Love and the Dark Night

NINE

“That can never be, Rudi” I told myself while resting my eyes on the French woman as she began removing the newspaper. She smoothed the bed sheet and sat on the edge of the bed.

The light switched off on its own, plunging the room into darkness save the shaft of glow that filtered from the window. As this happened, through the filter of shadows and faint light like that of dusk, others filled the room. Gas lamps lit at corners of the walls. There was a clay jar to one corner and beyond that two female dancers were swinging their hips in a lazy fashion in accompaniment to soft beats of the tabla and Oriental music that snaked out from a flute. I was only dimly aware, bending down to look through the shadowy light of the room, the whispering sound of anklet bells, the rustle of male hands around the waist of someone whose features looked familiar – her light sea-green eyes, her forehead with a large red vermillion dot, my dream, and now Tessa’s decision to move towards her as she looked into my eyes, as if to take me to some place some way connected.

A faint foreshadow of things to arrive.    

Tessa stood in one corner of the room. “Stand in front,” she said in a soft voice.

I came up to her and stood with my hands on my side.

She told me to walk back till the door and out of it, continue walking till the end of the sitting room wall, turn and walk down to her. When I had reached till the wall I turned, and as I began walking my eyes fell on hers. She was a spectator enjoying my walk, ogling gently.

She held my fingers and walked to towards the bed. I lay down over the maroon bedcover, my right leg folded at the knee, the light brown birthmark on my left thigh like precious stone against my light skin tone. She came up and straddled her legs across my waist. Her eyes were on my p***s.

She took my hand and held it at the buttons, whispering in the silence of silences, “Remove my dress.” And she continued looking into my face.

The buttons came off with ease. Holding her silk cotton raiment on the two sides, I gently pulled it above her upper thighs, her buttocks. She was without any undergarment beneath and the little nutmeg of a pink weapon in her shaved mound looked at my crotch. She bent towards me, held my thong and pulled the skin cover down. Next she held it with her left hand while with her right she poured a few drops of olive oil on the mouth and tip. While rubbing her hand up and down for some time, she brought her waist lower till she rubbed her c……s with my thong. Her mound was an oyster shell with the c……s a pearl moving above the turtle’s mouth. She came out off me, and sitting down, slapped my p***s with her oily hand. The thong moved from side to side. She squeezed it at the ridge and brought her closed fist up.

“Milking.” She whispered. “The maid milking the cow.” Her eyes were drunk, her mouth open, her mind far away like a priestess in fervent prayer.

She lay next to me holding my limp manhood, her leg over mine, her face close to my body, her eyes closed. Asleep. After what seemed to be more than an hour and a half, she stretched her hand to the bedside table and taking out three five hundred currency notes from her silver-grey purse, she kept them on the bedside table.

*

The weather was still warm outside when I began walking.

I thought it would be cooler under the shade given by the buildings and the trees, but that was not supposed to be. With the Festival of Colours, a few days from now, the weather did get warmer. A cuckoo throated out a continuous crisp and clear coo-coo from one of the trees overhead, and the sound seemed to linger in my bloodstream. I crossed the road and reached the pavement on the other side. The tea-stall trolley was still at the same position as the previous day, and the chai-man handed over two glasses of tea to two customers. He looked up as I stopped in front of him. I gestured for chai.

“Did you happen to see that little girl?” I asked him as I sipped the warm beverage.

He shook his head. “No.”

I took out my cell phone but found to my disappointment no mail from Damasque.

But Ravi, why disappointment? I stopped short in my next sip as I questioned myself. Why should you be disappointed if there was no mail from her? In fact you should be lighter in your head and heart. You should have remarked good riddance to bad rubbish. No more will that Damasque be an uninvited guest. But no, it was the other way round. It began playing in your mind.

“Why isn’t there any mail from Damasque?”

My eyes were on the road as I stepped down from the pavement and crossed the side street. Colourful dresses hung from the pavement stalls while other dresses lay neatly folded on shelves. Next to the last stall were other stalls. I stopped at the first stall. My eyes ran over the row of books. I have browsed through many a stall here, my mind unmindfully preventing my legs from pulling my body away.

