Love and the Dark Night

PART TWO, FOUR

Rudi’s POV

My eyes moved and I put my hand to shield them from the blinding light. Some strange smell reached my nostrils. Dead bodies lay sprawled around the field.

How did I come to this desolate place? No living beings could be seen anywhere around, near or far. Straining my mind further and further, I could see a house, way up… but before that I was in a train… train collision… bandaged head, dull pain… a different Tessa, doctor coming and going… I’m tied to a scaffolding… women, nude around me…

*

In bed that night, Anais hovered all over in the room. Up on the ceiling, then down on the corner. By the kitchen wall, next near the fridge. Fridge I was always scared of, it sent my nerves to the edge. Yes after the sudden appearance of the dog, in a split second before that it had been on the street, I had suddenly found it next to the fridge, head between its paws, a gentle grating snore escaping from its nostrils. I was with Anais, my memory began stumbling back more or less to normal, and she dropped me home, yes and she wanted to have a sleep over at my place. But I rejected her plan. She went away, perhaps disappointed. Then something began to happen… I began walking towards the woods…

Anais dominated my mind most of the time not because I rejected her request but the thought of her posing as Damasque. A detective draws a list of suspects and analyzing them one at a time, weighing them from all angles, he comes to a conclusion whether the person is a criminal or an innocent man. The detective will not even spare but put down his own grandmother’s name in that list.

So it was Anais for me. But it could be Hermen, or Alex, Simran or Shasht. Or Ranee for that matter. With these disturbing thoughts my eyes closed. But I woke up shortly and paced about the room. When preoccupied I cocoon myself in one room, thinking that by stepping out of the room I will give my thought process a chance to escape. So I sat for a while on the edge of the bed, before pacing about once again. The night was quiet and the street light filtered through the leaves of the various trees before falling into the side yard of our building. Hadn’t I walked on that yard quite a number of times with Anais? She would insist that we sit on the swing, its pair of two single seats so inviting. There is certain uniqueness in such a swing. Yes, Anais, there is. You are close to your friend, and you are within earshot; in fact more than earshot.

This is so, she explained, because you only have to whisper to me and I can hear you.

In fact she tried it on the first night. She spoke in the softest whisper, Where are you? And I answered in the same whispering tone, At the swing. What did we do a while ago? And she answered, We made love. Do you ever miss me? And I whispered, No, I don’t. But I do fantasize on you, and sometimes in that state I masturbate! And that had put her into a ripple of helpless giggles which sounded quite loud and clear at one o’clock at night.

And now the swing was clothed in a play of light and shade. Suddenly someone was sitting on it. The lady’s head bounced from one side to the other. A shaved head, the scalp in whitish green, the forehead, the neck, the ears fairer than the head. Fair complexion and the eyes brown. A tattoo above the left ear. She was dressed in a butter-yellow top and a pair of brown pants.

And in the adjacent seat sat the little girl, the same one who had tapped me at the pavement the other day and who sat with the lady in the mall. 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.

The seats swung gently, the females’ heads fixed in front. The gentle movement continued. Very soon it stopped, the two looked at each other, they turned their heads in front and the movement of the swing began once again.

Within a few seconds the seats became empty.

I turned my gaze from the window to the room. On a sudden heaviness began dominating in my brain. Starting from the top, it slowly spread all over. I lay down.   

I was standing under the wide branches of a tree in the midst of a wilderness. The leaves were gently moving, their soft rustle entering my ears and gently calming my mind. As soon as I realized I was covered by the shade from the tree, my eyes closed and my head turned upwards. Somewhere in the centre, some of the leaves were slowly parting themselves. Very soon an opening formed.  A pair of eyes appeared, then the nose below, followed by a mouth. The mouth open, it was making an effort to say something, and the rustle originated from there. No, actually not a sound, but a voice. A sweet voice, trying to convey some message but the words failed to reach my ears. The rugged mountains around began to stir, they started to swirl. Their swirling increased, and the rustle grew louder, they penetrated deep inside my head.

I got up with a start. Darkness dominated everywhere. But only a faint light appeared at the window. My eyes had closed and I hadn’t realized that. 

*

Early morning, the chirpings of sparrows was a good morning. Encouraged by the morning light, a few crows followed. And from far away, the muezzin’s cry reached penetrated the sir. A cool wind entered through the north window. A wind of such a nature always is always a feeling of goodness but since the day the first mail arrived from Damasque, this cool wind was less noticeable, but is insensitivity taking possessing in my blood? It was a wonder how priorities change the perspective of one’s thought.

Damasque.

At the mall and at the swing the previous night.

Were they mere visions, were they born from tiredness?

I got up, made myself a cup of tea and sat by the window. The trilling of a bird with about two seconds of interval in between dominated the calls of other birds. I got my cell phone and, placing my hand out of the window and turning the lens towards the east, I bent and clicked. The picture of the sky with little pieces of clouds in the shade darker than light blue and red and pink was spread in the sky. A portion of a building under construction appeared on the extreme right side as a silhouette. A lone crow sat on a cable wire which ran from one rooftop of a building to another. After a minute I took one more snap. Then snaps after snaps followed. By the time light had spread evenly in the sky I stopped and counted: there were fifteen such snaps, with each picture of the sky different than the previous one due to the gradual rising of the sun. Why did I take so many pictures?

A hollow cough sounded close to my ears. My heart froze, my fingers stiffened at the joints.

Your intuition has compelled you to take these snaps of the sky. The voice was raspy. It is an extension of your life being dominated by Damasque and her e-mails and how the various hues from your life were fading away into insensitivity and futility.    

I remained in the bedroom and looked at the building in front, the newly constructed building. The birds from far and near continued calling in their own and various voices, but their songs didn’t seem to evoke any elation from me. The beige colour of the building gradually changed its shade from dark to the real colour it was. The neem tree and the Ashoka tree as well, began waking up from their sleep, with the light of the day gently touching them. The newly constructed building with its matt green and butter yellow colour on its outer wall started removing its mask and show its own face. In fact all the buildings couldn’t help but show their own true colours. In between the buildings a narrow strip of the flyover ahead could be seen. A few joggers past, moving close to the railing. A few cars passed by.

As I looked on at the buildings and the trees in a sweeping arc from left to right, I felt that I was similarly surrounded and captured by all the e-mails from all sides. And the only view I had of my mind was the narrow strip of the flyover. I considered that till I didn’t reply to the mails, I would have to cook my own thoughts without adding anything. And if I didn’t reply I would soon become insane. The thought of replying gave me some relief. It widened the narrow strip of the flyover ahead. At the same time, I considered, I will talk to Hermen and Shasht regarding the joint book of poems we were thinking of taking out. That will at least keep me from detouring my mind. And there was David, my cousin I had to meet. But before all this I would have to go through my speech to be delivered in the Town Hall for receiving the gold medal for oration.

It was seven in the morning. Let me at least reply to the mail. I sat at the corner of the dining table where I kept my laptop. Entering sss, I had barely typed, Dear Damasque when the pit-pat of small feet reached my ears.