Broken Hug

Together

Rohan and his friends paid the bill.

“Thank you,” Max smiled at the lady who had served them. “Good food.”

The lady smiled and bowed, saying thank you in Thai and joining her palms in namaste.

The crowd was no less. There was a fruit stall across the street on the other pavement. Rohan was behind his friends. He turned his head left and right while crossing. And as his head turned right, he saw a girl in school dress ahead near the main crossing. His heart leapt. He paused for a split second. Max turned his head, and he could make out his friend’s reason for slowing down.

“Come on, Rohan,” he said. “Every school girl isn’t she.”

He pulled Rohan. Very soon they were staring at red apples piled like a mini hill. They bought one each and headed to the main crossing. They hopped into a taxi.

“Asia Guest House, Siam Square, Phayathai Road,” Raj said.

“Okhay.” and the driver smiled.

   The taxi sped whenever the road was clear, and it moved at a slow pace in tune with the traffic. Very soon they were at the Siam Crossing. The taxi waited at the red signal.

   “Hey, you know,” Rohan looked at his friends. “My legs are longing for some exercise. So” and he paused, “why don’t you guys go ahead, and I’ll walk it down.”

   Raj looked out. “Umm, I got it baby. The BACC is right there,” and he pointed his finger ahead after the crossing.”

   “Ok, you look around inside,” Max said. “Enact out yesterday’s scene from start to finish.” He and Raj chuckled.

   Rohan smiled as he opened the door. He quickly crossed the street and there in front of him stood Bangkok Art and Culture Centre.

   A feeling of warmth began a fresh tingle in his heart and mind.

   Inside it was vacant. Two of the security men were seated at a table. Where the poetry reading took place yesterday, even the pulpit was missing. He looked at the spot where the audience was gathered. And to the right, at this part was where he and Fai were standing. All of yesterday returned.

   A feeling of niceness spread in Rohan’s heart. No one could take away that feeling. Reliving each and every moment was a journey of rediscovery. The entire ground floor was overflowing with the voice of one poet after another. And in between them, like sandwich fillings, Fai’s and his voice sounded in his ears like ghungroo – the anklet on the feet of a dancer.

   He wanted to remain here as long as he desired to, so he took the first flight of stairs. The wide hall above was filled with spot lights throwing their gleam on paintings on the walls. He moved among the thin group of people scattered here and there. He stopped at the first painting. It was a circle of several colours, beginning from the centre and extending with a gradual sweep. Next to this painting was a field spread with light green grass. From it sprouted out green and slender stalks, and on their heads rested orange-coloured flowers. He moved from one to the other. The crowd had thinned by then. He saw some people going up, and he too took the stairs to the second floor. Above were sculptures of busts of children with different emotions. Some had the expression of crying – cry of pain, cry of happiness, cry of laughter. And one was of a child with only a grin, as if the sculptor left the remark to the lovers of art and sculpture. He looked around. There were not much of people left in the hall.

   After going through the seven busts he took the flight down. Several people were admiring the paintings of the first floor. One was standing in front of the painting of circles. There was another observing the orange flowers. He tiptoed forward. Then stood right behind the observer.

   “The flowers are waiting for the fresh November air,” he said in a soft voice.

   The person quickly turned. She caught her breath.

   “Raw-han.” She whispered out the name. She looked at him, surprised. Her lips were open, her eyes wide and unmoving. Then she exhaled.

   He didn’t know what else to say. Silence surrounded them. Silence that was so meaningful. Silence that said from her side: I thought of you so much yesterday; and today too, the whole day, you were in my mind.

   Silence from his side said: I did the same. After you left yesterday, you were in my mind more than anything else. And today I have been seeking you out in all the places I have visited.

   He couldn’t remove his eyes from Fai. Hair fell over her right ear, covering part of her face and rested above her right breast.

   He smiled. “Straight from school,” he remarked and looked at her satchel.

   She nodded. “Yes.” And she looked at him, her black eyes resting on his face.

   He looked at her eyes. The eyelashes were long and thick and they were a deep contrast to her fair complexion, as was her white shirt against her jet-black hair and her skirt.

   “And you?” she asked her voice as soft as falling snow.

   “Ahm… we had gone sightseeing.” He then told her about the spots they had visited. “And then we separated from the bus and visited Chinatown.”

   “Oh is it?” she looked surprised. “And when was that?” she enquired.

   “Around one in the afternoon. We are just coming from there.”

   “I went to Chinatown too and have come straight from there. I picked up medicine from the Xui Chemist shop on the other end.” She paused. “Where were you?”

   “We ate at Krua p**n Lamai.”

   “I crossed it.” There was a tone of regret in her voice as though he was her medicine in the shop and someone else came before her and bought off the last bottle. “Ahead of it is the chemist shop.”

   He nodded and smiled as he continued looking at her. There was enough softness in her tone.

   “You know, I somehow was especially looking here and there in Chinatown, as if I would see you any moment there.” He paused. “As if… as if, you too were looking for me.”

   She shifted her weight to the other leg, looked down and then to her left and right. Then she nodded, as if to herself.

   The hall was empty by then, and they began moving towards the next painting.

   “Yesterday…” he said.

   “Yesterday…” she said.

   Both laughed.

   “Go on, you say,” he told him.

   “No, you say,” she insisted with gentleness.

   “Yesterday after you left, I thought of the good time I had here.” He looked at her, and then at a painting.

   She turned her head. “I too thought of the good time I had. And,” she paused, “I thought of calling you.”

   “Oh did you, Fai?” he exclaimed. “And you know, I took out my cell phone in the middle of the night and scrolled to your name. And then I kept my thumb many a time on the green button, but didn’t call.”

   “Why didn’t you?” And once again she gave him that soft and intense look. “You should have done so, Raw-han. Didn’t you know I was expecting your call?”

   “Something within told me you were. Yet again something else said it would be wrong to call at that time of the night.”

   They both looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Then they began moving in the hall surrounded by silence and the paintings, and the glow from the lights.

   There was beauty where they stood that evening. Fai and Rohan.  It was one of the points of his life. The paintings surrounded them – in brilliant colours of red, blue, yellow and green; and in their variety of shades; and in their blends. Like fish gliding in the water. When you took a few steps to one side and looked at them, a part of their shade seemed either heightened or lessened, giving them a different look.

   He told her to come to his side and look at the painting of a face. Fai stood next to him and in an instant was taken in by its wonder. The face looked sadder. The crease below the eyes – the crow’s feet – seemed deeper. Fai put her hand to her face, and her eyes widened.

   She looked at him. “I didn’t know this,” she remarked, the tone of wonder dominating her voice. He noticed her eyes then. They seemed to have journeyed far away, taking her mind with them, to show the real meaning behind the painting.

      “There is a disease called progeria where a person begins ageing ten times faster than normal,” he told her. “So stepping to one side and looking at this picture from a different angle has changed the impression of the painting.” He looked at her and found on her face the same expression of wonder as she nodded and turned her head once again to the painting.

   “Which means it’s like a picture in a newspaper. As a child I would press a part of a picture’s face. And immediately creases would appear; cheeks would bend, the nose would look different.”   

   He nodded, and then smiled. “But you know,” he said as if speaking his thoughts aloud, “it’s good to talk to you. I find that I missed it, even when it hasn’t been that long.” He paused. “I mean we met yesterday.” Rohan tried his best to be sincere. Perhaps she caught his tone layered with sincerity.