Broken Hug

Once There Was A Girl

The woman took out a small piece of cloth from the pocket of the camera case and lightly ran it on the LCD screen. Once done, she blew on it, presumably removing dust particles which had strayed and rested on the lens; once again she ran the soft cloth over the screen.

“This is the shop,” the woman said pointing out, “where we had purchased our earrings from. Remember?” Her voice was like an enthusiastic teenager’s. “I fell for the pair of gun-metal earrings and the gun-metal choker?”

“Yes. And I..,” the smoky man smiled, “I picked up my silver stud, and we paid for each other’s ornaments…”

They never realized someone was behind them.

“Yes,” the lady interrupted as they proceeded forward. “And look, this is the spot where men make beautiful and artistic designs with henna paste on their palms, their abdomen, above their tail bone area and on the wrists of young women. Including some gays also.”

The man nodded, a smile on his face. “Let us go and sit on the low railing of the flyover. Remember we had last sat there when we were living.”

The quiet road was half flooded with street lights. A pair of dogs lay on their sides, eyes closed, the brown one with two big white patches facing the road, and the black one facing the brown one.

Very soon a white and brown dog came trotting along, its tail swinging nineteen to the dozen, its closed mouth giving it a resolute look. When it came close to the two sleeping canines, they opened their eyes. As if by intuition, the black dog suddenly got up, went up to the other dog, nuzzled close to it, sniffed its nose and both trotted off.

“Perhaps,” the lady said, her voice with a catch of wonder, “this is the way divorce and live-in relationships were handed down to human beings,” and she rested her eyes on the man. “The two silently agree they will live away from each other because they are bored of each other’s company. They are failing to improve each other’s mind intellectually. So one decides to simply walk out of the other’s life and that is what it literally does. Both, perhaps, feel broken-hearted at losing each other’s company. They miss each other, but accept the fact that this is reality. So life has to go on, and as they say, there are plenty of pebbles on the beach and you will surely find someone of your artistic mentality; and if you don’t you will bask on the light of your past relationship.”

“Yes Fai, my love, true,” the man nodded. “But in our case we are made for each other. Otherwise how could we still remain together even after death…” and he looked ahead into the dark night.

“True, darling, otherwise how come we are still lovers in our next life. And to show we are still committed to each other, we enact our last meet at the spot we had last met,” and the lady cuddled closer to her beloved.

*

Returning home, Rohan recalled Charoen-Thip’s entry into Kingston College. He had entered Room 21. It was one day after The Freshers’ Welcome. It was the second period. He had decided on a discursive essay that day. He had just given the topic when his eyes moved over all the students in one single gentle sweep. And it stopped at the last bench. Sitting there was this girl of a quiet sort, paying attention but occasionally losing it. Something in her eyes riveted his attention to her. Her eyes dark and deep set, spoke in a language whose synonyms were sadness, solitude, loneliness, soft-quietness. You could continue looking into her eyes and forget everything around yourself; such was the language behind their soft glow.   

To describe the classroom would make things clearer. A four hundred square feet classroom, which was spacious, especially when you take into consideration only fifteen students were allowed in every class and in every section of a class. There were three rows of single seats and benches, which meant there were five desks in each row. Hence there was ample space between each row, and a good amount of space behind the last desks and the wall.

Charoen sat at the last bench, and when work was completed by the students, she remained to her own self, writing something with head bent, and sometimes if not writing, her pretty nose lay in the book. At this time some students sucked from the tetra pack either fruit juice or chocolate milk that could be bought from the canteen counters, while others bit into bars of chocolate. Cigarette packets bulged out from the jeans pockets of some of them, while some others, with skirts six inches above the knee put their hands inside the pockets and fiddled about with the fag packs.

Other students chatted about, sometimes giggling, at other times including Spanish vocabulary into their conversation in English. Charoen mostly remained in her own world. But she produced a smile, now and then or added a few words to her friends to make them feel she was a part of their community, though a bit reticent.

*

In college the next day Charoen had her head bent when Rohan entered the class. Others looked at their young professor, some smiled, while the rest were busy writing. Instinctively she looked up, her and his eyes met and a strange wonder, in all its silence, flooded her face. A smile appeared on her mouth, partly showing her white teeth.

