Broken Hug

An Urban-Fantasy Paranormal-Romance story PART ONE Setting: Urban * They had spent days together but five years ago    *                                                                             Bob DCosta © 2021 * A note from  ROMEO AND JULIET, The God and Goddess of Love   You see, we don’t have much time. We have to take a video of this boy and girl’s love story. Rohan and Fai’s love story. Step by step. For this is an unusual love story. Of love. And loss. And suicide. Love-loss-suicide. Loss-love-suicide. Somewhat like ours. We have entered many a heart since our death centuries ago; conjured many images in their minds. And lived up to the ideals of many lives, and slipped out of many. And patched up many too. We connect each other through the system of Mind Location. Sometimes we are separately busy but the power of our video camera is always switched on. When we need to talk or discuss certain matter with our partner, we think of each other and immediately the video cam beeps. And as soon as this happens, she pictures me in her mind and we begin to talk with the wave lengths. We don’t use audible words. And you readers may call us God and Goddess of love. But of course you have the freedom to give us any name you are fine with.    1 Nostalgia   He stood at the pavement near the crossroads. To his left was the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre. A clutch of people entered through the glass door. He fixed his eyes beyond them where he noticed her coming down the long flight of the last arched stairs. She walked down the landing, her pair of blue jeans and the white loose shirt haunting him as always. He realized then he had always admired her graceful walk. He took the few steps forward as she came out of the glass door. A smile appeared on her lips as her eyes fell on him. “Sorry, I’m late.” A twinge of apology appeared on her face. He smiled. “It’s okay.” She dug her hand into her handbag and took out the notebook. Her slender fingers flipped through a few pages and stopped at a particular page. She handed him the book. He looked at her neat handwriting:                         From the time I came to know you                         I’ve been born afresh                         Like the messageful flowers in spring                         Swaying to the friendly breeze                         Whispering about this springtime.                         This poem that I write is for you                         My unheard whispers because of you                         And compressed in these few lines                         Is my love showered on you                         Like thousand fragrant petals of flowers…   “Good poem,” he remarked. “Not a bribe, I suppose,” and he looked at the poem, “for coming late!” and his mouth opened into a mischievous smile. She gave him a friendly punch on the stomach.   They held each other’s hands, and stepped on to the concrete road, and walked to the pavement across.     Rohan read and reread this. He sent three e-mails every week, and in the last e-mail he always pasted this to the body of the mail. Though he could read the lines by heart, he still liked to walk through each and every word, relive this scene, the way it had taken place, till he would fall into a day dream. He opened his eyes in slow measures and looked ahead. Fai was not anywhere around. He shook his head with some vigour, and the sleepiness began fading away. Raising his head, he looked at the western sky. The last red bit of the round glow was left to sink on its knees behind the building far ahead. He had been sitting at the balcony of his house since the sun had been turning crimson. He loved this transformation, this slow metamorphosis of the sun’s colour. From yellow to this blood red. It somehow made it alive in his mind that red meant energy; fire. Fire in Thai was called Fai. Her name. Fai, the girl he loved. But, then again, after this redness, this fire, came darkness. The night. In slow and sure steps, the sky turned ashen, and even the balcony began to absorb the same hue. He looked down. Far to his left a young couple was strolling hand in hand. Otherwise the pavement lay deserted. The silence of the evening stole softly into Rohan’s ears. The couple too, perhaps, understood the silence, for they paused, and turned their heads to the western sky. The lady pointed her finger at the overspread grey. The man too gazed. He turned his face towards her and very soon their lips met. With the man’s arm around the girl’s shoulder and hers around his waist, they resumed their walk. The coffee mug had been untouched for quite a while and when Rohan took it, some of the black beverage was still left, around one-third of it. But it tasted different now. Yes, not warm any more. He looked out again. The call of the crickets came in rhythm. A few fireflies blinked like floating lights around the bushes. Rohan smiled. He liked this time of the day. This time fading away. Fading to become something else. Wasn’t that creation? Yes, this was his favourite time. Celebrating loneliness. Solitude. This time had become his favourite since the last five years when he had spent