Saturday, October 28, 2006 ||
8:16 AM ||
All it takes is a moment of resolve. I haven’t been planning it for long. I never plan things, you see.
I have been living here for quite long. Moving into this flat seven years back seemed a wise decision then. Never been much of a dreamer, but should admit that this abode looked all too good. I paint its walls a hue of blue, that make up for the real sky that I get to see very little. Just a tinge of a cloud could only make things better. Yeah, leave a dash of white up there near the ceiling. Great! They sneer when they see my bedroom – No beds? Whats wrong with you for Gawd’s sake? And I doze off on a mattress stashed with huge pillows that I carefully lay out in my no-beds room. The living room has cacti in small earthen pots on the windowsills that are locked; I hear them sigh all day and night. I get used to the silence that prevails in my kitchen, except for the occasional clattering of the cooking ware and the beeping of the microwave.
Slouched on the sofa, sometimes I think of my father lying in the emergency ward, and his wavering voice, as he clutches on to my palm, looking deep into my misty eyes. I am not sure what he sees in me, but I sense disappointment. A few hard breaths later, he is gone, and the coldness of his body seems strange to me. Someone tells me it isn’t the end of the world, but had it ever begun in the first place?
And then I think of her, who was much more than a friend. I sit beside her, as she swoops off a damp clay pot off the wheel, painfully explaining to me the intricacies of the skill. Soil taints her long fingers and she brushes aside a long strand of hair that threatens to caress her cheeks. She glances at me with a fond rage at having thus barged into her small world, and in the night, with her lips brushing against my chest, murmurs that this cant go on for ever. Let’s part when we love each other the most; let this craving for each other remain as it is…She walks out of my room, leaving her lipstick smudges on my sheets, her sweat merged with mine.
I should admit that life has been treating me rather fairly. Ups and downs, they tell me, are a part of the game. But when it’s all too plain, it starts getting into you after a while. Of late, I have started to yearn for any kind of gross aberration in my routine. I keep hoping for the alarm to wake me horribly late at 9, fervently wish my car would break down on its way, and have wild fantasies of my colleagues going berserk at my having dozed off in the midst of my work. I think of my roofs that never seem to leak and my perfect drainage pipes that never seem to get blocked, with a slight sense of regret. I smirk as I see myself locked up in some desolate dark room, or caught in the terrace of a skyscraper with no way down. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
And thus it goes on, until it gets to a point, where I sit up and ponder as to where I am heading. I see that it doesn’t make much of a difference to anyone else that I hover around these fading walls. Can’t blame them really, poor souls, busy bees. My mother has just had an open-heart surgery, sir…the garden badly needs a pruning, don’t you think… I need to get my son a new mobile……The celebration is just round the corner, and there are scores of things to be done…I’m so sorry I forgot your birthday, was tired after the weekend trip…you know, I am sure she has the hots for me…
It feels so cold in here, what with the downpour going on for hours now. I watch it impassively trickling down the toilet panes. I turn the shower off and dab myself dry. The razor gleams a sleek sharpness twitched between my fingers. Sorry world, but I just cant take it any longer…I am not intimidated by pain, but I don’t want to make a mess of my first attempt to kill myself. I can be clumsy when it comes to doing something that deserves the utmost care. I take a close look at my wrist and the nerves jutting out. I draw a faint line across it and blood follows the razor edge. I need to get it deeper in and keep clotting at bay. Damn! That hurts a bit…
I shudder all of a sudden at the shrill doorbell ringing at an unearthly hour. Blood readily trickles down my arm. I give up dying, for the moment, and wrap up my wrist with the towel, hastily putting on a robe. Water drips down my legs as I walk wearily towards the door. I find myself facing a woman in her thirties drenched in the rain. A girl of about four, hangs on to her arm, and looks up at me. She folds her umbrella, as the girl snuggles even closer. And then walks past me into the room with an air of indifference about her that leaves me stunned.
I close the door and follow her; she carelessly leaves her sandals beside my magazine rack. The girl looks around bewildered and moves to the cacti for a closer inspection.
