Saturday, September 26, 2009

Closing Time

The slam of the door, announcing that his maid had left for home, roused him from his siesta. Glancing at his clock, he judged it was enough to Asr, and shuffled to the washroom to perform his wadu. The swirl of cold water inside his mouth brought him to full wakefulness, rinsing his eyes removed the last bit of the grit of sleep. He mechanically blew out his nose and washed behind his ears, and it wasn't until he had finished washing his face, and was running wet fingers over his thick, matted hair that he had the startling realisation that he hadn't been surprised by the empty space next to him. He almost annulled his ablutions with a surprised laugh, but reigned himself in at the last moment. Clamping down on his thoughts, he hurried through the washing of his hands and feet, disabled the alarm on his clock and scurried towards the prayer mat just as the first call to prayer was sounded outside. Later, he would examine his feelings at length. Later, he would allow himself to look back, and feel.

When his wife finally died, his first reaction had been relief. As much as he loved her, even till the last moment, when she fell into that final sleep still feebly clutching his fingertips, it was a release from the months of tortured waiting for the inevitable. The worst was over; no longer would he have to dread its coming, watching helplessly as she slipped further away from him with every laboured breath, the cancer hollowing out his emotions even as it poisoned her blood and gnawed on her bones.
He spent the next forty days in a strange sort of numbness, unable to feel the grief that friends and relatives offered sympathy for. The funeral, the final payments to the hospital, the correspondence...there were a hundred little things that kept him distracted. The sadness came much, much later, and it struck at odd moments. Taking out the wastebasket from the bathroom, he'd remember those months of chemotherapy, when her hair was coming out in clumps, and he'd carefully pluck the strands from the shower stall and gather the small, wispy bundles, wrapping them in tissue paper before throwing them away, so that she wouldn't be distressed by the sight of them. The small white cabinet over the sink was still stocked with her medication, and prescription papers still cluttered his desk.

"Ameen"

He kissed the rosary beads and rose with a sigh, and folded up the mat. Now that his meditation was over, he would surely be plagued by the old memories, that same aching sense of loss. He forestalled it by shuffling out of his room.
The maid had left his iftar covered with plates to keep warm. The sight of the table set for one depressed him anew, and he walked over to the telephone desk, racking his brains for someone who could make it over on short notice to join him. It wouldn't do to call someone from the family; talk would only turn to topics he wanted to avoid.

His eyes alighted on the calendar, with its picture of Stonehenge over the dates. Stonehenge. Once he had wanted to go there, when he was with...
Suddenly, an image flooded his brain: warm brown eyes full of mirth, a curtain of sleek black hair obscuring half of an elfin face, the proud arch of thick black brows. Other things, long buried, came floating up. The deep throaty chuckle that once sent shivers down his spine, her firm, warm handshake, that annoying habit she had of cracking her knuckles...

***

Beads of perspiration formed a wet moustache on her upper lip as she raised the fistful of cherry-red silk to survey her handiwork. The pleats were uneven again. She would have to start all over again. Muttering a silent curse, watered down so as not to break her fast, she gathered the material in her hands and began to form the pleats anew. Thirty-five, with a successful career under her belt, and she still had to struggle every time she had to drape a sari. Not for the first time did she wonder why she came back.

When her last relationship ended, she had packed her bags and moved to Singapore to start anew. Surrounded by the exciting new sights and sounds, she threw herself into her new life, taking delight in the many little things that would have been impossible for her back in Dhaka. The solitary midnight stroll by Clarke Quay. Setting out for an afternoon of window shopping at Bugis Junction in her flouncy knee-length dress that would have scandalised her aunts back at home, but was considered perfectly respectable here. The wealth of books on the racks in Kinokuniya, titles she would have scoured the stalls of Nilkhet for in vain. It was a good life, a fun life. Until she blew out the thirty-fifth candle on her cake, one that her married friends had brought for her, and she looked at their smiling faces, and those of their spouses, and she realised that it was also an empty life.
She had only begun her spiral of self-doubt, loneliness, and depression when she received the summons from back home, asking after her to join some family reunion or the other. She took the next plane home.

