Love and the Dark Night

TEN

Anais was dressed in a loose white tee and a pair of light blue jeans. She asked how she looked. I told her it didn’t matter how she looked but what mattered was how she felt. She said that her feelings depended on my remarks. I was quick to respond: one needed to be dependent on oneself first followed by being dependent on others. “So, firstly, how you feel about yourself is of primary importance,” I said. And then added, “But are you asking me how you look in the dress, or how you generally look. Or do you want a Sunday remark from an ordinary young man.”

Anais looked confused, and perhaps hurt too at my balanced remark. But I am one person who cannot flatter anyone. Besides this, she didn’t know that the mails from Damasque were rotating in my mind and the vision at the mall. I couldn’t convince myself whether I should confide this new secret to her and our friends, or even to Tessa.  

The rest of my friends too came dressed in casuals. Gyan Manch was more or less full as the play began. Aankhi put her arms around mine and it seemed that she was watching the play with more intent than any of us. Her laughter echoed around us when Saket, acting as a Genie and dressed in black like Zoro, snapped his finger and Pablo, coming up from behind went to strike him with a hockey stick was thrown to the ground by the power behind that snap. Her eyes were glued to the dancers as they played their part.

Everyone got up from their seats and gave a standing ovation to the cast as they stood together on the stage along with the director, the musicians and the prop boys. The lights came up soon after and people, especially young men and women and a few parents gradually proceeded to the two exits. It was only when we came out did we see the brochure of the play being sold at the table for Rs. 15/- just outside the theatre hall. Shasht bought one and audibly read out the theme of the play. The play speaks of the unknown in us. Unknown within all of us lies a person who capers about foolishly. If you give him too much or too less an attention you ruin yourself. Give him the right attention and listen to him because that is where wisdom lies.

Boy, that suggestion was for me also. Me and Damasque. Or Anais.

We came out and found a cool breeze blowing. It crawled into my hair with many a finger, gently moving on the scalp and soothing me. The streets were wet and as we walked, a feeling of niceness spread in my mind. I looked at the others and could easily read their minds. Simran was humming a tune of a new song; Alex was holding her hand; Hermen, Ranee and Shasht were busily chatting; and Anais had her arms around my waist. But when we decided to proceed to the restaurant at Russel Street, I felt someone was stalking me. The restaurant was across and not that crowded. The stalker will lose me now. The pleasant-looking waiter came to our table wearing a smile on his face and a pair of patient eyes. When we had placed the order of three full Tandoori Chicken followed by Palak Paneer and Butter Nan, we chatted on miscellaneous topics. I clicked sss.

From                                       Subject                                                                                  

Damasque                              Poem for YOU

I clicked on Poem for YOU and read:

Every Day You Play… Pablo Neruda

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.

You are more than the white head that I hold tightly

as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.

Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.

Who writes your names in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?

Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.  

Dear Rudi, I was there at Gyan Manch today evening.

Regards

Damasque

I suddenly became aware of Anais’ gaze studying my face, searching for something. A casual look of sadness comfortably sat there. A sheepish half smile came up on my face. I squeezed her hand. Is she the sender of these mails? Is she afraid of directly telling me her feeling? Perhaps she thinks I might say no and she might not be able to take the bitter truth, and that’s the reason why she is indirectly sending me mails, then studying my reactions to them. Perhaps this is the reason why she asked me to comment on her looks today. And see, how she is looking at me right now. She had gone to the washroom during the play and had carried her handbag with her. And while we were walking to the restaurant she did switch on her tablet. Perhaps she wanted to delete the sent mail.

Should I tell her about her mail? She might have another e-mail account from where she is sending me.

But the vision in the mall? And what about the little girl too? Well, perhaps that is just a roadside child. And whatever I have said about a Lebanese woman is the result of my fertile imagination.

Anyway, I have to watch Anais carefully.

I smiled at her, but it was not a full-feeling smile. I looked at the others. Very soon the food arrived and we tucked into them like hungry birds do early in the morning when they have found worms.

Soon we were on our way home. I fell into quietness throughout. When Hermen stopped the car outside the gate of my flat, Simran and Anais were still to be dropped. I got down and, looking at everyone, waved and turned. Someone gently caught my tee. I turned.

“May I?” Anais’ voice was soft.

Was there a pleading tone in it? In a sweep I detected a deeper softness in her eyes.

She wants to have a sleep-over at your place, Rudi.

Are you sure?

Yes, you dumbo, can’t you read the curve of sadness around her mouth.

Oh yes. But my mind is clouded with the recent mail. And I want to be alone.  

I held her palm. “Some other time,” I said more with a request in my voice than a firm affirmation. And a stab of guilt pierced my conscience. I looked into her face once again. There was a spell of sadness peeping out from her eyes. But then I needed to be alone. I required a self-date. At home.

I turned away without another look at those soft eyes.

On the crossing near Pablo’s Café, someone had bent down one of the sturdiest branches of the yew tree. The thick foliage was heaving and sighing over the sloping roof with a swish here and there. Follow the swish. I turned my head and finding no one in the dark, but someone invisibly present, my footsteps started going towards the wood.