking back to the waiting cab, I looked again at the small plastic bag in my hand. A broken watch, a discolored wedding ring, and a charred shoe. This was all I had to show for a man who had lived for fifty-seven long years. A man who had lived and loved with all his heart. Who had plans for the coming Sunday and was looking forward to surprise my mother with a cruise on their 30th marriage anniversary. Everything that was his had gone up in a whiff of smoke. The blinding light has shred his life and dreams into a million little pieces that were now lost forever among the debris.
Suddenly it dawned upon me that dad’s last wish will remain unfulfilled. There will be no feast for the fish. I could see the look of terrible disappointment on his face. It was no longer possible to control the tears that welled in my eyes. It became harder to breathe. Pressing the plastic bag closer to my heart, I sunk deeper into the seat of the taxi.
“I love you.” she says coyly.
“Really?” I ask cynically.
“No. Not really.” Her frankness is endearing.
“Then why do you say so?” Now words come to me effortlessly.
“I thought it’ll make you happy.” She muses without a trace of guilt.
“Even if you knew it is a lie you were speaking.” I try to understand.
“You didn’t have to know that, you see.” Oh… so it’s now my fault.
“But you don’t really love me.” I try to make a point.
“That’s OK with me.” She misses it.
“I mean, if you don’t love me and tell me you love me you are lying, isn’t it?” Oops… I realise I said that once already.
“If I lie and it makes you happy, what’s wrong with it?” Her logic is beyond me.
“You force me to live a lie, that’s what’s wrong with it.” How could she miss such a simple thing!
“That’s only when you know it, right?” Now she’s starting to drive me crazy.
“But you know, isn’t it? You know that I’m living a lie. Doing things believing I am being loved by you. Aren’t you making a fool of me?” The answer to her indifference to the concept of truth and lie is as yet out of sight, I see.
“Isn’t it better to be a fool who’s happy than be wise but sad?” What? What does she mean!!!?
“You have no right to decide who I should be, lady. This is my life. And it should be my personal choice, isn’t it” I am no longer sure if she’s listening.
“Right! And you are one ungrateful bastard!” She stretches herself seductively on the king-size bed. My eyes take in her naked curves. They are pleasingly inviting.
I switch off the bad lamp. Running my hand over the smoothness of her skin, I remember it’s been two days since I left home – an important ‘business conference,’ that’s what I said. I make a mental note to call my wife first thing in the morning. Just an “I love you!” from me will make her day, I know. And, in situations such as this, avoid me the trouble of answering uncomfortable questions.
I stand watching her bra-less breasts rubbing themselves against the smoothness of her pink chiffon night gown. I want to lick my lips in anticipation but instead, considering the propriety of such an action, ask for a glass of water.
Bad move. The gentle warmth of her slender fingers brush against mine as she hands me a glass of ice cold water sending my mind racing once again over what lies hidden beneath that loose-fitting gown.
“With that cap and all, you look like one of those wandering, penniless, tourists one sees in this city all the time,” she says, sizing me up accurately, much to my chagrin. I don’t mind being seen as a wanderer or a tourist, but not a pauper. Especially not by as better-looking a woman as she.
“Well, m’am, you are right on all counts,” I say, trying to make light of the stab of insecurity I felt. “I wander a lot, am penniless and in a way, a tourist of sorts. So unless you are clairvoyant, I must say, you are a woman.” I wait for a moment to see if she gets the joke and then, laugh aloud.
“Of course, I am a woman!” she joins in the mirth, not sure what it is all about.
“Only they have such heightened sense of observation,” I add as a footnote, just to make for the ambiguity that could have prevailed instead of flattery. We both laugh some more.
“I charge 12000 rupees.” I wish she had bought up the topic a little later. A little gentler. I am not favorably disposed towards people who have money above moments of mirth on their mind.
“What would it include?” Yet I try to match her tone.
“Stay, with breakfast and dinner.”
“Suits me fine.”
“Would you like to see the room? We can discuss the details after that.” She is focused. “Sure.” I follow her upstairs through her living room. The curtains are all drawn and so heavy that a pale darkness hangs inside the house even in broad daylight. Involuntarily I extend my arms to shield myself against cobwebs that aren’t there.
The room is small – 7ft x 7ft (when one is delusional!), has a window and an attached toilet. A single cot, a ceiling fan, a few open racks on the wall (I hate them!) to be used as a showcase and a wardrobe just about complete it. I check the toilet. It’s do-able. Some toilets have the notoriety of having instantly stopped mother Nature from calling me, which kind of upsets the delicate balance of one’s body and mind. This one, as I said, is do-able; that is, with some extra effort on my part, all kinds of calls can be attended here, even if one has to close one’s eyes at certain aesthetic anomalies.
“Are you happy with what you see?,” she inquires smilingly.
I am more than happy with what I see but my peripheral vision sure does not include the botched-up architectural work I just witnessed. “Oh, I am…umm…I am most happy with what I see, Ms…?
“Call me Ms.Morris,” she smiles again. Dusky, delicious and so naturally desirable Ms.Morris. “So shall I explain to you a few things that help me ensure everybody here lives in harmony?”
“Yes, Ms.Morris.”