Could she sleep soundly on Saturday night, he wondered. Or did he appear in her sleep as a Lord of the Night.

On the white board he wrote: The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.  He asked his students for the meaning of the topic, gave his explanation, and told them to brainstorm. 

“How many examples should you give?”

“Three.” One of them said.

“What kinds of examples?” Rohan asked.

And another said, “One from History, one from the life of a popular personality, like Albert Einstein, or Edison…”

“…or Nelson Mandela, or Mahatma Gandhi, or Marie Curie… or our friend Ruchi Diwan,” another student joined up saying, and pointed out to the girl behind her, which made everyone laugh out. He too shared the joke.

“The last example can either be from popular culture or a personal one…” he looked from one to the other.

“Sir,” one of the students asked. “On Friday I reached home around 5 PM which was quite late. Our bus got stalled in the middle of the traffic and crept forward whenever it got the chance. We looked out from the front window and our eyes only fell on private cars and a few passenger buses. Traffic wormed its way forward, stopping most of the time. So Sir Rohan,” and she coughed, “can I include my experience into my essay?”

A yell of male and female voices filled the room. “Yes, yes, yes,” they responded. “Yes, yes, yes,” they rapped on their desks and they looked at me.

“Yes, the harder the conflict of trying to reach home,” another student added, “the more glorious is the sleep.”

Another one added, “Yes we can say that our government likes us so much, it gives us processions, and traffic jams.”

“And tensions to our parents,” a boy from the middle bench added, his mouth twisted into a smile. “And it gifts us sleep at the end of the day.”

“And what about the uncollected garbage on many roads?” one girl demanded.

“And it makes us wonder whether we should vote for the ruling party in the next election,” one voice rang clear from the other side.

They all looked at each other, smiling, giving victory and thumbs up signs. “I’ll share this,” one said, his hand holding a cigarette pack. “And I this,” another was ready with his response, sticking out his middle finger from the edge of his pocket, an impish grin splashed all over his face.

“Yes,” Rohan was able to get his voice at last. “You may voice your opinion but please remember to be polite with your choice of words and not to mention the word government.”

The bell rang calling it a day from work. Rohan collected his few books from the table. The students were impatient to get out from the canned air of the room.

“Teacher,” Hetal came up, the exercise copy in her hand open. “This was yesterday’s creative writing from the essay prompt.” She gaves an apologetic look.

He smiled. “I’ll go through it and return it soon.”

The class was near-empty by now. A small group, a threesome was involved in conversation. An occasional laughter rang out from one or the other, cutting some of the words and phrases that floated about.

Charoen was arranging her books in her bag. All of a sudden she raised her head in the midst of her packing, as if aware, and her eyes met his. Both exchanged a half smile. He walked to the door, with Hetal following. Once inside his office room, Hetal handed her copy, smiled, wishing him goodbye.

While arranging the table, he hummed the rap song he had composed the other day. His eyes again fell at the photocopy of Mother Teresa. She seems to be smiling at me. In silhouette form, the profile demonstrated the face in all prominence. He smiled back, picked up the key, gave the room one last look and when sliding the door open, heard a tap-tap and almost bumped into Charoen.

“Oops. Sorry.” he smiled, consciousness creeping into his mind and paling his face to a degree.

She stepped aside, a little smile on her lips, a tinge of discolouration on her face and her eyes furtive.

“Ready for home, it seems,” he said.

She raised her eyelashes. “Might go late, Sir.”

“Come in for a while then.” His heart skipped a beat. 

She stepped inside and he extended his hand above her head, sliding the door shut. Placing the water bottle and a paper cup on the table, he poured water and handed her the cup. Marks of tiredness had already crept up and settled on her face. She smiled a quiet smile as she took the water towards her mouth and drank. All of a sudden he remembered he had asked her last Saturday if she would drink water; that was a silly question then. But now it wasn’t.

“I’m going to the store ahead. You may meet me there.”

Keeping the cup on the table, she fidgeted with the strap of her bag. “In how much time will you be there?”

“Umm, in a short while.”

“Then,” and she tapped her other hand, “I will be there in about fifteen.” She smiled, got up and turned towards the stairs.