It was already past 3:00 AM in the morning. The sky was devoid of the moon as well as the stars that night. It felt as if the universe had spilled pitch-black paint on the canvas of nature. The stillness seemed palpable. I am not sure if I was the last person alive or already dead, breathing from a place in purgatory where humans were not allowed. I could hear myself breathe, I could hear the arms of the clock ticking. The silence too had an incongruous voice, the kind of voice that distracts you, that never goes away no matter how hard you try to divert your attention. I stood there, waiting…
I live in an old apartment with four of my college friends. As the rent in this part of the city is extremely high, I opted for flatmates. But I always admired solitude, with minimum human interaction. Being the reticent one, it was easy escaping from any kind of gratuitous conversation. The minimum human interaction is a reluctant part of my life because I share an apartment with four other people. Without them, my world will be a perfect union of silence and isolation.
The apartment is narrow in width and quite long in length with three average-sized rooms. Two rooms are occupied in a double occupancy by the four flatmates and I live alone in the third room. My room is the one facing towards the hallway, with a balcony attached to it. The walls holding the balcony are a patchy artwork of moss and shady blackness. Considering how old my apartment history is, it surprisingly stands tall, sandwiched between two newly constructed buildings. The building is known as the Kafka Building. It is one of the oldest buildings in the lane and has become the identity of Jehangir Lane where it is located.
Apart from the routine life that I have, there is always time for me to stare towards oblivion standing on the balcony, especially when it is dead quiet around. I find myself questioning the conventions of education, society, human existence as well as the idea of death. What lies beyond the threshold of demise? I am intrigued by this question while my room is bathing in the darkness of night. I walked into my room, leaving the premises of my balcony, and sat on my cold bed. As I sit here, I can see the faint flicker of an old street light casting a shadow of branches on the balcony opening. It appeared as if a pair of claws were just inches away from clawing the walls and climbing up. Without a question, I am nocturnal for which I blame my thoughts and vivid imagination altogether.
The clock struck 3:30 AM and she was nowhere to be found. She has always been punctual until this day. I again got up from the bed and walked towards the balcony to check if she was shielded by the night. It was cold, the winter was slowly approaching. The balcony was surrounded by Saptaparni trees. It was late October and the trees were in full bloom. Winters in Delhi are marked by the smell of these trees. As I reached the balcony, I felt the cold current of air caressing my face. The sound of silence merged with the sound of Saptaparni leaves. I felt like a nihilist standing at the edge of the Earth devouring the beauteous bride of nature. I am standing at the same spot, the one on which I stood the day I first saw her.
The University exams got over and the completion of the semester was followed by students heading back to their hometowns. Three of my flatmates left for their home and one scheduled his ticket for the next morning. I was least enthusiastic about the holidays or the idea of home, and as a result of which I decided to stay back and have a few days of solitude. It was a night filled with the noise of chirping crickets, and the darkness prevailed with the absence of the moon and stars. It was on that night when I first felt her presence. I was on my bed reading Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. The night was accompanied by the confusing sensation of approaching winter. The cold onshore winds were cutting through trees. It was like a grueling march on a rutted land. The winds asphyxiated the grimy land, it gave me a feeling of schadenfreude while watching this callous torture. The weather was cold, yet not so. Without the fan, it felt like choking, and with the fan, it was all kinds of chaos. The ceiling fan in my room was making vexatious noises. After staring at the fan with disgust for a while, I got up to adjust its configuration so that it manages to shut up with the noise and at the same time serve its real purpose. I was returning to my bed when I heard a distant voice. It sounded like a woman’s cry. It was a high-pitched voice, mellifluous yet excruciating.
The crickets went silent as if sensing my anxiety. The galling voice of the fan subsided. The room was filled with a harrowing shriek! I went numb for a while. As I was trying to register if what I heard was for real or was I dreaming!? Soon I snapped out of it and ran towards the balcony to check the source of that cry. I surveyed, it was dark, awfully still, and quiet. I pressed my ears against the stillness, half hoping to find the source. After standing there for some time and coming across nothing but silence, I decided to go over to my flatmate and inquire about the recent heart-wrenching shriek.
He was still lazily arranging his clothes.
“Did you hear the voice of a woman crying?” I asked.
“Voice? What voice? I didn’t hear anything.” He replied disinterestedly while busy folding his clothes.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
I couldn’t get myself to reply to that. He kept his T-Shirt, which he was folding, on the bed. He came up to me, looked me in the eye, and examined my face for a while.
“Are you fine?” He asked.
“Yes. I think so… Umm…I should go to bed now.” I stammered.
Returning to my room, I crawled into my bed. I returned the book to the rack that was placed near my headboard. It was a small brown wooden rack with four shelves. I admired it beside my bed. The aroma of books mixed with the smell of raw wood helped me sleep at night. Everything seemed normal. The concoction of the musty yet ambrosial scent, the stuttering of the fan, the flickering of the tube light, the rushing of the wind through the pores and cracks on the window panes. These usual concomitants made it feel like any other night. The only thing unusual was the gasping sob. The voice was getting clamorous with every tick of the clock.
It was 12:30 AM in the morning. I was in my bed wishing to fall asleep. The chances of which seemed to be decreasing with each passing minute. For a change that night, I actually wanted to fall asleep rather than let my imagination catch hold of me. The struggle with helplessness remained. I wanted to reach the voice, it felt as if she was calling me, urging me to find her. But there is darkness all around, and I am unsuccessful in locating her.
I heard footsteps approaching my room. It was Usher, my flatmate.
