Broken Hug

The Night Walk

From some part of his brain, as if with a pair of tweezers, a cell was shaken. And Rohan did what he would do when he went around with Fai: 

He got up, changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, put on his sports shoes, took the racquet and the ball and stepped into his back yard. A five hundred square feet room stood to one side of this yard. Switching the lights on and, balancing the ball in his hand, he hit the ball on the front wall. The ball struck the wall and raced to the right wall, bouncing back in front of him. And no sooner did that happen than Rohan struck at the black ball with force from his right shoulder transferred to his elbow and then to his wrist. All this joint force transferred to the strings of the racquet and struck at the ball with the force equivalent to an iron fist.

Fai stood at the corner of the yard where the cobweb-cleaning stick was kept, observing and appreciating him. "Macho move. Of my Macho man." She murmured, nibbling into a smoked ham. 

Rohan heard her voice floating into his ears, but when it reached his brain, the voice became gruff, like a low growl. He was concentrating on the ball coming towards him at break-neck speed after striking the wall when his racquet-holding hand missed the ball and it hit his abdomen. The hit had the crash of a sea wave crashing on the shore. The force lifted Rohan onto his feet and he hit against the wall behind. as soon as that happened, he fell on the floor, a crumpled heap, doubling up in pain. The air in his lungs whooshed out from his mouth, and he lay as still as his portrait on his study wall. At the corner, where Fai had stood, Charoen took her form, a smile doing a slow dance on her lips. And swift as thunder, she transformed into a wolf. The creature grinned; it bared her teeth; it lifted her right hind leg and peed on the wall near the corner. 

It was past the moon-time of five wraps by which time Rohan still lay on the ground. Through the turbulent river of his thoughts, he could see someone. A hazy figure. A little girl. Disheveled hair of sorts, face somewhat unkempt, a woeful face with sad and quiet eyes. She stretched her hand and touched Rohan's stomach. Rohan opened his eyes. The tightness of his jaws relaxed, his shoulders went limp. He got up slowly and clearing his throat, he took his position. He lifted his left hand and dropped the ball and struck it with his racquet. As Rohan continued hitting the ball, moving from one side of the room to the other, his shoes squeaked. His was a quick pace, coming in succession of two squeaks in a second, followed by a squeak and thud from the ball, in the next second. He darted at the ball like a snake, his racquet striking it back to the wall with deadly force. His back bent, his eyes on the ball, and his hand holding the racquet in a loose grip, his entire being demonstrated his mind control. His racquet produced back-hand and fore-hand hits as and when demanded. He was always on the move, running from one end to the other. 

It was deep in the night. The houses of the neighbourhood were all asleep, the shops all closed.               

And as his shoes squeaked, his head suddenly spun, taking him for a three hundred degree spin. His mind went blank. Someone was pulling his hair. Next his head went limp, his shoulders fell, and his legs, wobbled before they threw his body crashing to the floor. Pain took hold of him. A gurgling sound deep from his entrails started, but before blood could could surge up in his mouth, he pictured a little girl with disheveled hair, sad-loneliness etched in her eyes, smile at him. She stretched her hand and placed it inside his body. The blood that was taking an upward course stopped on its way. The girl’s mouth moved in an incantation and the blood went back to its veins and nerves. Rohan doubled up on the floor, coughed. He slit open his eyes but could only see blackness around him. He blinked, he inhaled and exhaled, then made an effort to sit up. He looked around. The yard was empty save the cobweb cleaning stick with the tuft on its end.

*

Charoen, sitting on the floor had her eyes on the Ash Man.

            “What happened?” Her voice was anxious.

            “Your chants are weak, earthly lady.” His voice floated inside Charoen’s room.

            She looked at him with eyes in the midst of a wakeful dream.

            “But I did as you instructed me. And I have never failed in my service to you.”

            “Yes. You have never failed. But Rohan’s guard line keeps him surrounded. If you wish to possess him and stop him from thinking of Fai, you have to chant five thousand and three times everyday. That will gradually corrupt his files of poems. Once that takes place he will bemoan its loss to you and you can win his love completely.”

            Charoen joined her palms in front of her into a Namaste to her minister.