The clock showed an hour to iftar. The friend she had been expecting rang up to regret that she wouldn't be able to make it after all, leaving her stranded in a sari and a meal for two. She cracked her knuckles impatiently, a habit he had always found annoying. That thought stilled her frantic pacing. Why did he keep creeping unbidden into her mind now, after all these years? She shook her head, telling herself it was an effect of the hunger from fasting. She had heard from a mutual friend that he had recently been widowed, and at that time, the news had not made an impact on her. Now, though, other recollections, once faded, began to flare to life. The timbre of his voice. His crooked smile. The look on his face the day she told him she was leaving him.

***

He stared at the caldendar. The floodgates, once opened, were impossible to close, and after a while, he stopped fighting and just lay back, set adrift on the wave of nostalgia.

They had had a rather tumultuous relationship. She had been older by four years, and, for all her beauty and personal charm, prone to insecurities about the difference that would not have mattered so much had their situations been reversed. That was one thing that had always resulted in fights between them, how she complained about society's double standards, but was such a stickler for 'propriety'. There would be fights, tears, heated arguments, and then she would be sweetly contrite, and he couldn't find it in his heart to hold a grudge against her. At her best, she was lively and intelligent, and easy to talk to, and at first, it was worth all the fighting. And then one day, he walked into the classroom, and there was a new girl there, staring out of the window as her fingers idly toyed with the glass bangles on her delicate wrist. He knew right then, where his heart really belonged.

His heart contracted as he pictured his wife. For the first time in months, he began to remember her, not as he'd seen her last, careworn, diminished by her pain, but as the beautiful girl who had stolen his heart the first time he met her. He expected the memories to hurt, but instead, he found himself smiling as he looked back. And just like that, he knew whom to call.

***

She shook her head, smiling ruefully. It had not taken her very long to notice the change in him. Their meetings became rarer. He began to grow edgy and skittish in her presence, and would not meet her eyes unless he had to. At the same time, he became oddly solicitious, as though desperately trying to please her. A name began to crop up with increasing frequency in their stilted conversations. It was only a matter of time before the pieces clicked into place.
She did the only thing she could think of, to salvage her wounded pride. She confronted him with what she knew, and then broke off the relationship, nobly declaring 'All I ever wanted was for you to be happy". During the lonely flight that took her away from everything familiar to her, she cried out all her humiliation and disappointment. By the time the plane touched down at Changi airport, she had accepted her fate. When she heard of his marriage six months later, she had no tears left to shed for him. She had moved on. If she ever met him again, she would tell him just that.

The phone began to ring.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Lucid Dreams

You first become aware something's amiss when the fan overhead stops whirring, and the A/C grinds to a halt. As you waver irritably between dreams and awakening, a shuddering, thunderous roar goes up as the generator comes to life. Great. Another powercut. It was funny enough when you chuckled over last week's fictional escapade in the search of the ever-elusive Electricity, but now the joke's wearing thin.

Somewhere, just audible over the the drone, is the tinny voice of a broadcast. Someone's television (or is it a radio?) is backed up by the generator, and tuned to some annoying news program.

"The rate of warming is increasing. The 20th century's last two decades were the hottest in 400 years and possibly the warmest for several millennia, according to a number of climate studies...Arctic ice is rapidly disappearing, and the region may have its first completely ice-free summer by 2040 or earlier."

More gloom and doom. Just what you needed after a sleepless night spent writing some stupid assignment that would have been finished hours earlier if your UPS hadn't been shot. You kick off the covers, squirming in the heat as you try to get comfortable and crawl back into peaceful slumber.

The sun shimmers overhead, a ball of white heat. The bare tops of leafless trees claw the stifling, windless air that scorches sunburnt tumorous skin. The boat floats solemnly over what used to be a bustling capital city, now sleeping under what used to be ice-caps. Elsewhere on the planet, another starving polar bear drowns.

Your sleeping hand swats at the annoying whine at your ear, half-waking you, and dispersing the cobwebs of the nightmare. As you roll over to the other side, your shoulder bumps the bedside table, and the magazine you'd been reading falls to the ground. It was the issue with that terribly depressing cover story about the global water crisis.