“Hey! Are you awake?” Usher asked while standing at the door.
“Yeah. Just trying to sleep.” I answered while sitting up.
Usher came inside and sat on the bed next to me. He seemed perplexed, probably finding the right words to continue the conversation after my uncanny questions.
“So, are you done with your packing?” I asked to break the ice.
“Yes, I just got over it,” he replied awkwardly. “All set to leave.”
After a few seconds of unbearable silence, he spoke with concern in his eyes, “Are you going to be okay alone for all these days?”
“I guess I am going to be fine,” I replied with a smile.
He smiled back and left my room.
That was probably the longest conversation we had in a year of being flatmates. Strange how words get tied in your throat when people around you show concern. It was clear from Usher’s expressions that he was flummoxed and wanted to inquire more about it, but circumspect in his statements because of the minimalistic nature of our relationship.
After Usher left, I switched off the light and put the fan at a minimum speed. The voice was slowly fading away. I felt relieved when it finally disappeared. There were no more flickering tube lights, no more vexatious fan noises, and no more gasping sobs. The ceiling fan was rotating at its minimum speed, I could see its blades clearly. The last thing I remember was staring at the fan while I drifted to sleep, probably hypnotized by the rotation of the blades.
The next morning I woke up to see off Usher. He was carrying with him a big black trolley. It felt as if he was leaving this town forever. The struggle was real, maybe he was regretting packing so generously after all. I decided to give him a hand with his luggage and ended up dropping him into the cab. While returning, I crossed paths with several of my neighbors. Some were dropping their kids at school, some getting milk from nearby shops, and some were out for a walk with their dogs. A strained smile was mandatory with a few of them. We see each other every day while performing our daily chores, and as a result, an unusual relationship developed between us.
I finally returned to my apartment after a long walk and made myself a cup of black coffee. A hazy trail of the previous night’s events lingered in my memory. But somehow it was not substantial enough to catch onto this morning. I sat down with my coffee on the table and appreciated the silence around me. I will be all alone for the next few days. A gush of unknown feeling rushed through me, I couldn’t recall the cause of that feeling for a while. Was it a feeling of finally having the place to myself? Or was it the residue of a night that happened to slip away from my subconscious? I let those questions hang in my head for a while and then brushed them off to get done with my daily routine. With college out of my way, I had plenty of time to finish my book and take a walk around the locality.
It was 7.30 AM, still early to begin my day. So I walked into my room to lie down for a while. Mornings in my room cast a whole different ambiance than the night does. The daylight floods in and the balcony look less appealing, because of all the splintered sunrays barging in. I feel exposed to all the illumination that goes on. The above makes it very clear that I am not very fond of mornings. After an hour of hovering thoughts, I stepped out of my bed and collected all the laundry that I wanted to get over with. The rest of the day was pretty occupied as I decided to clean my room and wrap up my Physics project.
Night approached with a soothing breeze from the balcony. I was sipping my sixth cup of coffee when the crickets welcomed the evening with their sonorous chirping. Suddenly there was a knock at the front door. The cup I was holding almost slipped from my hand at the abrupt sound of a knock. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and we never had visitors in general. And even if someone visited, they always opted for the doorbell not knocking!
I got up to answer the knock. Reaching the door I hesitated for a while and realized the necessity as well as the importance of a peephole for the first time in my life. Before reaching the hinge I decided to grab the kitchen knife. Better to be prepared than to be sorry later, also because paranoia gets the better of me sometimes. Clutching the knife in one hand, I unlocked the hinge to open the door and peeped out. There was no one at the door. I stepped out and checked twice to make sure. But as I came inside and locked the door behind me, I had this urge, this uncontrollable desire to go check the balcony for some strange reason.
Now that I think of it, it feels like I was in a trance while walking toward my room. With every step touching the cold marble, I felt numb. I reached my room, my heart swelling with anticipation of the unknown. As my feet left the floor of my room and touched that of the balcony, I froze!
There she was! Standing perfectly still, coalescing flawlessly with the night in her long black flowy attire. The apparel clung to her as the cloud clings to the sky on a dark night. Her hair fell loose on those slender shoulders. The sky was clear, the moon was staring down at earth with stars sprinkled like grains of sugar around it.
My voice happened to lose its way and refused to come out. I stood there perplexed, with a thumping heart and scrambled mind. Her attention was undividedly towards the moon as if she was having a staring competition with it for a precious prize. Regardless, I was paralyzed at that moment. I dared not to move my eyes from her, for reasons uncountable. But somewhere deep down I could feel the unusual strings getting pulled that did not let my eyes look anywhere else but hankered to be focused on her and only her.
“Sorry about last night” her familiar voice impaled the silence.
It deepened the sinking feeling I was having. She spoke those words without looking at me, and they lacked the depth of any sentiment in them. For a moment there I even struggled to believe that it was coming from her. There was something about her voice, it had the depth of an ocean, like a lonely soul in the middle of a dense forest searching for solace. I found myself standing beside her as if my body was still in some kind of insentient state. As soon as I found my voice to say something, she broke the stare with the moon and turned to look right into my eyes. Her face was sculpted with careful precision. She had sapphire eyes, resembling a still clean lake filled with radiant blue water. I couldn’t look away, even when her eyes glowed in the dark.
“Who are you?” I finally uttered with a trembling voice. I could feel the warm blood rushing through my ears.
“You can call me Miwa,” she answered.
