Love and the Dark Night

PART TWO, THREE

Rudi's P.O.V

A strange cloud envelops me. Am I at home? No. But what is this? A strange light appears through the window, and Jack, my age-old friend... Jack and I are talking. But, but Jack and I are two separate human beings. So how come Jack and I are one and I’m talking and I myself am replying as Jack to myself, that is, to Rudi…?

I like dark places. They make me smile.

This is the balcony to the far end of the house. It’s on the eastern side and the darkest. Here where I’m seated, the darkness has stretched his hand and laid it softly on my shoulder. Yes laid it, not rested it. And doesn’t that comfort my soul? Hahaha, do I possess a soul? I laugh at my own joke. It’s quiet, this place, and nobody comes and stands beside me. The back of the chair rests against the three-foot wall of the balcony, facing the north, the broader side, the end broader by a foot. I kno w the world is bigger on the northern side. Somewhere there people are busy: working professionals are hurrying to board the Metro; someone is standing on the parapet of the terrace and readying to jump himself to death; the domestic help is washing male undergarments and fantasizing. But from the tops of the few trees on the far eastern side to my right, that street, two hundred meters away, the broadest side, is where she stands. A small but prominent part of the pavement is visible and that’s where your eyes invariably fall to. There they lie, the broken pieces, the light blue and the light pink ones. Bangles. And the yellow pendant on a thin chain beside them, underneath the little shade of the Basil plant. The little stone chips, grey, but some-days-ago blood coloured them into dark black. Blood from the finger. The ring finger, chopped, that’s what the light shade of skin looped around it says.

From down the street, some voices reach my ears. Not exactly voices but murmurs. Straining my ears, I c**k my head, tilt it sideways like a dog’s, but can’t make the words out. Then heads appear into view, all of them bent, peering.

Where I am positioned, no eyes can catch me. Not even hers. On my immediate left is the sitting room. Small. Placed adjacent to it is the bedroom and its table. And on the table, a laptop.

This house is mine. Still is, though Jack took it on rent from my cheating brother. It’s on the sixth floor, this terrace flat. There was a time when this open terrace was my favourite and I had paced about on its 900-square feet floor.

*

Jack appears on the deserted pavement as soon as I close my ears. The light from the sodium vapor lamp puts him in full glare as he walks at a medium pace, not tired but drawn more within himself, talking to himself. Conversing is a better terminology. Ahead is the turning and as he closes towards it, his head goes up, his eyes rest on the house and then on its open window. This is his repetitive action, and he does it in a set pattern day in and day out. I repeat from memory: he takes the lift; the grating sound of the lift machine reaches straight into my ears; the key inserts into the terrace door lock; two clicks and the clamp opens. Pushing the door, he steps in, walks the few steps on the terrace floor, opens the main door, switches the light and sits with his laptop.

But Jack’s arrival has disturbed the solitude of the place.

The bedroom was quiet. The painting on the wall quieter, and the sun the quietest as it lay on the street on one side of the canvas. In this quiet room I had told Rachnee everything. Confession was a better word. The red eye of the recorder continued winking from the bed shelf as it swallowed each and every word.

I had removed the thin bunch of hair from her cheek and gently tucked it behind her ear. She had looked into my eyes, my face touching the softness of hers, her teeth nibbling my ear lobe.

“They say Rachnee, to go back into the past you have to imagine it taking place in the present.” I had paused before continuing. “And what better option than to speak it as if it’s taking place right now in front of you?”

And when she nodded, her hand resting on her chin, the bangles, light blue and light pink jingled, adding soft music to the quietness.

But Jack’s arrival hurls me to the present. This is my house, Bruce’s house. Not Jack’s.

“Yes, Jack,” I whisper, “Jill has conceived and the twins born will possess my soul and my beloved’s.”

Hardly have my words fallen into Jack’s ears, when his head makes a slow spin. He knows it’s been a fortnight since someone has been repeating these words to him.

But I can’t wait more than the fifteen days and Jack can now understand that. In a subconscious reaction he scratches his head and, placing his hand on the keyboard, begins to feel something he had never felt before. Something quite indefinable. And his mind stops. Before technology had made its arrival, he had always possessed the desire to write. But something tingles in his fingers today. You know, sometimes you have the pen in your hand and the blank sheet in front of your table or the small paper notepad on your lap. You hold the pen between your forefinger and thumb with the middle, ring and the small finger backing you up, saying in the silent of silent language, we are always there beside you no matter what happens.

And as you twirl the pen, your mind takes gradual steps towards an eddy of confusion. That is the time your coffee turns cold, because you are not aware that coffee beans ever existed. Very soon the idea born in your mind takes the shape of a word, helping your pen to give birth to the first word for that day.

But this time, as I sit at the balcony, it’s far different to Jack. As earlier said, it’s quite an indefinable feeling.

Jack opens a file called Rambling Thoughts. His eyes run over the few scribbled lines on the first page. His eyebrows crease. I know he is trying to battle out the next word but his brain cannot form the word-shapes his mind has created. A small smile curls up the corners of my mouth on seeing Jack’s state and the light brown mole above my upper lip joins in with the help of a smile. My father would say that this mole is a sign of luck. Sudden luck that comes and goes, somewhat like an unexpected summer shower. Though the only luck I had was to own this house, but that was years ago till Jack had taken it on rent and now the money goes to an orphanage, run by my brother who is an imposter. Jack, in the meantime, nods his head, sometimes sways it, and I know he is making an effort. Seconds creep into minutes, and very soon the minutes change into a miniscule point of frustration. “No. No words can I form,” he whispers to himself, his upper lip quivering in frustration. He takes the cursor to shut down. But as soon as he does so, than I extend my middle finger and touch one part of his head, a tiny bit to the left side of his head. And something begins to happen. Numbness, like ink in water, slow in motion, starts spreading in his brain. And that is the very time he feels an invisible minute dot centre itself inside him.