“If you smoke, please do it in the privacy of your own room and with your door closed. Do not throw the stubs out of the window or on the floor. Use an ashtray. Breakfast will be served at 8am and dinner at 8pm. You can use the microwave to heat it if you are late for either. But please do not make it a habit. You will have to have your laundry done outside. If you want our maid to do it for you, you will have to pay her extra. If you drink, please do not make a nuisance of yourself. You can borrow ice from the refrigerator but do remember to refill it. You can also take drinking water but that is all. Please do not touch anything else in there. They are off limits. While we do not recommend you entertain your friends inside the house, once in a while you may bring one or two people. But it must be strictly once in a while. And you will pay me rent before the 5th of every month and 3 months advance rent before you move in. You will give me 2 months notice before you vacate your room. If not, one month’s rent will be deducted from your advance.”
I have lost her somewhere between the end of the first sentence and the beginning of next. My eyes are transfixed on the gentle rising and falling of two ripe fruits of passion that are waiting for my hungry mouth.
“Are you listening to me?” Ms.Morris asks abruptly.
“Of course. I agree. After all, one has to maintain peace and harmony where so many strangers have to stay together, especially in a nice neighborhood like this.” I have no idea what I am agreeing too. Except what the future holds for me as a gift. A token of love, if I must. And yes, the wide-eyed possibility of watching her walk around in that gown every day, semi-naked underneath it. “By the way, Ms.Morris, can I see your hand? Just one of those things, you know. If our astrological houses allow a harmonious and prosperous stay together and all. You see, I believe in these things. Maybe you don’t. Just humor me. Please? Thank you.”
As her right hand rests comfortably in the palm of my left, I clasp it gently and look soulfully into her eyes. “The man you loved ran away before you delivered your love child. You have never seen him again?”
I wonder if she will recover from the shock of me having made a reference to one of the oldest and most guarded secrets of her lonely life. Her mouth opens to say something then remains open. She looks at me in a sort of unbridled admiration and awe, if there can be such an emotion. I speak for the next 30 minutes and she listens. And that becomes the norm.
That was years ago. Now Ms.Morris lives in the room she once rented out to me. I have been kind to her. As for me, well, I stay in the biggest bedroom in the whole bloody villa, with a swanky bathroom and all other trappings of luxury. With her daughter, Juliet, of course. We were married two years ago. Juliet and I, we had this whole thing worked out long before I walked into this house, you know. But poor Ms.Morris… She didn’t suspect a thing. And if you want to know the truth, her daughter proved far more greedy than her mother could ever be so it was just smooth sailing for me.
It’s time for curtain call.
The show is over. The stage is empty. So is the hall. It was wonderful while it lasted; now
I must move on.
My heart needs a moment with itself now. It needs to leave behind a silent farewell before it is ready to go home. Home, finally, is where we must all go.
Like every true performer, I too came on this stage with a secret hope. Something that I hold to myself like a little child clutches her favorite doll. Every time I have stepped on this stage, every time I have stepped under these arc lights, I have carried that secret hope inside of me. It is impossible to be a performer and not to do so.
Secretly, within me, I’ve hoped to weave magic on this stage. I have sought a performance that would grant my love immortality. I have hoped to create moments that lasted with you, within you… even long after I’m gone.
I have hoped to sweep you off your feet and carry you to the world that I own. That is mine alone.
To take you there and walk you through the streets and alleys that make for my heart and my soul. To show you the angels and fairies, the dragons, the druids and the beautiful people with whom I share my moments alone. So that when I am here no more, you will still carry within you a part of my wonderful world. And in doing so, you will carry a part of me within your soul. And long after my footsteps have stopped to echo on this stage, I would go on living in a million minds, in a million shapes.
Every time I stood here I have secretly hoped to conquer Death. And in doing so, transcend Time with my love.
So, under these stage lights, under your attentive eyes, I have died, again and again. I have died to give birth to characters that were worthy of living. I have dissolved and disappeared into thin air, so that the emptiness could be filled with the magic of our fantasies. On this stage, I have become nothing so that you could live through me – and be him – King of all that he sees, Master of his destiny, Lord of time, space and reality. I’ve died here so that we could live that impossible dream.
But now, the dream is over. The spell is broken. The magic is gone. You have left. Soon so will I. We will go back to the world where we came from. A world without dreams. Where druids and winged dragons will only be a part of children’s fairy tale. Where magic is a paid ticket show reserved for weekends. Where you will be you and I will be I, and everything I have to show will look meaningless and trifle even to your mind’s eye. But that is where we have to go. The world that we call our home. You and I.
Before I leave, for one last time, I will cast my eyes on the seat that you adorned. You were here, with me, just a while ago. My heart will ache for a moment, flutter in anticipation, but then let go. I know. Just like the vacant seat, now I too must stand alone. Without your petite form to hold, I see the chair lose it’s reason to exist. It’s now wood without meaning, waiting to fulfill a purpose; incomplete. In my dream, I see it accept the loss and kneel down to mourn. Empty and bare in your absence, now I too must learn to go on.
Farewell to you, my friend. You are loved. Know this even if we are forever lost in this lost as two drops in the vast ocean.