The name sounded familiar, yet I was sure that I had never heard it before. She had a constant smile on her face while speaking. The kind of smile that you give to someone when you know them for years. The ambiance was completely obmutescent. The cold winds lost their voice. The annoying sound of the fan disappeared. The tube light wasn’t flickering anymore. It was as if the world had come to a state of stillness. The only thing that was prevalent was our conversation. Her voice was so intense, it seemed almost tangible. My voice, on the other hand, was discombobulated.
It wasn’t just the fear of uncertainty, there were questions and events from last night swirling inside my head. My intuition whispered about the connection between the previous night’s voice and her.
“Was it you who knocked at my door?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you disappear when I opened the door?”
“I preferred the balcony for our first meeting” she answered with a confident smile, “I thought you liked it here.”
That added to my bewilderment, the confidence in her voice gave me goosebumps. Not to mention, I was completely terrified.
“Was it your voice that I heard last night?” I finally asked.
“Could be.”
“Were you hurt?” I was taken aback by the concern I had in my voice.
“No.” After a pause, she continued, “It was calling out for you, Oumar.”
She knew my name! I am sure this time the bafflement was smeared all over my face, and it wasn’t hard for her to figure it out.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
Now she was looking directly into my eyes, standing just a few inches away. It felt as if she was confabulating through her eyes.
“I know everything about you. I know what keeps you up at night.” She answered with ease.
Her voice was becoming tender with every passing minute. She had an unusual enchantment in her voice. I wanted to ask a lot of questions but was not able to frame them. I wanted to talk to her but did not know what to say.
“You don’t have to struggle this hard.” She said in a soft tone.
“What do you want?” I spurt out the words without giving them a thought.
There was absolute silence after my last statement. She was looking straight into my eyes. It was tough staring back. A gnarly moment for me. I finally gave up.
“I am waiting for a reply,” I asked with an austere tone.
“I am here to talk.”
“Talk? And what is it that you want to talk about?”
“Everything! Everything that you had ever wanted to talk about.”
It took me a while to sink it all in. “Everything” the word reverberated. Does that word even carry some meaning?
Now she was looking away. Her stare was fixated on the moss on the wall. She was waiting for me to say something. And I was looking at her in blank amazement.
“I find it hard to carry a conversation. Let me tell you that if you are only here for it.” I replied.
“I am aware of it. But you do have a lot of questions that keep you on this balcony in the dark for long hours.” She had a point.
“I just like spending my time alone and thinking about things.”
“What are those things?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Well! There are a lot of things that bother me. I generally do not like how stuff happens in this world. I don’t like how people perform their tasks. I believe it can be done in a better way.” I answered without a pause.
She stared at me for a while. It felt as if she knew what I was going to say but wanted to hear it from me. She took a long pause and walked towards the railing of the balcony and sat down on the small platform that connected the railing and the floor. It was filled with dust but that did not bother her. She raised her hand, gesturing me to sit. I joined her.
“So you are an outlier?” She said in a rhetorical tone.
“A little, maybe. Is it bad?”
“No,” she replied with an assuring look on her face.
“People mistake my outlook on how things should work as “arrogance”, they fail to see what lies beyond the conventional boundaries created by society. And how it limits our efficiency.”
After saying this, I realized that this is for the first time I am giving voice to my thoughts. I didn’t want to stop.
“We all claim ourselves as individuals but we fail to identify and operate as one. We tend to move as mere shadows of the system and social constructs, even when it is wrong on so many levels.” I continued.
Her assiduous attention was a distraction, yet an impetus to carry on with my words. She sat perfectly still, with her sapphire eyes wide open, listening carefully.
“We make ourselves appear very weak and vulnerable,” I added.
“Aren’t we weak in our own ways? She asked
“We are not as weak as we make ourselves out to be though, if we were, we’d have been dead a long time ago.”
She smiled. It was a simple smile, the kind of smile that you give when you beguile someone.
“So! Have you been like this since your childhood?” She asked while continuing that smile.
“Like what?”
“An outlier.”
“I guess. With passing time it became quite intense.”
There was another pause. But this time it was less dreadful. I did not realize but I was getting much more comfortable in her presence and the conversation was no more unwieldy. She had an unwonted enchantment that was attracting me towards her.
“How is it possible that you never felt the need to fit in? Didn’t the system try to pull you into the same?” She questioned with such curiosity that for a moment there I wondered if she was mocking me.
I didn’t realize I got immersed in my thoughts so deeply that I forgot to reply to her.
“What? A question too straight for you to answer?” She said, turning her head towards me. I almost chuckled at how casually she uttered those words.
“Not like that.”
“Then?”
“Yes. The system did try to suck me in or I would rather say force me to participate in its madness. But I always managed to save my principles from going down the gutter.” I replied.
It was like my voice found its pulse. I continued…
“It takes everything to swim against the waves. There are times when I face dilemmas that leave me devastated and frustrated. That’s when it gets difficult to communicate. And I choose to stick to my beliefs because I feel they are the only anchor that holds me steady.” I sighed.
After a while, she spoke again, “What do you do when you face such situations?”
“I choose to stay away from society, do things my own way.”
“But I guess, it is not helping. Don’t you think you need to be a part of society, bring about the change, if you think so?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“So you don’t believe in yourself, right?”
“I believe in myself, I just think society will not embrace change.”
“Do you realize the outliers who influence the world, the inventors, revolutionaries, leaders, they all have one thing in common?” She pointed.
“What is that?”
“They all bring the change in the world, they lead the change, force the society to embrace it and hence become immortal.”