His eyes close. Rather the dot pulls down his eyelids as a shop owner pulls down the shutter of his shop at the end of the day.

And Jack’s mind races. His thoughts tumble. His eyes open. And his head turns a little to the left of his table, fixing his gaze on the five-inch decorative piece, a statuette of the young lady standing there. Made of China clay, she has an off-white loose shirt on and a pair of trousers. A yellow pendant hangs in a proud angle around her neck on a thin chain. A pair of bangles adorns her forearm, one light blue, the other light pink. Jack does not understand how, but he feels a certain magnetic pull on his fingers, and the right forefinger striking on the letter J on the keyboard, followed by the middle finger hitting on i and finally the right ring finger twice tapping on l.

Jill.

Jack’s eyes close once again and soon his mind travels.

It is afternoon. Jack saunters down the pavement, soft air caressing his head. He looks here and there. A few vendors are standing in front of their stalls with their displayed goods. Jack’s eyes fall to his left and he stops at the roadside astrologer. His head adorned with a red turban, his forehead streaked with ash gives him a tantric appearance minus the skull and bones. He is busy reading a customer’s palm, eyes narrowing and opening as they glide over the palm lines. With his distinct baritone the fortune teller predicts to his customer that his guard line has become stronger. “This means,” his voice audible above the din, “the other man will stop interfering with you.”

Rahim looks up, places his right palm over the left part of his chest where his heart resides and murmurs the name of the Almighty. With eyes radiating peace, he looks at the astrologer and getting up, takes out an extra fifty-rupee note and puts it into the astrologer’s palm.

Jack follows him. Rahim reaches a house; and Jack peers from the slit in the window. Rahim steps inside and what he sees, twists his lips and enlarges his eyes. And his mouth forgets to shut itself. His wife is in bed with the other man. Rahim rushes inside and a fiery exchange of abuses and fist fights take place.

The man takes to his heels with Rahim charging down the street. But half way down, Rahim changes his course on a sudden and speeds down the left to the end of the street. The astrologer, deep in his explanation and with his finger trailing down the customer’s palm is suddenly woken up from his trance when Rahim’s eyes look down upon him and straight into his eyes. In a flash, his hand curls around the imposter’s throat, and he slaps him right and left, beats him black and blue. “You tout,” and Rahim slaps him again, snorting out lung-full of breath after breath.

“How dare you strike?” a passerby yells.

“You son of a b***h,” another one joins him.

The vendors rush forward.

“You strike at my brethren?” one of them yells, pushing the second man.

Others join. Yelling and screaming follows close on the heels. And people run amuck. In the process Jack runs for life and while doing so, a young lady rushes towards him. Her raised forearm guards her body, but Jack’s eyes cannot miss the pair of bangles, one light blue and the other light pink, around it. Jack’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. Sparkling drops of perspiration crown his forehead. He reaches for the glass of water on the side table.

Jack drains the half-filled glass in one swig. The cool liquid unlocks his bated breath; it slows down the rhythm of his pulse beat throbbing on his temples. Filling the glass with water, he closes his eyes. As the water slowly travels down his throat, he can feel his Adam’s apple moving in and out and the gurgle of the liquid falling in slow motion in his ears. But someone’s gaunt fingers curl in an icy grip around his throat. The veins in his temples throb and zing, forcing his eyes to bulge. Next, the invisible fingers release their hold, and Jack’s eyes focus on the screen, meditating on the whiteness of the Office Word page. A tiny tinkle sounds in one of his brain cells, followed by a tingle in his hands.

“Jack,” my voice husky clear, turns Jack’s head. The poster of Ra the Sun God on the right wall only looks back at him. The sudden movement of the curtain next to the wall glues Jack’s eyes on it. “Jack,” I repeat his name, and he turns his head to the left. “No, Jack, I’m not on the left side either. Neither am I inside nor outside the room,” and I stop for several seconds. “I’m inside you. Inside your head.”

Jack’s five-foot nine-inch height and lean yet strong frame was envy to some youths. And this build, coupled with short hair with the top in Mohawk style was a source of admiration to the girls. But now a film of perspiration coats his forehead. He rubs his fingers on his palms, making an endeavor to drive away the eeriness around. Nevertheless, certain grimness walks with silent footfalls closer and closer, surrounding the entire building. “I wish Rajesh, Vinod or the others were here with me,” Jack speaks to himself. He hums We don’t need no education/ We don’t need no thought control to drive away the deep stillness around.

“Listen Jack” my voice continues, startling him. “Please do what I tell you to. Otherwise not only you but I too am in trouble.” My voice pauses. “Write about Jill.”

Jack half raises himself from the chair and, holding it by the arms gives it a push. But the chair refuses to budge. Jack makes an effort to straighten up. But no sooner does he do that than he feels some power, firm but gentle, weighing over his shoulders and pushing him back to the seat.

The dull thud rests inside his head. And his fingers begin a slow dance on the keyboard.

“Yes, I have to write about Jill,” he whispers to himself.

I go back to my seat at the balcony.

GET OUT !! I yell... That is not Jill. That is Anais, the girl I love...

I sit up, shaking. I reach my hand to the bedside table, at the glass of water.