"884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people...Every 15 seconds, a child dies from a water-related disease"

As you wait for sleep, you can't help but remember those three horrific days just last week when you had no water in the flat. You lie there with your eyes closed, remembering...

The rust stains on the shower head mocked you as you stared at it. You've turned the knobs as far as they would go, but not a drop comes out. The faucet in the sink had belched some mud and air earlier in the morning, but nothing since then. The buckets you had filled two days ago had run dry the previous night, and now stand empty. The kitchen counter is littered with empty PET bottles. You'd exhausted those too. Dirty dishes lie in the sink, unwashed laundry stinking in the clothes basket. You'd called municipality man an hour ago to inquire when the next shipment of water would reach you, but all you got was a busy dial tone. Staring at your fast-depleting wallet, you decided to suffer your thirst just a little longer...


The steady drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet brings you back to the conveniences of the present, as soothing as the feel of your mother's hands patting your back as she crooned a lullaby to you as a child. Comforted by the sound, you try to drift off again, but it's hard. Even several storeys up, you can still smell the acrid black smoke from the giant diesel-guzzling beast of a generator downstairs. It is an ever-present, oppressive malodor that invades your nostrils in this increasingly stuffy room. It reminds you of the cumbersome biology assignment you'd been working on.

"The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 1.5 billion people living in urban areas throughout the world breathe dangerous levels of air pollution"

Like you didn't know that already. Suddenly the muggy humidity and the smell of the smoke are more than you can bear. Pushing aside your pillow, you get up to your feet. You step towards the window, but decide against opening them; why let more of the smoke in? You open the door, hoping to relieve some of the claustrophobia, but the air outside your room is as dank and stale as the air within. You stand there, as though keenly aware of the million invisible cells and particles swarming in the very air you're breathing, crawling in through your nostrils, invading your body, the germs, the dust, the aerosol gases, and you find yourself choking on the thought. Your vision swims and sweat beads form on your face, running down your skin to pool at the waistband of your trousers.

Your lungs are on fire, clamoring for some fresh air...

...and you wake up in the car, stuck in the middle of yet another traffic jam, under the blazing midday sun. Even as you grunt and shift into a more comfortable position, the traffic light turns green and the cool breeze generated by your car moving forward, alleviates that suffocating sensation. You shake your head to clear it of the phantasm, and smile to yourself, feeling a little foolish. And another Earth Day passes, unnoticed.


References: http://news.nationalgeographic.com, http://www.water.org, http://www.cleanairsys.com

Photos: www.deviantart.com

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Thursday, April 16, 2009

A Shocking Caper

(with Azfarul Islam)

A cesspool of dreams, mired in corruption, bubbling with desire. Where ideas converge for the future and green paper diverges thoughts, minds and hearts. Where the deepest, darkest bowels are now evermore, silent, metastasising. This is Dhaka City.
An abyssal blackness plunges all, from the delicately-coiffed baby squirming in his mother's lap to the restless student glancing guiltily at the papers on his desk, his pallid face basking in the glow of a forbidden read. The darkness even consumes the weary magnate, his fingers callused from all the zeroes typed in for the day. One can muse how 'zero' is but naught, a non-existent sum that feeds on others to gain stature. Like the shade now eclipsing all these tiny lives, stilling the beating heart of the City, clogged arteries and all.

Somewhere in Gulshan, 6:30pm

It was a sweltering evening, and the descending sun sneered down at the sweaty city, raising fiery fingers in a mocking salute as it gave way to the Darkness. With a great, shuddering roar, the generators fired up as the City prepared for yet another losing battle against the power-cut. Electricity was nowhere to be seen. The UPS beeped pitifully once or twice, and finally gave up. Damn.
Svelte and charming; with typing speeds to rival Hermes and a motherly nature hiding a real wildcat underneath, even the toughest of men have withered under the QWERTY of Sabs. She peered up from her well-thumbed copy of Rising Stars, every private eye's source for all that happens in the dark underbelly of Dhaka's teen populace.
“No sign of Electricity, then?”
“Nope. Been missing for freakin' half-an-hour now!”
“Blast it!”