“How do they get the motivation to do it?”
“They don’t. Their impetus is their ego.”
“Ego?”
“Yes. Ego literally means ‘concern about one’s own interests.’ They wanted to make the world a better place for them to live in. And they did.”
I was hanging on to every word that she was saying. For the first time in my life, I felt that the conversation with someone should go on for eternity. I have never had the patience to listen to anybody speaking. But it felt like we descended into a black hole and time had reached the state of stillness.
She continued, “If you have a problem with society, change it. If not for people, change it for yourself. You believe in individuality and the theory that ‘one is more important than the collective.’ So give yourself the importance you deserve. We are the true beneficiaries of our own actions. Rebel against the collective.”
Her words made me realize that all I did was brood which was followed by frustration, not action. I was rendered mute.
It was not usual for me to talk so much with this continuity. I was thirsty. She was engrossed in her thoughts, maybe framing another question to throw in my direction.
“If you don’t mind, I will go get some water.” I interfered.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
I got up and walked towards my room. Then I remembered that I forgot to ask Miwa if she wanted some water too.
As I turned around to ask her, she wasn’t there anymore. I made a frantic search of the balcony as well as of the house. She was nowhere to be seen. What increased my disquietude was she left without saying goodbye.
Faint first rays of sun trickled from the silhouette of trees. It was dawn already and the wind was suddenly piercing cold. Till this moment I felt shielded from the outer world, now I felt exposed and unguarded.
It was exhausting to think of reasons why she left without saying anything. I sat in the same spot where we were sitting a few minutes back and thought about all that she said.
The sunrise was accompanied by the chirping of birds and sunlight. I headed back to my room and lay down on my bed. My eyelids were heavy and I drifted off to sleep in no time.
My eyes popped open from the screeching sound of furniture moving upstairs. The clock on the wall displayed 1:10 PM. That was a 9-hour dreamless slumber, longer than I expected. Then came one of those enigmatic sessions of thoughts, where a person forgets about himself and his surroundings after a long sleep.
I got up from bed with a bad headache. After having my bath and changing into a fresh pair of pajamas, I walked into my room. It was a quiet day, perfect for Norwegian Wood, the bookmark pointed where I last left. It was hard for me to concentrate and explore Murakami’s universe, especially when my own universe had an unusual guest last night. After a while, it got difficult to concentrate. I returned the book to the table that stood beside my bed. The state of trance still prevailed from last night’s events. All of this was followed by me sitting and staring at the floor, procrastinating at the idea of getting something to eat. Finally, I paid attention to my churning stomach and dragged myself to the kitchen. Coffee was the priority of the hour.
Time seemed to be stagnant for some reason that day. I treated the pestiferous churning in my stomach with a cup of coffee and a bowl of noodles. The rebarbative feeling of alienation after 9 long hours of sleep was making me claustrophobic. I could not get over Miwa, her words were still echoing in my ears. I finally decided to step out of the apartment and take a walk around the area.
I locked the doors and climbed down the stairs, which was followed by some timorous exchange of greetings from the neighbors. It was a beautiful day, the sun was nowhere to be found, and winter was finally traipsing in. The air was crisp outside and I regretted not bringing a jacket while leaving. As I was walking down the lane, rubbing my palms to keep them from going numb, there was this almost imperceptible scent of Saptaparni trees that stood tall in a nearby park. It was the pastoral fragrance that attracted me and coerced me into entering the park. Silence lay like a heavy coverlet over the area. I proceeded with slow steps to avoid disturbing the atmosphere of the complete ataraxy. It was delightfully quiet today, with no screaming children, a few health nuts jogging and three dogs minding their own business.
I found myself a place on an empty metal bench at the far end of the park, it was rusty from exposure to the atmospheric humidity. I did not pay attention to the ridiculous creakiness that it made while I sat down. This park had a mini playground established in it for children to play. And it is also one of the reasons why I don’t come here often. I dread screaming kids; torturing their parents for some fatuous reason, which can be as preposterous as another kid swinging higher than them on the other swing. I won’t even call it competitiveness.
This place sure had a lot of huge trees circling the boundaries. Many were still untouched by autumn, some even had remainders of summer flowers attached to their ends as well. The cracks in the trunks were covered with moist moss. But some trees were already caressed by the yellowish brush strokes of harsh autumn. The ground under those trees was starting to hide under the carpet of mushy and decomposing leaves.
My attention soon got fixated on a leafless tree standing tall and aloof from all the greenery. And by leafless I mean not even a tiny leaf attached to its branch, standing rigid and stark naked in the cold crisp wind. It almost seemed like it was mocking the trees whose branches were bending down with abundant leaves. If I could correctly guess, the tree was the Wrightia Tree commonly known as Doodhi Tree. It was standing right in the middle of the park, leafless — yet full of life. Branches of other trees were bathing in greenery, surrounded by yellow leaves, but this one stood there with its yellowish-brown bark and bare spiked branches.
The sight of that tree, all of a sudden, reminded me of Miwa and the conversation that I had with her. Rebel against the collective. The sentence echoed in my ears. It was literally the most powerful thing that I have heard from anyone. Give yourself the importance you deserve. It was all coming back. The tree was like a trigger. It created an impression of rebellion, by surviving the harsh weather, its roots holding the soil as if holding the ground for its existence. It is fighting against the lot, to make its existence distinct and significant. It was an outlier. That’s what made it more beautiful compared to other green trees. One is more important than the collective. Her presence alone added more pulchritude to the park than all the trees combined. Being in a minority was a strength for her, not a weakness. We are true beneficiaries of our own actions. The Doodhi Tree stood without fear, without guilt. Whatever activity of nature led to the shedding of all its leaves, it didn’t seem to bother her. It was standing as tall as it can, as proud as it can.