*

It was close to one-thirty. Charoen tossed about in her bed. All of a sudden the vision of the woman she had been painting appeared. Amongst the darkness of the half-constructed building, she was standing next to the pillar, her long black hair spelling more darkness around. But the lady’s back was turned.

Who are you? Let me see your face, Charoen asked, but her voice failed to reach the other woman.

Charoen sat up and drank some water. From the balcony, the road appeared dead and quiet. I wonder what Rohan is doing. Perhaps he’s fast asleep. And the smoky beings, Romeo and Juliet? She concentrated on them. Very soon they appeared, their hands locked into each other’s. Tell me what is Rohan doing? But the mist with which they were made began to thin. It curled further and ascended, melting into the air in slow motion.

   Hit by trance, Charoen stepped out of the condominium and turned left. The pavement was quiet, and some light from the lamp-posts above flooded down a certain portion of the road in patches. All the houses were asleep; the shops all closed. 

   Charoen walked ahead, oblivious to the deep night around her; oblivious to this deep night moving along with her. Occasionally, a bandicoot scurried across the deserted road, stopping in the middle, giving furtive glances, twitching its nose before scurrying again and reaching the other gutter.

The road turned to the left and so did Charoen. Relax was closed, its fibre-glass case with two shelves empty. But neither the parasols nor the tables and chairs were anywhere around.

But yet, they are there.

The patch of tar on the wall added to the silence. A sound like a squeak followed by a thud on the wall reached Charoen’s ears. Squeak, squeak, squeak, thud.

Her eyes next fell on the pavement below the wall, and yes, the legless man stationed there was lying on a gunny bag, his bundle of clothes packed in a polythene bag under his head. He was wearing the same clothes. He produced an occasional murmur, where are you, crow, where are you, crow, and the squeak instantly followed by a thud became audible. The legless man stirred in his sleep. Charoen’s eyes travelled up to the tree, and several crows, motionless, came into view. Very soon her eyes captured the third bird to the left with a ring around its neck. But the motor-car stand was a vacant patch of solitude invaded only by the squeak and thud.

All were there, and yet they were not there.  

Then again, squeak, squeak, squeak, thud.

And from this patch of the road, someone with gelled hair, unkempt grey T-shirt and torn jeans peeped from behind a building. 

Charoen walked up the one-flight of the foot overbridge, the pedestrian-path which went across the road. She stopped midway, looked to her left at the shut and bolted one-floor shop. The fruit vendors had left behind their shelves.

The one-floor shop, the shelves of the fruit vendors, all were there, and yet not there.

Charoen stopped in her path and pondered. Pondered in the midst of everything-and-nothing.

The tracker behind her concealed himself below the flight of stairs. Spitting out his chewing gum, he bent and ran over the steps, silent and quick as a cat. He stopped midway, concealing behind the metal pillar. I’ll suddenly grab her by the collar of her T-shirt from the back and grab her jeans at the waist, lift and throw her down. 

Ravi waited for the right moment to rush on her from behind. Bending his head and chest to an extent, he readied to charge, but suddenly Charoen turned. Ravi jumped back, pressing himself into the pillar, the smell of metal attacking his nostrils. Charoen walked down the stairs, crossed the pillar, her face blank, her eyes looking ahead as she proceeded towards the last step. It was on the middle of this road the last youth had committed suicide. Charoen squatted, looking at the spot where he had lain; his body curled up, his head with shiny hair patched with blood here and there. Some visions zoomed in and out of her mind. She saw herself lying on the pavement, red patches on her head. Someone else was beside her, his arm around her. Her hand over his chest, she looks up into his face. Yes, it was familiar. Romeo no doubt. As she slowly got up and turned to retrace her footsteps, someone grabbed her by the waist. But she remained unmoving, her hands at her sides. The attacker took his hand towards her face when her eyes fell on his. Cold and unmoving, they held Ravi into immobility. He was about to pull her t-shirt when his body froze. Charoen’s eyes still produce the cold look. An invisible grip around his forearm, and before he could fathom what was taking place, he found himself flung into the air, yelping like a puppy in sudden pain, and crashed into a heap to the pavement corner. Chaoren looked at someone yet at no one into the air and smiled.