three weeks in Bangkok. With the sound of insects in his ears and the picture of gloaming in his mind, Rohan stepped inside. His was a small house. It had a sloping roof, and two of its walls were actually wooden. Teak wood. His father knew some timber merchants who supplied wood to the wholesalers in Sealdah Market. When one of the walls began to show signs of c***k, his father had decided to change the cracked wall and the one opposite to it, and fix wooden ones instead. Even the balcony was wooden, complete with its shade down to its side walls and including the floor. To top it all, the house stood on thick legs ten feet above the ground. Rohan had christened the house The Ranch House and it stood in the middle of one acre of land on the edge of a quiet road overlooking a lake. The other end of the road, about five hundred metres away, joined the main square, and this meant hustle bustle, with private vehicles and cabs, and passenger buses, and snack shops, cell phone shops and a gas station. But this part where Rohan’s house stood, the silence was meaningful. His father had laughed at the name Rohan had given to the house. “The Ranch House.” His father tapped his chin. “And that too in the city.” “That’s the best part, dad,” he answered with mild challenge in his voice. “A Ranch House in the city. That’s unconventional, and so it’s unique.” His father had only smiled. Rohan took the guitar standing against the wall and strummed some chords, turning his head around the room all the while. His father had said that every being on earth should learn to play at least one musical instrument. And while in school, he had gone for a stroll with his father to the New Market. They were walking down when Rohan’s eyes had fallen on the glass case of the musical shop. And inside it stood a guitar. He stopped. Something in him said, “Rohan, you should possess a guitar.” * As Rohan continued strumming, he recalled how the very sight of the instrument more than fifteen years ago had pulled at his heart strings. And how that whole night he had restlessly moved about in his sleep. How true his father’s words were when he had later told him: Play the guitar, and express your feelings. His father played the flute quite well. He would, at times, sit at the balcony holding his mother’s hands at the fading dusk, the flute on his lap. In the midst of his reading, the melodious sound of the flute would reach Rohan’s ears. The strumming continued bringing old memories. His mother passed away in her sleep in the nursing home. His father sat alone at the balcony since then looking at the setting sun, the gathering dusk, and listening to the crickets and watching the movements of the floating spits of fire, the fireflies. A few weeks later Rohan noticed the flute still lying in the glass showcase. “It’s been long, dad, you haven’t touched the flute.”  His voice had a slight enquiring tone. His father looked up at his son. His deep brown eyes were washy, and they were wise. “All the music is in the head now.” A gentle smile appeared on his face. “I sing them in my mind. I sing them to an audience in an open-air theatre.” He paused and looked out at the starry sky. “All the seats are empty. And yet, all are full.” He stretched his hand and gave a gentle squeeze to his son’s hand. He looked up at him. “Your mother has always been my audience.”  Two weeks later, his father too passed away in his sleep. Since then Rohan took to writing more furiously. He would look at the sky from the window or from the balcony and suddenly some lines would appear in his mind. He jotted them in his notebook. Staying back at home gave him that freedom to choose his lifestyle. Browsing through the newspapers one day, he found in the Situations Vacant column, Kingston International College in need of a professor for Creative Writing. He applied and got a call from the principal. The principal was taken up by his flair for creative writing and gave him to teach that subject to the first and second year students. The duration of three and a half hours, five days a week, struck him as relaxation with young minds He gave the remaining time to his own creativity. Students bonded well with him and he also spent correcting their scripts and teaching them the Writers Map and how to apply the method into story writing.   Rohan also sent his poems to online journals. Some got accepted, while the editors sent rejection letters for the others. Comments began pouring in. One day he found he had composed more than hundred poems. He selected fifty of them and sent the bunch to an online publishing house. Soon his poems appeared in e-book form followed by reviews in online journals. Several things happened in the country. The price of petrol escalated, and so did cost of essential goods. A paramedic student was gang-r***d and killed by a group of three young men in Delhi, bringing nation-wide wrath. Religious and social organizations held rallies and prayer services. A few weeks after the incident, Rohan received a call asking him to take part in one such gathering and a request to read out a poem on social issues in Allen Park. He did so. The next day’s newspapers flashed Rohan’s picture reading the poem. They even published the poem next to his picture. Rohan looked at the news. But one single corner in his heart was still empty. It could only be filled by Fai. Then one day as he opened his inbox, he found an invitation letter from the secretary of the apex body of SAARC organization inviting him to attend the SAARC Festival of Literature. But, Fai, are you aware that all this is taking place? That was all Rohan sighed out to the sunset that evening.   * Rohan wondered where Fai was. After his return from Bangkok, he had sent her an e-mail. But somehow she hadn’t written back. He had sent around three e-mails every week since then. But no reply had arrived. Both of them never believed in social networking sites and so didn’t have an account in them. All of a sudden, she had closed the window. His eyes continued moving, and his fingers strumming as he remembered all this. His head turned to his bedside table and his eyes rested at the picture of a Thai girl. Jet black silky hair, pencil-lined eyebrows, small black eyes, and a sad-happy mouth. As he continued looking at the picture, the face pulled him deeper into a sweet-pain realm till he became one with the Thai girl. The breeze and the flowers and everything around merged into oneness. They only became significant because of Fai. Rohan’s fingers started strumming a Thai number and his mind drifted back five years ago.  2 The Past   It was November when Rohan and two of his friends – Raj and Max – decided to take a short holiday to Bangkok. The air was comfortable and warm. They had checked in at a simple guest house. After some rest they had gone sightseeing. In the evening they went to the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre, a large building of five stories with paintings and work of sculpture displayed close to the guest house. When Rohan and his friends came to the ground floor, a group of high school students in white shirts and black trousers and the girls in black skirts were standing around and listening to a man talking from the pulpit. Very soon a lady went up and began reading from a book.  Rohan and his friends went closer. The girl next to him glanced and smiled at him. “Sawasdee Khap.” Rohan said in a soft voice, bowing his head slightly and with a namaste. “Sawasdee Ka.” And she smiled with a slight bow of the head and returning a namaste. “What’s going on?” and he pointed at the person in the pulpit. “Xan bth kwi,” she smiled. His forehead creased, and his head shook. She smiled. “Oh you don’t know Thai. Okhay. I’m sorry,” she said with a South-East Asian accent. “Poetry reading.” She smiled again. He observed her at this time. She wore her hair open, and they were straight and jet black that reached till her shoulder blades. You could hardly call her cheeks fleshy. And the cheek bones high. Her pair of eyes was narrow but one could not say they were small. The poet at the pulpit had lowered her voice now and continued reading. “Oh I see,” Rohan whispered. “I’m Rohan,” and he smiled. “Pardon,” and she craned her neck. “Rohan,” he whispered again, but this time close to her ear, pointing to himself. She ran her fingers over her left wrist. “I’m Fai,” she smiled. “Fai. Good name. Sweet name.” “Okhay. It’s sweet-ter,” she whispered still smiling, “when you pronounce it correctly. Fa-Ee” “Ah, I see,” and he pronounced it correctly this time. The girl next to Fai, in school dress, looked at her friend and both smiled. “Okhay. Dee ma,” and she smiled at Rohan. “Dee ma means very good. We get invitation… to listen poetry reading, you know.” She whispered again. “We have many poet and writer… but they write in Thai.” She paused. “So now some serious pepawle decide to translate Thai poem and other literary work into English.” “Oh that’s good…. Dee ma.” He flashed his teeth, doing a thumbs-up gesture at learning two new Thai words. She smiled at his efforts.        Raj and Max looked at their friend deep in conversation. Raj nudged him. He smiled at Raj, then turned to Fai. But her head was turned to her friends next to her. With her head facing him, Rohan could smell the fragrance exuding from her hair. His eyes closed, as if she had touched them gently. He pictured her sitting at a cove looking out at sea. Dusk was about to embrace the shore. The last light of the day was vanishing in stealthy steps. But the approaching dusk was trapped with the heady smell of the mermaid’s hair. Fai’s hair. A sudden noise hurled him back to reality. Everybody was applauding. A poet, with his salt and pepper hair tied to a pony tail, came down the pulpit, his book in his hand. The poems must have been really amazing.  