The conversation with Miwa was reverberating in my ears. Last night’s memory was floating at the surface of my brain while I was enjoying the beautiful image that stood in front of me. Somewhere along the line of growing up, I knew I was different and had a different perspective than others. But after last night, a question surfaced; What different did I do in all these years? My actions were passively limited to my thoughts. There was a rebel, and there were questions all along, but all of those were seldom acted upon.
They were hardly channelized to bring about a change or find a way to prove my point, rather I chose to leave it and ignore it. But later I find myself debating on the reason why it was wrong and how the results could have been better. And all this makes no sense now as I never stood up to defend, to reason out.
Dusk tiptoed around the corner as the sky was now running out of light. The park was witnessing the ingress of more people coming for their evening walk. It was a subtle indication for me to leave. There were no light bulbs in the park and therefore the darkness spread like a down-filled duvet over the trees. I took one last look at the Doodhi tree before getting up to head back home.
Evenings in this neighborhood experienced their kind of frenzy get-togethers. It was during this hour when the housewives stepped out to stack their vegetable shelves. Which in turn filled the lanes with the racket of bargaining. A nearby temple played evening prayers on the loudspeaker, along with the fragrance of incense, which added to the ambiance of winter evenings. Devotees waiting with patience yet creating chaos with a shrill voice. It wasn’t like any other day, this day was different. It was different and it took every inch of my rationality to question my existence. As my steps approached my apartment, the feeling of alienation again crept in. All that mattered was the urge to hear her voice again, to question her and tell her about my recent realization. Each encroaching step towards my room made the nostalgia of loss, even more, stronger, like sand slipping in between the fingers of tightly clasped palms.
I opened the door of my apartment and stepped inside. The place was giving unusual vibes, it felt as if the apartment was once filled with a lot of people and now is suddenly deserted with only memories left of them. The gripping hold of this nagging nostalgic silence was filling the place with an unbearable longing for a presence.
It was 7:30 PM. I was just biding my time and hoping the night comes soon enough. I had a feeling that Miwa would return to continue the conversation. For the first time in my life, I was feeling lonely, craving the company of someone. Loneliness, I believe, implies a discomfort with solitude, a sense of incompleteness without the company of others. That is weak. Aloneness — not loneliness is what I always believed in. I didn’t even want to evaluate why I was immersed in such an uncanny emotion. But the evaluation happened. Whether it is her presence that I am craving, or it is the truth in her words that is enticing me to her.
I had to get my mind off this feeling before it consumed me and leave me wrecked.
I decided to arrange my bookshelf. It always helped, the elegant hardbound book covers or the paperbacks with thoughtful illustrations enhanced the experience of reading. Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” and Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead” were the oldest occupants of my bookshelf. I removed the old papers from the shelves and replaced them with fresh ones. This was one of my favorite activities since childhood. I was often mocked by others for doing this during my holidays. It never really bothered me. I wiped the layer of dust from the books and occasionally flipped through the pages, whiffing the pages.
The palpation was back this time, call it my intuition or call it anticipation. I was into that trance once more, my feet moved heavily yet as light as a feather as I walked towards the balcony from my bed. There was a silhouette of someone standing in the same spot as yesterday.
It was her!
Out of sheer excitement, I forgot to put on my slippers and walked barefoot on the freezing floor. Her flowy gown was stroking the stone cold tiles. It was the same as yesterday, flawless, whereas I remember her sitting on the dusty platform. Strangely enough, her sapphire eyes had the depth of a turquoise shade. I looked away immediately. The air was still brisk and her eyes were again focused on me. She was staring with such heed, it felt as if she was counting the number of steps that I am taking to reach her.
“How are you?” Miwa asked as soon as I reached her.
“I am good. Thank you.” I answered with a wide smile.
She smiled back. With each passing minute, I was growing used to her presence. She doesn’t frighten me anymore or at least not in a way when I first saw her.
“I hope you had a good day,” she asked. “You like staying alone, right?”
“Yes. I did. It was a great day.” I answered. “I came to know about certain facts that I wasn’t aware of. I observed things around me that I initially ignored. It all made sense especially after our conversation last night.”
“That’s good.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Why did you leave yesterday in the middle of our conversation?”
“Middle? I thought it was over.” Miwa replied. After a pause, she continued, “Also, I believe you needed some time to contemplate what we talked about.”
“Fair enough. And there were indeed some revelations, to be honest.” I said.
“That was the whole point of our conversation, wasn’t it?
I nodded. Miwa reaches out and holds my hand. “Oumar, in everyone’s life, there is a threshold point, when you reach that point, there is no returning. The point of no return. When you reach it, you have no option but to continue with the course, and sail with the flow. It will be too late to stop and return. Don’t reach that point so early. You can delay it with your actions. Mind you, I am not saying that you can stop it from coming. All you can do is delay it. Just doing nothing and rebelling from the inside is not going to help. You need to stand up for what you believe in. You don’t want to sit quietly and accept fate.”
Her words were like darts, they were hitting right at the target. I was scrupulously listening to her, making sure that I didn’t miss a single word that came out of her mouth.
“Did you get what I am trying to say?” Miwa asked after noticing my punctilious face.
“A little. Yes.”
“A little?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes. Why do you think I am reaching the no-return point?”