I pulled out a book, and at the same moment another hand appeared and picked the next book from the same stack. I took one step to my right to give room to the person. And as I did so, my eyes fell on her. Medium height. Complexion fair with a shade of sun-tan running over it. Her mahogany-coloured bouncy hair flowed down till just below her shoulders. And her eyes were large. And black. Mesmerising indeed.

“How much is this one?” she spoke in different tone, waving the book.

“One hundred and fifty,” said the stall keeper.

My heart went thump-thump.

She took out two one hundred notes, extended her hand and received a fifty, and the book in a brown packet. She turned and quick as a wink, began moving away. I kept the held book back to the stack and beginning with a few casual steps, padded a few feet behind the lady. Her lithe frame coupled with the light walk hardly touching the ground, spelt an aura of mystery.  Others came by in between, moving in and out from left to right and right to left and increasing the distance between us. Some cut through our gap, moving lazily like jay walkers. Outside Bata Stores stood a little crowd, covering the entire breadth of the pavement, and I weaved myself in and very soon out of it, with my eyes steadily glued to the mass of hair in front.

I have to talk to her, I told myself. A few similar mass of hair appeared from nowhere. Two turned and looked at me and passed by soon. My head swayed from left to right, my eyes on the one mahogany mass. More heads and shoulders moved up and down.

But I got caught in the crowd trap.

Then she was nowhere.

My speed slowed down, and I stopped at the side of the pavement.

Focus, Rudi. Where do you think she could have gone? Can you see Pantaloons right there ahead? You might as well try that store.

I stepped into Pantaloons. The crowd on the ground floor was a bare minimum. A sale was going on. I moved with a not-too-fast-not-too-slow pace, keeping my eyes on the shoppers. No. None was a lady. Even the kurta section, my favourite, was empty. The first floor was the toiletries floor with perfume from sprayed deodorant reaching your nostrils before you could spell your own name. This floor was as vacant as my grandfather’s bald pate. With my heart giving nervous flutters, I looked up the stairs, putting my foot on every step and counting them. Wasn’t the ladies’ section the best zone to find the game?  

The first section my eyes fell on was the salwar kameez one right across. Besides a black-haired woman’s head moving up and down as she ran her eyes through the racks of colourful dresses, no one was present.

I silently proceeded to the other wing. A woman was running her fingers with all the gentleness of a caress over the folded jeans trousers. Her arm was slim, the kind I had seen at the street book store. I ambled ahead, mesmerized by her arm, my eyes caught by the slimness and the slight tan running all over it. I was close, so close that her perfume caught my mind.

“Damasque,” I said with a soft asking tone.

And she turned.

My eyes fell on the face and the head. A silver ring dangled from the corner of her left eyebrow. She peeped through a mass of hair, bouncy and mahogany-coloured indeed.

I gulped and panted. I felt like an orange squashed in the palm, then squeezed and thrown.

It was a she-boy.

“Ahmm,” I coughed and looked around and at the same time, with index finger raised and moving from one rack to another, I began indicating to an imaginary Rudi. I took a few steps here and there, as if in indecision. Next without further ado my eyes gave a gentle sweep around the entire floor, beginning from the kids’ to the jeans’ section. Not finding anything worth my hunt of the best pair of jeans, I proceeded towards the stairs and reached the third floor in a trice.       

I felt the entire foundation where I stood, crumbling, as I sat at the Food Station, grabbing at my scattered common sense as it lay on the floor of my brain, holding its stomach in helpless guffaws at my stupidity and over-confidence.

After a while I felt better. Yes, I told myself, I know Damasque through the mails. Hence I can only get to know more about her from the mails. I ordered fish and chips and as I ate the food, I looked around. It was a small food court selling only a few items. The place was vacant. The little man behind the counter was busy with his calculator.

Basically, I’m a loner, and so finding the food joint empty, a feeling of niceness enveloped my entire being. I dug up a good slice of a potato with red sweet sauce and slurpy curd and put the spoon into my mouth. As the food touched my tongue, the taste buds opened and drew in the taste, closing my eyes simultaneously. And those ten seconds were the most everlasting. I gradually opened my eyes. First I looked nowhere, and then rested my eyes on the opposite vacant chair. Then in a flash it happened. Occupying the seats opposite me were a lady and a little girl. The lady’s ginger-coloured hair fell till her shoulders in a bounce. Her complexion was fair and the eyes brown too. She was dressed in a butter-yellow top and a pair of brown pants.

