Broken Hug

Charoen-Thip

Rohan got up in the midst of his dream, walked to the cupboard, opened the right door followed by the left and took out the navy blue pair. But, gosh, could he remove his eyes? To his horror damp and fungi had accumulated around the thighs of the jeans, the fungi light green and smudged with whitish green spattered in some places. What added to his surprise was, now holes began to appear around the thighs. 

Before he could come out of this surprise, the dream opened itself inside a similar dream. This repeated four times till, at the fourth, something happened. A hazy face appeared. And try as much as he wanted to, he could not clearly make out the forehead, the eyes, the nose and the chin. He tried to turn his face but some energy forced his head back to look at the hazy face, the forehead, the eyes and the set of teeth sparkling in the faded light of the dream.

The vision scourged him, and it lay heavy in his head, bringing streams of perspiration coursing down his face. He sat up in bed, eyes peering into the blankness of the fading dream. Soon the dream entered into a tunnel of screaming white light and zoomed through its journey ahead. The light was about to end, when suddenly a girl’s face appeared. Her black eyes and sweet little nose on the Mongoloid complexion had certain magnetic pull over Rohan’s senses. Soon a light drizzle came up, transfixing her eyes to the falling water and a light breeze brushed across her face; the soft breeze tickled the point of her nose; and it shut her eyes. Finally a smile appeared on her lips, and her teeth sparkled in all whiteness.

With eyes still closed, she stretched her right hand out of the window, allowing the light shower of raindrops to fall on her palm. Let these remain as raindrops so that I can draw my hand back; hold the raindrops as drops; give them as much love and care and concern as you would give to a newborn baby so as not to wake him up from his deep sleep. I would want to transfer these drops of silver on the surface of the silver plate my grandmother had given me, and cover the plate with a round transparent fibre glass lid, so that whenever I want to think of him, I will only have to turn my face to the small shelf next to my study table, and softly placing the flat of my palm on my chin, gaze at the droplets, and the whole world would open in my mind.

But now as she brought her rain-wet hand inside and watched the drops of water spread all over her palm, a highway opened up in her palm-top. She was on the Second Hoogly Bridge, the strong metal cable wires to her left and right passing by at a zooming speed. She left behind La Donna Bar & Restaurant, the name set up in steel in a wave-like form. Houses followed, some two-floored, while others three.

The vehicle entered the Kona Expressway, took the second concrete path, and while it passed by the second house to the left, it metamorphosed into a huge billboard where a face appeared. The face had shut eyes, and stretched lips and a beautiful set of teeth. Below the face was an outstretched arm with an open palm. Raindrops fell with all gentleness on the soft flesh as if aware that hard rain might wound the tenderness of the palm. Perhaps the tip of her nose was being tickled with soft breeze.

Whenever she thought, perhaps the tip of her nose was being tickled with soft breeze, she appeared out of the vision; her body began to shiver; perspiration dribbled down her face.  

            Rohan had not the faintest idea where he was. He opened his eyes but everything was blurred. Yes, a girl’s face. She hurtling down. Drizzle and wind. Amongst all this, the smile. And that Mongoloid complexion.

            There was some familiarity in the features. Yes, got it. That lady who appeared in the café, that girl covered in mist and smoke and this girl, they were the same.

*

The 0.8 ton air conditioner cooled the room. Rohan looked out from the window. The almost-silent whirring from the table fan up on the corner table soothed his mind. The window curtain waved to and fro like a drunkard dragging himself from side to side in the wee hours of the morning. The pages of the exercise copies on the small desk pattered in the likeness of light rain falling on the corrugated asbestos roof of his neighbour’s house.

After going through the answer scripts of the students’ creative writing paper, he looked out of the window. The gardener pottered about on the rose bed, back bent, scanning the recently planted rose plants. Rohan stretched his arms and yawned. Opening the glass bottle, he took a few swigs of the cool water. Eyes closed he pictured the water travelling down, soothing and cooling his throat and resting in his stomach. He leant against the back rest of the swivel chair, allowing his head to rest slowly on its upper edge. He closed his eyes.

Correcting the last script on the table will soon be over and after that I will be done for the day. I’ll go home and relax and think of Fai; perhaps write a poem.

His eyes opened and they fell on the script. Charoen-Thip. New student? Yes. She was not there two months ago when he had joined the college. This student’s concept was quite original. However, the language sounded strained. It badly needed polishing, and that could be done with metaphors and similes; and of course the appropriate imagery. Rohan marked the piece 10/20, a 50%. Closing his eyes again, he basked on the thought of going back home without any mental load carried from the institution. He would pick up a few cans of Budweiser beer and try to complete the poem he had been working since three weeks and chisel the latest one too.

A tap-tap on the glass door, and he opened his eyes, slid the door open. Charoen-Thip was standing, palms joined together into a namaste.

“Sir,” her soft voice with an Indian yet a touch of South-East Asian accent fell a whisper into his ears. She smiled and an excellent set of sparkling white teeth lit up her face.