Rohan’s friends were clapping too. “Clap, you donkey,” Max said, gritting his teeth. “You can’t be flirting so much as to forget the poor guy on stage,” and he aimed a kick at Rohan’s leg. And Rohan began clapping like a clockwork toy. He turned his head to his left. Fai was also clapping. A soft murmur of words was filling the landing as poetry lovers exchanged views among themselves. Fai turned to Rohan and smiled. “These are my friends, Max and Raj,” Rohan introduced. They both exchanged greetings with Fai. She turned to her friends. “This is Meesook, this is Sangduan and this Wutthipong.” All of them exchanged greetings. “That is Thai poet, is Sitthichai,” Fai exclaimed. “He a famous poet of our land,” and she nodded her head with pride. “Come with us,” she looked at Rohan and then turned to her friends. They began walking towards the side of the pulpit. A long line of tables were laid. On it were kept sliced fruit cakes, cookies, and other kind of dishes – Thai sweets he had seen in Google images. Students were already proceeding towards the tables. Some poets were drinking coffee. Fai and her friends were already at the tables. Rohan hesitated, and his two friends stopped too. With snacks in her mouth, Fai and her friends were busy talking. She turned her face after a while, looking within the crowd. Then she craned her neck, and spotting Rohan, gestured to him. Rohan began proceeding towards the crowd when she came up to him. “Why don’t you come, Raw-han?” she enquired. “Umm, do you think it’s fine?” he hesitated, running his hand through his hair.  “I mean it’s for the poets and for you all.”    “It’s okhay. You come.” A slight determined tone lay blended in her sweet tone. “Food is for everybody, and here plenty food.” She held his hand. “You come with me. Your friends come with me.” And she looked at Raj and Max. Rohan was struck by her determination. Her South-East Asian accent coupled with some broken English sounded so fresh in his ears.    Very soon all of them were at the tables. Rohan picked up a plate and a few snack items. By this time his friends were busy talking with Fai’s friends. A lot of laughter and smiles were exchanged. Meesook was holding her stomach with laughter at a joke by Wutthipong and then very soon the others joined in.    The coffee container was kept at the end of the table towards the window. Fai excused herself and walked towards it. Taking a cup and filling it, she turned and found Rohan at the window. She came and stood by him.    “Which school do you study in,” he asked after he had finished the cookie inside his mouth.    “Ruam Rudee International School,” Fai spoke biting into a sliced cake.    Then she asked about him, about his hometown and what he did. He was in college, he said and he didn’t have anything particular in mind about his profession, but would surely find something to his liking.    “I’m in high school, and will take final examination in a few months,” she said while sipping coffee.           The day light outside was running away, and streetlights were already on. People were walking over the walkway of Siam Centre. He turned and also found her looking at the street outside. From his position at the window, and with her beside him, Rohan didn’t want any other world. He believed in living one day at a time. And what could be better than living only for today; and especially for this moment. Yes, Fai was next to him, sipping coffee. Right now, he observed, her cup was on the saucer, her middle finger lightly rested on its edge and the forefinger and thumb held the handle of the cup in all gentleness.     I wish that handle is my palm you are holding. He was surprised at his thoughts. Thoughts are the only part that will be honest to you, his father had said. Hearts will stir, but thoughts will speak the truth.    He noticed her fingers. They were slender in form. Their curves at the joints looked artistic indeed, the thumb nail very pink; and the back of the hand where a few veins stood out in prominence in their light green colour against the fair skin, like streaks of rivers in a map, seemed to take you somewhere far away.    “Where are you staying here?” she looked up at him still holding the cup.    Her voice reached him from one of those rivers far away.    “I’m sorry. What did you say?”    “In which hotel have all of you put up?”    “We’re staying at The Asia Guest House at Phayathai Road.”    “Okhay, that’s not far from here.”    “No, it’s around ten minutes walk.” He took his cup to his mouth. “We came here today morning.”    “And do you like Bangkok?”    “Oh it’s a lovely city. So vibrant. No honking of cars. The people look so peaceful.” He stopped.    She continued observing him, and she smiled.    “It was earlier called Siam. See-am,” and he pronounced it.    “Yes, Siam. But you say Sa-yam, and not See-am.” She smiled. “It looks you have done your homework very well. But,” she smiled, “I can only give you five out of ten.” She laughed.    He laughed too. Then he took a sip from his cup. “By the way, Fai, where do you stay?”    “I stay in Ladprao neighbourhood. It is around ten kilometres from here.”    Except Rohan, Fai and their friends and a few people, the rest had vacated the snack area. The poets and the organizers were talking among themselves. Rohan, Fai and the rest began proceeding towards the main door.    “Fai,” Rohan’s voice sounded calm but he could make out it was a bit shaky. She turned her head and looked at him. “Thank you. Khop khun khap.”    “Ka. But why do you say that?”    “For the wonderful time. And for giving your time.”    “No, that was nothing, Raw-han. We came. You came. We laughed…”    “And we ate free of cost.”    