(Continued from below)
Something changed. I could sense her presence; I could sense
her absence; I could sense her presence in her absence. For no apparent reason,
a whiff of her perfume—up until then just another scent in a city that was an
assault on the olfactory senses—made fleeting, surreal appearances; when she did actually walk past, I felt a jolt in
my insides, my limbs knotting in tension; when she smiled, I smiled too, but
fractionally later than usual—I had to keep telling myself to act normal.
Stranger still, when she came in the nights, she behaved
like nothing had transpired between us. We continued to speak as usual—she with
her coffee mug, I with my chipped tea-cup— discussing our days, our lives and
our ideas. Truth be told, nothing happened that night: nothing tangible, even
remotely momentous.
I never stared at her in the manner I did that night.
Sometimes, however, I let my eyes linger on her for longer than usual, hoping
to gather a reaction of some sort. I never got one, not once in all those following
weeks.
*
We once spoke about dreams. I spoke about the changing face
of my nightmares. As a child and a young adult, they were full of ghastly
images, gory fates for loved ones. More recently, my nightmares seemed to be
less dream-like, less direct; they were non-linear and plot-less, but far more
powerful; subtle and lethal, they never failed to hit me where it hurt the
most.
For instance, I
wanted to tell her, consider the dream I
had last week. I didn’t say it, not because she was saying something in
response to what I had said previously and it was rude to intervene, but
because I couldn’t bring myself to talk of my dreams.
… What do you mean less direct?, she was asking me.
Previously, I said, I would have dreamt of getting run over
by a bus—my stomach would lurch as I sensed the bus near; I would emerge from
sleep, screaming and kicking like a baby.
And now?
And now?, I ask pausing to buy time,
Now, I want to say, I can only watch from a distance, watch me wither, but not die. Like
the headmaster in the movie I watched repeatedly in my youth, I can only stare
helplessly at a situation I can neither comprehend nor resolve.
“Now”, I lie instead, I dream of dying in pieces. For
instance, I dream I die like my friend—Daood, the Dhobi— slowly, painfully,
coughing his way to death, unable to get rid of the wretched beedi that’s his Rajdhani-ticket to heaven. He always slept with a half-burnt beedi
in his mouth, he died with a half-burnt beedi in his mouth … One day, he slept
and never awoke. But he is in heaven now, in God’s hands.
I see a palette of
images, seguing into each other.
Sometimes you walk
past me—deliberately, slowly— you turn to face me briefly, but there’s no
glimmer of recognition, no familiar smile.
Sometimes, as you look
over my shoulder when I make my tea, my elbow brushes against your breast and I
look at you, but nothing comes off it.
Sometimes, you pull me close by the scruff of
my collar, so close I can smell the coffee in your breath, and as I stare into
your eyes, I realize I am no longer the man next to you, but actually a few
feet away, watching you lunge passionately at the pretty young thing who comes
over every so often. Someone is laughing, I cannot tell who.
I have dreamt of wearing space-suits and walking in space
for much of my life, she said, I don’t think it means anything.
*
You may laugh when I say this, but I have never raised a
finger on anyone in all my adult life: never beaten my wife, nor my children or
even the shy robber who once asked permission to steal.
She came home very late one night, clinging to a pretty boy
like a creeper. For a long while, they were in their car, he was at the wheel.
In the dim light of an insipid moon, I caught fragments of his face: long, thick
hair that tumbled over his forehead; big, black glasses that hid his eyes; a
lit cigarette that he held lazily in his free hand, one that seemed to contain
more than mere tobacco; with his other hand, he stroked her hair easily. He was
what she would call an intellectual.
They seemed to talk
for what seemed like hours; ever so often, they would move closer and the
darkness would envelope their silhouettes: my mind dared not think what
transpired in those moments; the wind picked up, then went still; the moon
disappeared behind the adjacent apartment, the skies grew darker.