Rohan’s forehead furrowed. She looks familiar. But where have I seen her? Umm, somewhat like the female smoky being.

Charoen-Thip was five feet four inches, slim, fair complexioned – Mongoloid featured – and sported straight smooth hair till just below the shoulders. Her father was a Thai, mother an Indian.

With a gentle enquiring yes tone, Rohan asked her the matter.

“I’m sorry for submitting my creative writing assignment late.” She kept her head bent. “Actually…”

“It’s ok,” Rohan stopped her from producing a reason and gestured her to step inside. “I have just completed correcting your work,” and he turned her closed copy, gently pushing it to her side of the table.

She opened the copy, turned the pages without any hurry as if she had all the time of the world. With a moderate satisfaction spreading on her face and a critical head nod and nibbling her teeth, she glided over her work. At last she looked up.

“I must say the concept is quite original.” He nodded in approval.

“The incident mentioned is true, Professor,” she said, her voice gentle but carried a matured tone. A pause. “My mother did actually run away with my father’s best friend,” she added.

A jolt hit Rohan. “I’m sorry.” He found his voice.

As soon as the next question peeped into the corner of his mind, she said, “A month ago.” Something nudged her mind as she said this. And something nudged his mind as he heard it.

Silence ensued; a short one; her eyes watered; they turned red; lightly red. She looked away.

Another jolt! All his powers of speech took flight. Come to me, he almost said.

Rohan did not possess the heart to ask any question on this sensitive issue. He would rather allow the river to run its natural course and not force it down with a gale.

She changed the subject.

“I want to improve in English, Sir. Better it. Better the grades.” She paused. “I was thinking if I could pursue an internship in writing with you.”

Rohan’s fingers softly drummed on the table. “You may come to this office room after classes are over.” He allowed much warmth into his voice. “I will see to it.”

“Thank you Sir.” A slight smile of thank you played on her face as she nodded.

*

On the way home, Rohan picked up the beers. His main gate opened into a small open yard in front of which stood his Ranch House. Unlocking the main door – the tinted glass sliding door – he slid it and pushed the netted door before stepping in. The couches to the right of the living room seemed to welcome him.

As always, out of habit, his eyes fell on the book shelf with a few books – Love in the Time of Cholera, The Indian Crow, Poets in their Youth, August Rituals and so on, and journals such as, the Paris Review, Harvard Review, Poetry Foundation, Child Soldiers and so on. And in the lone top-most shelf stood Fai’s picture in a frame – and of course deep in my heart. He kept his book of poems next to it. His book was like him: Quiet and understanding. Understanding his girl and that there was a reason behind her silence. But the feeling that he was always close to her was all the contentment he needed in life.

As he took the two small flights of stairs from the hall into the attic, an excitement fluttered its feathers in his heart. He had given his heart and soul to this attic. The two tables in L-shape style seemed to smile at his excitement. One touched the frame of the window overlooking the front yard, the gate and the street of the neighbourhood while the other touched the left wall filled with books. A bean-bag squatted on the corner of the opposite wall. Bookshelves adorned the two other walls filled with books. There was also one painting in each wall.

Placing four beer cans on a folded newspaper on the table, he switched on the small television to catch up on the latest pieces of news. The newsreader’s determined voice spoke about a youth having committed suicide was repeated once again. The sight of the quiet face, the blood on the shiny hair, the policeman reading the suicide note, all the scenes returned vividly, depressing Rohan again.

Some other news reached his ears and he returned to his seat. The scandal of Nepal’s royal family was fire in the headlines. Prince Dipendra had shot his parents for not acquiescing to his desire to marry the princess of another royal clan. Thus his anger ignited, he had shot to death not only his parents but the entire household before slugging bullets into himself.

Love. I am always mesmerised by your power.

The picture of the cloudy pair in the cafe appeared in his mind, complete with their stud and dangling ear rings. Did not the cheeks of the smoky man have some resemblance to mine? And what about the eyes, brown in colour and deep-set, like mine too? But what role had the visions to play in this regard was not within his jurisdiction of comprehension.

Chareon-Thip. Hadn’t she said her mother had run away with her father’s best friend?

Hadn’t the household any trace of their relationship? And if found out, would her mother have taken recourse to the gun? If not the gun, she would have then employed at least some other means.

Yes, she must have played her Queen of Hearts with great subtlety.

Rohan switched the television off, took the second swig from the fourth can and looked out of the window. His neighbour’s beagle trotted in a steady rhythm like dusk towing the night.

Dusk. There was something in the dusk that fascinated him. The fact that it is purely diffused light, it seeks to prove to the world that our very existence depends on the purity of its existence. On the purity of its fleeting existence. But its existence is threatened because it dies no sooner it is born.

And when dawn appears Time announces that Existence has been seeded in Time’s womb. And like the phoenix it is reborn at dusk. Likewise, love is reborn. And relationship is reborn too. But only to die. The core, our core is not left un-attacked. Rohan continued staring out of the window, his mind churning relationships. He could not help but think of his second year in college.