“I don’t think you are.”
“But I thought you meant that I am reaching that point early!?” I asked with a nonplussed expression.
“Why don’t you figure that out yourself?” She said while touching my shoulder.
I couldn’t reply to that. I just shook my head. Everything that Miwa had said since last night was true to the point. The realization that I had after hearing her sure helped me touch a few aspects that were left unexplored. Maybe that was one of the reasons why I was getting obsessed with her presence.
There was a long pause. I was trying to figure out what to say to her. It has always been very unendurable for me to share the silence with anyone. Deep down I was hoping that Miwa should say something to break this uncomfortable atmosphere of silence. And she did.
“You sure spend a lot of time on the balcony. What makes this place so special?” Miwa asked.
“It’s peaceful here at night. I generally read a book, look at the stars, or think about how the universe works.” I answered enthusiastically.
“Don’t you get bored looking at the same stars every night?”
“Not really. I travel back in time every time I watch them. It is a beautiful feeling altogether.”
She looked puzzled.
“The universe is vast…” I continued “And expanding even as we talk. The stars that you see are thousands of kilometers away from us or more precisely light years away. Even a star that is just one light year away, takes us into the past, a year back. So we are never really seeing the present state of that star, we are always looking at its past state. We will be looking at its present state after a year. We either live in the past or the future. There is no such thing as the present. Every quotation that you read about living in the present is nothing more than a fraud. The universe doesn’t agree with those quotes.”
She chortled after hearing the last line. Probably making fun of my extremely poor joke. I, however, continued.
“It is all because even the fastest moving thing in the universe is finite. Everything contained in this universe has restrictions. Pain, memories, love, and struggle all are finite. That is why I like looking at the stars every night. It reminds me that nothing lasts forever.
“But there is one thing that does last forever,” Miwa said after listening carefully.
“What is that?”
“The works of great men and women, the print they leave in this world. That is one thing that lasts forever. It makes them immortal.”
I had nothing to say. I just nodded.
“There is just one difference between mortals and immortals. The immortals start with a vision and take steps to achieve it. Some of them get nothing, but hatred from society. That doesn’t stop them. We all are defined by the ideas we have. If we do not pursue them, then what are we? Our ideas make up who we are. It is our moral responsibility to pursue them. Every great work was initially criticized and ridiculed. The idea of a computer for ordinary people was rejected. The first Xerox machine was rejected. Riding horses was believed to be unaffected by the introduction of motor cars. Western Union rejected the telephone as a means of communication. Society will reject you, and violently oppose you but in the end, will accept you. Your legacy will go on even after you die. That’s how you become immortal.”
She probably said that in one single breath. True to each word, her examples just added to my amazement. In a fraction of a second, she managed to establish a fact that reshaped my universe of thoughts. Not that I was unaware of all the examples of great works she gave, but it was the context that she shed light on. Their works shine, and they breathe each day even after being cold in their graves for decades and centuries. It was like discovering a whole new angle of viewing and analyzing what I know.
“I am considering rethinking my belief of nothing lasts forever,” I said.
She smiled. The smug on her face was evident. “That’s impressive considering the minimal effort I used to convince you.” She said in a sardonic tone.
“We didn’t talk about your college life, right?” Miwa continued.
“Nothing worth talking about it. Going to college is like a fight every single day. Fight with the Professors, Administration, and the Education System.”
“What do you fight against?”
“I find the modern education system pointless. College, I believe, just destroys your capacity for independent thinking. Prison and University have a lot of similarities.”
“So you are totally against university education!?”
“Totally. Debt and caffeine addiction are the only things that modern colleges promise to give you.”
“So are you planning to quit?”
“Maybe. I believe I have learned enough. There is nothing left for them to teach me. I wanted to understand Physics, not memorize theorems.”
“Whatever you do, make sure you will never regret it. None of your decisions should ever debilitate you.” Miwa said with a smile.
I nodded and smiled back. The night was now edging away with the morning star fading in the sky. The floor was colder than before, but conversations with her were too precious to give up on. I couldn’t even make myself go inside and get something to cover because last night she just decided to vanish as soon as I turned my face. Something told me that it will be the same today. The unheralded abandonment causes more puzzling conclusions than death does.
“You should go inside,” she asked.
“No. I am good here.”
“It doesn’t look like it. You are shivering because of the cold and your eyes look bloodshot.”
“I will survive.”
Clearly, I was trying to be tough. But it was bone-chilling cold and my eyes were burning more and more with each passing minute.
The faint crimson color of sun rays was now invading the sky.
“I guess it is time for me to leave,” Miwa said.
“Why?”
“Don’t you have enough to contemplate over?”
“I do. But..”
“Alright. I will stay for some time.” She interrupted.
“So, you mentioned that you like reading. Do you have a favorite?” Miwa continued.
“The list is huge if you put it like that, but A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens is close to my heart.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“The book in itself is a masterpiece of Dickens. It has its setting in France as well as in London, thus the title “Tale of Two Cities”, it is generally considered as an epitome for most of the events that occurred during the French Revolution. But the book stands for something much deeper, much more meaningful than just the portrayal of class conflict in it.” I paused to hide the shiver in my voice.
“The opening lines of this book not only apprise the exact contradiction of the political condition of that period but also make you aware of the discrepancy in human relations getting shaped by external affairs. A sense of hopelessness builds after the reader’s imagination wraps itself around a probable explanation of the first paragraph, but… the real beauty and tragedy lie in the last few paragraphs of the book. Those last lines splendidly depict how a man’s willing sacrifice of his life fetches peace to him, the peace comes from the knowledge that the woman he loved, will now finally be happy with her child and husband. And that a part of his soul will be alive in all their hearts as they will remember him in their good times. It ends with hope in the lives of those who get to live at the cost of his.”