And the little girl was the same one who had tapped me at the pavement the other day. Yes. Same light brown eyes, sharp nose, sweet lips; hair falling just below the shoulders; and slim and pretty looking. A child with a lemon-coloured frock; a several-day old frock; a frock with stains and some dust and dirt. A slight smile on her lips, yet certain sadness which came from far away.

As the lady sat there with her arms to her sides, her eyes rested on mine. I looked at the counter. The man there didn’t seem to notice her coming. Won’t he send one of the fellows to take her order? I looked at her again. There was a certain pain deeply rooted that took up her entire face. She just sat there without any movements. As I stared at her, her lips parted and moved, her face contracting at the same time. She was straining to say something. But the words failed to reach me, and to top it all, neither could I read her lips. The girl too stared at me, a faint smile playing on her lips between which her teeth glinted. I looked at the man at the counter. He was still busy with his work. Once his eyes turned towards me in a general fashion, and then it moved away as he looked at the vegetable section of the market. I too turned my head towards the ceiling, then at the television where horoscope signs flashed with some monthly predictions. Next when I rested my gaze at the table once again, the opposite chairs were vacant. If they were leaving it would have been quite noticeable. Besides, I was the only one to occupy the food station.

Was she Damasque? How was the little girl connected to her?

I had unmindfully given her the image of a lady from Lebanon. More than that I hadn’t, till now, replied to her mails. Was she okay? Was something wrong with her, and was that the reason for her sudden appearance and her silence though she wanted to say something?

I took out my cell and opened the inbox. There was her last mail. I took the cursor to compose and began typing: Dear Damasque, I have received three mails from you, but this happens to be my first reply. The first thing I’d like to know is who you are and where do you reside. Are you a foreigner staying in this city or are you someone who was earlier a resident of the city, relocated somewhere else for some years before returning to your roots, if ever you have returned? I paused before hitting send. Do I mention about the sudden appearance of this woman together with the little girl?

Umm, I thought it was too early to mention that.

Was I doing the right thing? If I replied to her mail, wouldn’t she start sticking to me like a leech? Besides, how do I know this was not a mail from a gang of terrorists who had started a new game of luring people with sentimental bombs? In one online poetry organization whose member I was, I found, one fine day, a mail from a lady who applauded me on the poem I had sent. Then she asked me to read her mail in my inbox. Once when I opened my inbox, I found the picture of this girl from Nigeria and this mail saying she was the daughter of a government official. Her father had passed away but in his will had mentioned that Minoa (her daughter) could get the money only after the entire money would be transferred in the name of a person residing in another country.

This entire letter was a hoax and it wanted my bank details. Such mails are received where you have to pay some money as bank charges for the transfer. But my point of discussion was perhaps no woman by the name of Damasque existed in this world. Perhaps I would be killed? Perhaps…

But the unknown was always thrilling which everyone would readily admit. So, should I or should I not hit…

I deleted the entire contents. Let’s wait, I told myself. And so, coming out of the mall, I walked back to the crossing and turned left. Since it was Sunday quite a number of people were strolling along the pavement. Under a flyover some young men were busy at a game of carrom. I stood there for a while. Very soon my cell rang.

“Yes Anais.”

“Hi. Do remember we are meeting today at 6.30 pm.”

“Any particular reason or…”

“The play, honey!”

“Which… Oh yes, I remember now, The Tomfoolery of the Not So Foolish.”

“Oh my absent-minded sweet dearie!” and she hung up.

Her last words were coated with sympathy and wrapped with concern. Such tone always made me feel closer to her and drove me into more indecision – do I love her or not. But as far as I was concerned I considered I didn’t really love her though I cared for her. This tone of hers had been repeated innumerable times and perhaps she felt the solitude of Pablo Neruda expressed in his Tonight I Can Write: Tonight I can write the saddest lines. /Write, for example, The night is shattered/ and the blue stars shiver in the distance. /… I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her. /Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Maybe one day she will lose me, and when that day will come she will miss me. Will I miss her? I am ambivalent. Perhaps I have love in my heart. Perhaps it’s not for her but for someone else.

You may say it’s pride in me doing the talking. Pride in what? In my invented self which some guy in the past termed it as ego?  Doesn’t pride make a man?

But all I know is that it’s not pride dominating over me.