I couldn’t leave her somewhere else…but she wont be much of a trouble, I assure you… she shrugs absent mindedly, shuffling through the contents of her handbag. Contentment and relief flit across her face as she finds a tiny pack of crayons inside.
Come here…and leave those plants alone. You will hurt your fingers with those thorns. She hands over the pencils to the girl who has got herself an old newspaper. She flops down on the floor with the colors, and starts hunting for a picture.
The woman seems lost for a moment in thought, and then turns towards me, and smiles. She unfolds a crimson sheet and throws it over my couch. Sleep over here when you are done with your painting…and be a good girl… She whispers to the girl and pats her on the head. The child lets out a coarse cough. It’s the night air…never does her any good…She glances at the vase of dry yellow asters. You should throw in violet against white…that always looks better. I used to take flower arrangement classes once…
The girl is oblivious to our presence, and asks for some paper. She opens her purse and hands out a used tissue. The girl gets back to her business. Her frail grasp lends fresh colors to a coarse sketch that resembles a large tree. What color is the swing, Ma? Her voice is frigid as she answers. Leave it brown. She notices my awkward gait and looks perplexed. You have done up the house beautifully…wife gone home? I wasn’t sure if I got the flat number right- 19 or 90? - over the phone, there was too much of a fracas…and one has to think of the bloody cops all the time… And the fucking rain…seems to be in no mood to stop… You were about to take a bath, I suppose…
I sense my state of undress, and walk towards my no-beds-room to get some clothes on. I hear her telling the child that she was now a big girl and that there was nothing to be afraid of sleeping alone. I turn around and see her standing at the door. She stares at my wrist all wrapped up. She isn’t conventionally beautiful; I wouldn’t give her a second look on the streets.
Could I use the washroom? She asks, her glances darting all over the room. She is sure to see the blood inside. Might even scream. I hear her splashing the water around. She comes out wearing an olive green nightdress and looks squarely on my face. I squat down on the floor and turn away from her. She starts pulling away the towel wrapped around my wrist and stares at the incision. Without a word she gets up and leaves.
These come handy on several occasions…She soon returns with some damp cotton that smells of a disinfectant. Not everyone is sane out there in the world…most of the times I have been badly torn up; I have managed on my own…She pauses a few moments. The medics know all about the bruises when they see them… they are too nosy and make a huge hue and cry…never visit the creeps hence…
She rolls out cotton over my cut that doesn’t look too good. The blood has turned darker and reminds me of strawberry jelly. She doesn’t look at my face much. She wraps it all up clean with some plaster and sighs.
Lie down; if you are feeling weak…If you have got something up there, I could make you some hot coffee…that is, if you feel like having some…
She sits beside me on the mattress with the hot drink. I see her small toes pressed against the floor. The nape of her neck curves down lusciously, but she looks quite pale. She throws a sideward glance at me, and looks amused. Her arms are bare and her body, lean. Heedless of my stare, her eyes are stubbornly stuck at something remote. She puts down the cup and starts examining her fingernails.
I badly needed the money, and hence came, despite the flood out there in the streets. Are you still in the mood? She hesitantly asks a few minutes later. My girl must have fallen asleep…Let me close the door… she gets up, taking the empty mugs with her.
No…let it be… I clasp her hand, pulling her down. She is confused, but gives in with an apathetic face. Her fingers make a hesitant move inside my palm. It relieves me that she doesn’t have questions for me. She should know that I don’t have answers for them. I move closer to her and bury my face on her lap. She hugs me close and runs her fingers through my hair; I weep with a fierce fervor that rips me apart. She doesn’t utter a sound; I sleep assured by her warmth. I dream of a canoe that lies on the shore of a lake that lies still. Nothing moves. It’s all quiet.
I wake up to find that I am all alone. As I sense the slight warmth of the sun drifting in, I notice a crumpled tissue near the faded asters. Beside the green tree, beneath the wooden swing, I see the words scribbled as if in haste.
Moving on…just can’t afford to quit…