“The beginning strings of words that start weaving the story of this book and the last strands of emotions that wrap it all in those pages is what makes it so special.”
She did not blink for a few seconds. I could measure the fascination in her eyes with which she was listening.
“Will you read those paragraphs for me?” She spoke breaking from the trance.
“Of course.”
I went inside to get the book. She followed. The book was kept on the second shelf of the rack. I picked it up and sat on my bed. Miwa sat on the chair which stood beside the bed. I opened the book and started reading out loud the opening paragraph of the book.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…”
I looked up from the book towards her to search for her reaction. She was listening with undivided attention. I moved on to the last page of the book and continued reading.
“I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out…”
“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy… I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence…”
“It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
A Tale of Two Cities is one of those few books that gave me goosebumps whenever I read it. As I finished reading, I lifted my eyes from the book to see if she was still listening.
The chair was empty. She was gone!
Yet again, without a formal goodbye. I felt indifferent today, perhaps I was aware that this is going to happen all along. The sinking feeling was absent, rather space was now filled with acceptance of the inevitable.
The distant and gentle crimson color sun rays were now turning into harsh golden yellow, filtering from the winter morning smog. The air was filled with the sound of chirping birds, as they wiggle their way out of their nests to begin their day.
I decided to continue reading the book. Lying back in a comfortable position, I flipped through the pages of that paperback masterpiece. And just like that after reading a few pages, I drifted off to sleep.
I don’t belong here. This was one of the sentences that I remember from my last night’s dream. When it comes to dreams, I hardly remember any of them. But I had a faint memory of what I dreamt last night. The image of me standing in the midst of a desert in front of the leafless tree flickered in and out along with those words. There was an ongoing conversation with the tree that I couldn’t recall. I don’t belong here were the only words that echoed when I sprung up from my sleep.
I checked the time. It was 5:25 PM. I slept almost the whole day. And if it wasn’t for the dream, I would have slept some more. But the growling sound of my stomach indicated it was time to step out of my bed. After freshening up and changing into a fresh pair of clothes I went down to get some food in my stomach.
The “Punjabi Dhaba” around the corner of this lane is the savior of students like me in this locality. It is the most opted option by many, as the food here is affordable and doesn’t disappoint the taste buds. I ordered the usual, “Rajma Chawal.” I finished eating, paid the bill, and walked out of the dhaba. The fog was just starting to engulf the surrounding in its haze, it resembled the obscurity of thoughts whirling inside my head. I decided to take a walk down the lane, admiring the encroaching fog of a brisk approaching winter evening.
The locality was comparatively empty. Most of the students were in their hometowns and would be returning tomorrow as the university would reopen for a new semester. The walk down the lane from the Dhaba was filled with silence. The only sound prevalent was that of gravel under my shoes. Walking along the concrete pavement of the lane, my attention drifted towards the tall leafless Wrightia Tree standing in the middle of the park. I wanted to get some air to help my cognition work better for the next few hours, and the park was the only place where I could get some. Alienated yet filled with tranquillity is how I would describe the sight of the park in the evenings, the sight of that barren, distorted tree oddly made to both the list.
I picked the same spot as the previous day and sat there staring at the tree with my hands inside the pockets of my jacket, trying to keep them from freezing. The gloomy winter evenings can be cruel when it comes to showing off the power it possesses. There was not much to add to the scenic beauty or the beauty that pleases the eye, but the sublime beauty that this place possessed was in terms of the traces of nature’s innateness.
“Existence” “Purpose” and “Rebellion”, my world has revolved around these words since the introduction with Miwa. Not that I was unaware of the significance of these words before, but they were mere words till last week. Now they appear in my mind more like, “Existence??” “Purpose??” “Rebellion??”. What connects me to the world? What makes my world different from that of the one which exists around me? There was no limit to my queries these days and the list keeps expanding with each passing day, piling up on my agitation more and more with each passing moment.
Every new day was like a revelation. A transition into a more mature, independent self. But as I traced the journey of this transition, it is not an ideal transition that a successful young individual would have. This metamorphosis of thoughts and events is pushing me more towards vain than helping me identify the path. I left the park for my apartment.
I shut the door behind me, and as I leaned on its wooden surface for a while, a sigh escaped from my lips. The surface of it was cold, like the surface of a coffin would be on a cold dark night under all that damp soil. Finally, I moved away from the door to switch on the lights. The sudden illumination dragged me from the thoughts of the inevitable and splashed me with the reality of my presence in this ever-changing world. For now, I was physically inside the confinement of my room, it gave me a sense of protection whereas my mind was everywhere, and my thoughts were scattered in so many parts that it perplexed me. Vulnerability is helplessness in numerous ways. The sense of protection somehow wasn’t enough at this moment to subside the waves of indecisiveness and uncertainty.
It was becoming apparent that the trotting winter was finally picking up its pace. I advanced towards the balcony cutting through the sharp October night air. Suddenly it came rushing, the memories like a deja vu flashing in front of my eyes. The memories that were long buried somewhere in the unconscious and never surfaced like this before. The memory was of cold winter nights, back home when the four walls of my room made me feel claustrophobic and I searched for a space of my own to vent out my frustration.