Blind Willie Mc Tell, inaudibly audible, came floating from inside the shop. The legless man surely possessed a good singing voice. Charoen joined at the refrain:

             And I know no one can sing the blues

            Like blind Willie Mc Tell.

She crossed Relax, and very soon turned right. Ahead, the bandicoot scurries along halfway across the road, paused to check whether his sense of location was with him or betraying him. Keeping its tail motionless, it ran on its short legs, propelled by its credence. Charoen stopped at the steps of the condominium, went up the four flights, pushed the glass door, and waited for the door to silently close. The corridor was dark, save for a faint glow produced from a zero-watt bulb at the end. She turned left and took the four flights up to the second floor, and then turned to the first door to her right. She walked up to her study table, sat on the chair, pulled out the planner – in the form of a notebook – without any dates printed on it page by page. Flipping to a fresh page and picking up a black ink gel pen, she wrote the date on the top right corner, and the year eighteen years ago. She began scribbling and finally closing the planner.

It was three in the morning when she went to bed.

*

Squeak, squeak, squeak, thud! Squeak, squeak, squeak, thud!

After about forty-five minutes of squash playing, Rohan stopped and sat on the thresh-hold of the connecting door between the kitchen and the yard. His pulse beat quicker, his breath faster, and his forearms glistened with a film of perspiration as much as his face. Drops of sweat ran down from his head, his forehead, his jaws before collecting on his chin and falling on the floor into a steady drop.

After the gurgling of the blood had stopped, he had lain on the floor, weak from the force that dominated his mind. He stepped into the kitchen and drank some water and taking out a cheese slice, bit into it. The smell calmed the itching in his gullet and when it reached his diaphragm, a soothing sensation spread in his stomach, and his breathing became controlled. He stood up. My exercise has to continue. And stepping into the backyard, when he lifted his hand to drop the ball and readied at the same time with his right hand above his head to strike the ball, his head gave a spin, and before he could realize anything, he was on the floor.

A faint glow spread like a carpet next to him, and when he opened his eyes it must have been about sixty minutes later. His head felt heavy and a slight tenderness invaded his stomach. He tried to get his bearings. Yes. I was practicing when my head swung, my blood gurgled up to my mouth, and… He turned to his side and got up in slow measures.

Closing the door behind him, and switching off the light, he walked up the steps to his attic-study. He switched his computer on, and double clicking on Google Chrome and opening f*******:, he checked his status. There was no news from Fai, and neither from Jane, the new person who had sent him a friend request. He had accepted the request, but that was nearly two months back, and like some of the past times, her name disappeared suddenly and appeared once again in his friends’ category. Next when he opened to Random Thoughts, two of his poems were missing. How can they get deleted?

But again Jane was nowhere. Rohan scrolled down, ran his eyes on the name and picture of friends given on the left of the screen. He stared at The Wood of Silence that appeared to the left. Above the name only the picture of an avenue of trees could be seen, their tops joined together from foreground to background. The entire wood was dark. Something strange, he murmured. I have come across this picture somewhere. Switching the computer off, he returned to bed, taking this picture of the wood with him.

Rohan was in this Wood of Silence. In the midst of this wood was La Donna Bar and Restaurant. Outside, at the entrance to the open yard, the name shone in silver. The wave of the steel name plate made the colour of light and shade with the blue neon light around go off and on.

The two smoky beings, with Romeo and Juliet with Rohan and Chaoren’s features, stepped inside. The place was moderately crowded, and the music fizzy, like a soda bottle being opened and its carbonated pressurized sound continuing non-stop.

The two smoky beings moved towards the last empty table, and kept their video camera on the top of the cabinet of bottles of drinks. Then they held each other in a slow rhythmic movement to the fizzy music and the techno drum beat.

And Rohan, in his house, held Charoen in a slow rhythmic movement to the fizzy music and the techno drum beat; and Charoen, in her house, held Rohan in a slow rhythmic movement to the fizzy music and the techno drum beat, both in their sleep. Both in their own rooms. Rohan with Charoen in his room. And Charoen with Rohan in her room.