Finally, I heard a series of horns and some laughing. I
ambled out and opened the gate. She barely looked at me as they drove past to
her empty parking spot. I closed the gate. Something within my ears grew
chilly, my saliva tasted metallic, my stomach felt heavy. As they walked, his
arm around her waist, I walked up to them. I could smell alcohol and perfume
and deodorant—their body odours seemed to have merged.
You cannot go up to her flat, I said in an even tone,
looking at him.
For a second, they didn’t seem to notice, so lost were they
in their own bubble. And then, he looked at me—in the faint light of the
basement’s only zero-watt, his perfect jaw contorted in confusion, then broke
into a warm half-smile. Her initial surprise gave way to anger.
What? she asked.
Your friend, I said flatly, cannot go up.
Have you gone mad?,
she snapped in a manner I had never before seen her do. There was more than a
hint of condescension in her tone.
In a fit of righteous delirium, I kicked him where it hurt
the most. And, as he bent over, his hands over his balls, I punched him across
his head. He was knocked out cold, lying flat on his back. I turned to find her
mouth wide open – she was screeching soundlessly, tears streaming down her face.
I held her hand tightly and said, first softly, then, as she
struggled to find her voice, increasingly loudly: What do you think you are
doing? What do you think you are doing?
Her silence provoked me, her helplessness made me want to
hurt her more. She tried to walk away, but I followed her, never letting go of
her hand, mouthing the same words. I wanted an answer, a response. Her words,
however, seemed to inhabit another universe, failing to respond to her summons.
Stop, she finally managed to shriek. Her lips pouted
and quivered, her tears had wiped her cheek clean.
I turned and sprinted. I scaled the gate and ran into the
lane that led to main-road. My footsteps echoed, a cat’s brilliant eyes
streaked across the darkness. As I reached the empty main-road and sped into
dark patches interspersed with neon-islands, I raised my arms out wide and was
awash in the pleasant chill of the pre-dawn air.
Under a setting moon, my madness evaporated.
*
When I had returned from my run, they had both gone. The car
was still there, however. I packed my belongings and left before dawn crept.
*
Nothing matters. In
the beginning, with her, nothing mattered. Then, after the strange
night, nothing mattered. With time, even the pains of nothingness
dissolve, leaving behind nothing: no traces, just an inertial numbness.
I moved across the city, to watch over another apartment: it
is quieter and smaller. I avoid people’s eyes and make conversation only if
forced to. I go into the main town once every six months, to catch the bus back
to my village. Otherwise, I stick to one lane: the one that borders my new
apartment.
Every now and then, down my lane, a man maybe twenty years
older than I, makes an appearance. In some ways, we are the same age: time ceased
to exist for him some decades ago. He is thin and tall, much like a lamp-post
with gangly limbs. He slings a sloth-bag around his shoulder, wears a long,
faded kurta. He always looks clean and the little hair he has—all
white-- possesses a sense of order that would make Nature proud.
Standing at the corner of my lane, he makes speeches to
families of pigs that waltz by, passers peeing on the wall, their backs turned
to him, and gossiping auto-drivers; the sole person who notices him is Shiva,
the gudangadi owner, who turns on his mobile speakers to full volume
every time the man begins to talk.
The old man is a captivating speaker, his style fluent, his voice
modulations precise, arguments crisp. He speaks of everything, but almost
always returns to the Chief Minister and his sycophantic ways—he accuses him of
constantly pandering to the “mad woman” in Delhi. Like a dog, he would
bark, this Devraj Urs follows Nehru’s daughter.
He speaks of everything and yet conveys nothing.
I listen in often, sitting on my hunches by my gate and
paying close attention to his lips for otherwise he would be lost in the din
caused by the blaring music. When he’s done, he pauses to soak in the non-existent
applause, smiling triumphantly at nothing in particular.
He’s made his peace with nothing.
I dream of space-walking a lot nowadays. I don’t think it
means anything though.
*
Concludes
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