Most of my evenings were consumed on the terrace gazing at the birds soaring high in the sky. This observation used to continue for hours long. It fascinated me, the thought of flying away, without a care in the world. It appealed to the itinerant part inside me, the idea of leaving everything behind as a boy and taking one leap to fly away into the ocean like the sky.
Evenings were filled with despair back then. As my father used to return home after a long day, a sense of gloominess encapsulated me. A wrenching sensation in my stomach used to accompany a series of attempts to stay out of his sight for as long as possible. I never really had anything to talk to my father about. His personality petrified me in an unusual way and I was treated more like a tenant than a son.
After the divorce of my parents, I was left to stay with my father. I was 9 when the divorce took place and yet I do not remember my mother’s face. The love of my parents was something that I never received and that made me stay away from people in general. However, I learned a few things from my father. He was an astute businessman with a huge dedication to his work. He valued education and primarily the only reason he agreed to send me out of town for my graduation. My father never really taught me anything, he just did things and I learned by watching him. We had a preternatural relationship with no emotions of any kind. It was like watching television and learning things. “Home” never evoked the conventional warm, comforting feeling inside me. This is one of the reasons why I eschew going back home. He has nothing left to teach me and the emotional bond was long back replaced by an empty void.
For some strange reason, the memories of my childhood were floating like those little colorful dots in front of your eyes when you opened them after rubbing vigorously. It was making me uncomfortable and I wanted to get rid of them. I started thinking about Miwa and the charm that she has left on me. I checked the time. It was 8:00 PM and I was hungry. Sandwich seemed to be an easy option to simmer it down for now.
I made myself a grilled sandwich and munched it down while flipping through the pages of Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore. Engrossed in the conversation between Nakata and the cat, I leaned on the kitchen counter with my plate and leftover sides of the bread on it.
That’s when I heard, the subtle rustling sound. It was awfully quiet when I lifted my head from the book to concentrate on the source of the sound. It came again, and I figured out the source this time.
It was coming from my room.
I didn’t tiptoe this time. I walked towards my room with firm steps.
It was Miwa, with her flowy black gown rustling in the piercing cold October wind. For the first time in the last few nights, she chose a different space to show up other than the routine spot. I found her hovering near my bookshelf facing her back toward me.
I cleaned my throat to call out her name.
“Did you enjoy your sandwich?” Her abrupt question caused me to choke on my own words and made me cough.
“Yes.” I managed to utter in between a cough.
“Good.”
“Aren’t you early today?” I asked.
“Am I? I am sorry, I don’t have the luxury of clocks.” She said while turning around to face me.
“And any specific reason you picked a different space to show up?”
“Isn’t space and time just an illusion?”
“Is it? Or do I just sense a deviation from a routine?”
“You do not like changes?”
“A reasonable change seems appropriate to me. I don’t have a thing for surprises.”
“Surprises are inevitable. You might face a lot of them in your life. Shouldn’t you start embracing them?”
“With time I might.”
She gave a smile after my last sentence and sat down in the same chair that stood in the same place as last night.
After making herself comfortable, she continued.
“Have I mentioned that you are easily gullible”? She tittered.
“I would like to call myself a pragmatist.”
She chuckled at my last sentence. Probably that was the first time I witnessed her laughing without holding back. For a while there I was immersed in my thoughts. Thinking about how I could remember such little details about someone in such a short period.
“Lost, again?” Her sudden query yanked me out of my thoughts.
She continued, “Is it an abrupt trance that you go into, or are you rendered mute from time to time?”
She pensively kept staring at me. And I was still stuck inside the swirling thoughts in my head.
“I am learning the art of having a conversation. Trying to find the right words.”
“You don’t have to search hard for it. Conversations are spontaneous like an extempore.”
“I understand. I just want to avoid mistakes as much as I can.”
“Mistakes are necessary, Oumar. Very necessary.”
“I know. I have always been afraid of making mistakes.”
“Is that why you never had the courage to do anything?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I was afraid. I used to be afraid. But not anymore.”
“You look ready.”
“Ready for?”
Miwa did not say anything. She just smiled. This time she didn’t look at me while smiling. She just looked down and smiled.
“How long will you remain here?” I asked.
“Do you want me to leave?”
That was the last time I saw her. The clock struck 5:30 AM. The sun’s rays were slashing their way through the cloud. My thoughts oscillated between Miwa and the crimson silhouette of leaves that swayed in the winter breeze. The more I stared at them, the more alive they appeared to be as if they had blood running through their veins. Under the still prevailing darkness of this cold night, those crimson rays of the sun were becoming more of a scarlet crimson. And it appeared to be dripping from the tips of those swaying leaves.
It is still dark, dark enough for anyone to notice me leaving. I picked up my backpack, kept a few clothes in it and some books by Franz Kafka, and left the apartment. I was on the road walking aimlessly when I noticed the Doodhi Tree. It was no more tall, no more full of life. It was cut down. It lay like a lifeless body in the park. Someone must have cut it down during the night as it was not serving any real purpose to society. It appeared as if the other trees were making fun of that lifeless body.
I crossed the park to enter the main street. Where was I now? I had no idea. The face of my mother flashed before my eye. But I do not remember how did she look. The face of my father flashed before my eye. I closed my eye to erase that face and walked a couple of steps with my eyes closed. So many more faces flashed, faces I knew, yet I did not. I could not remember anything. I tried to remember my name. It was all gone. The only name I remember was Miwa. I kept walking on the dead-quiet street. I kept walking in the hope of making myself ready.