They both laughed. He looked at her as she laughed, her teeth flashing in all whiteness. All of a sudden she looked up at him, and her eyes locked with his. She spotted a certain strangeness in his eyes; in the way he rested them on her, his head tilted a bit to one side, his lips open, his eyes with a faraway look, as if magical.    And she stopped in the middle of her laughter. She brought her eyes down, and very soon raised them at him. She was fidgeting with the handle of her satchel.    He found his voice at last. “We were given free sim cards at the airport here.” He hesitated. “And, umm, I purchased a Bolo card from Family Mart next to the guest house.” He took out his cell phone. Hesitation crept in him again. “May I give you my number?”    She nodded and smiled a bit. “You may give me your Bangkok number.” She took out a notebook from her satchel and Rohan jotted the number down. He scribbled his name next to it.    “Umm, would you mind giving me yours? Your number?”    She called it out and Rohan fed it into his cell. “Fai what?”    “Thongtaejing,” and she spelt it in a slow and steady voice.    All of them stepped out into the pavement. They waved out at each other. Fai and her friends crossed the street. While Rohan and his two friends waited for the traffic to halt at the other crossing, Rohan glanced at the other crossing across which Fai and the other two took. But they were already gone and were waiting at the bus stop.    “Hey Rohan,” and Raj put his arm around his shoulder in a squeeze. “It looks like someone’s heart strings have been strummed.”    “Welcome to Bangkok. The land of Fai.” Max teased with a twinkle in his eyes.  3 Chinatown The three friends strolled down Phayathai Road. Two street food stalls stood at the pavement. The tables displayed containers with fish and pork dishes. A string of colourful lights danced all around and above a restaurant door. Tourists moved about in jeans and some ladies in shorts. Max and Raj were laughing at some joke. They looked at Rohan. He laughed too, but his laughter had a blend of quietness and strangeness.    The trio loitered around the vicinity of the guest house for a while before sitting at its open bar and restaurant across the reception. They faced the road, beer on the table. After about an hour or so, they went up to their rooms.    Theirs was a large room with a bed where three people could fit in with ease. To the left of the bed was a door leading to the balcony overlooking the main road.    When they lay down and had soon drifted off to sleep, Rohan was still awake, his eyes fixed to the ceiling and Fai in his thoughts. The little time spent together seemed to last a lifetime. Her friendliness came so naturally. And when she looked at him and their eyes had met he was confirmed this was the girl he could spend his entire life with.    He took out his cell phone from under the pillow. He looked at his friends. They were dead to the world curled under their sheets, tired out with the day’s activities. Rohan clicked to ‘Contacts’ and fed f. There, the third name was Fai. He whispered out the name. Then whispered out the number. His thumb went to the green button. But he hesitated.    No. it’s past twelve.    So what?    She might be sleeping.    What difference does it make? She will pick up her cell. And talk to you.    But will she be in a mood to talk?    Why not? You said she looked at you in a different way. Her eyes locked into yours.    No, Mr. Devil, I’m sorry. This isn’t the right time to call up someone whom I have met for the first time.   * Romeo and Juliet appeared at the window.  Juliet: Focus Rohan on the screen. Romeo: Yep. * Fai lay in bed. Her mind enacted the time at Bangkok Art and Culture Centre. Rohan next to her. And talking. There was something in Rohan. His mesmerizing voice. Whenever I looked at Raw-han’s eyes, I saw myself, she recalled. His voice was he, his eyes were me. Yes, Fai, whenever I looked at him, I saw him and me.    Fai looked up at the ceiling. She stretched her hand to the side of the pillow and opened the book to a page. She took out the piece of paper. Yes, this is his number. She kept her eyes on it for how long she didn’t know. But it was long enough for her to see him in her mind at the BACC. Then, with all slowness, she didn’t know when her hand fell to her chest, her fingers still embracing the piece of paper around it, and her eyes closed. She saw him at the BACC moving about and observing the paintings.  * Romeo: Focus Fai too. Juliet: Yes. Romeo: The two will enact our unfulfilled love life on earth. Their lips met, they turned from the window and floated away into the night, surrounded with mist .  * The city tour bus stood outside the guest house and left at 7 a.m. with several more customers. It cruised along through the maze of traffic. The pavements were near empty, but the roads, though a choker block with vehicles, looked smooth. Only the soft music from the hidden speakers inside the bus was a constant soothing aid to the ears.    The roads were filled with Thais. A feeling of niceness spread over Rohan’s heart. He was in Bangkok where Fai lived.     Was that Fai there?