This from the quick-witted, flamboyant Az, whose words had a keener edge than Darth Vader's trusty light-sabre, and woe betide the poor soul that lit his legendary short fuse and faced the business end of his sarcasm. Electricity better turn up soon, or there would be blood. And none of it would be Az's.

Just then, someone's cell-phone rang, piercing the dust.
“Hello? Is this the Rising Investigators? Oh, thank God!”

Ah. When there's trouble, one can count on word to come crawling to the Rising Investigators. If anyone could get to the bottom of a story, it would be these two. They did chew out the Ghostbusters last year and send them crying, yelling something about the devil's own minions. The details weren't important.

“How can we help you, ma'am?”
“My baby's been wailing non-stop since Electricity left us, and the IPS quit, and the mosquitoes are getting us and...”

At this point, the batteries gave out. Typical. Electricity hadn't been there long enough to let us charge our phones. Still, it was a lead.

Crime Scene One: A house in Dhanmondi

The victim, a baby, had gone purple in the face from crying. Even with the windows opened (thus the mosquitoes), the room felt like soup. The mother was frantically flapping a magazine, trying to generate some wind, while the ceiling fan overhead lay idle, mocking us. Az and Sabs exchanged looks: it was time to search for clues. They scoured the cupboard. They combed through the shelves...and then, they found it. Tucked away into an obscure corner of a mid-safe was a quaint artifact, a throwback from the previous decade...a nakshi hand-fan. With its smooth wooden handle and brightly coloured cloth border, it was just perfect.
“What's that? You found it where? In the mid-safe? Oh no! It probably belonged to my mother-in-law...which means it's cursed!” In the silence that ensued, a pair of incredulous eyebrows inched up a pair of incredulous foreheads. “You what?”
“Don't you guys watch Hindi serials? Oh, I see...” This last as Sabs slapped her own forehead in sheer frustration, and Az mimed puking motions. Giving up this ultra-modern urbanite as utterly hopeless, Sabs swished the hand-fan over the baby.
A gentle breeze issued forth and the baby hiccupped a few times, and was mercifully silent. The woman's flabbergasted exclamations of joy were cut short by the jangle of some annoying Bollywood number, which turned out to be her cell-phone ringer. “Hello? Yes...the Rising Investigators are here...what? Okay, I'll tell them.” The two didn't need an explanation. There was a new scene to visit.

Crime Scene Two: A god-forsaken room with the vilest possible stench, i.e., the room of your average student

For someone who sounded like a pansy girl on the phone, they were shocked to find their student a tall gangly mass of black clothes, hairy and studded with piercings. He was head-banging to a knock-off iPod grasped in his quivering, sweat-encrusted claw. Az knocked politely on the door. The student turned to them, eyes blurred with relief... and fear. He spoke in that voice, causing Sabs to roll her eyes and Az wishing that she hadn't convinced him to leave his wooden sword at the office. He wondered if someone squeaking in a nauseating tone counted as “wielding a weapon with deadly intent”. From what they filtered out of the screeching cacophony that greeted them, he had coursework to submit, due - as these things are - the following day. With an IPS that had died with nary a cough, there wasn't much hope for this lad without his PC. They shook their heads and started interrogating him, trying to rack his brain, so good at organising a massive MP3 collection in alphabetic order, yet failing at more practical things in life. Like personal hygiene.
Whilst Az attempted to communicate, Sabs' bright eyes pierced the darkness, taking in a lot of detail that, well, once seen couldn't be unseen. She spied a dirty sheaf of printer paper and then whispered to Az in an excited voice, “Remember the time we got a cheque?” Az locked his gaze with hers, his mouth agape. Of course, he slapped himself metaphysically. Rummaging a pocket best left unrummaged, he gripped something ancient yet still working. He spoke softly to the lad, “What I'm about to pass onto you has been with me through many a case. So, I'll kill you if you don't get an A+.” He handed a chipped ballpoint pen, still half-full of ink. Understanding dawned on the student's face and his once meek outlook turned into dogged determination. He nodded once.On the way out, Sabs, without looking back asked him, “So, what were you listening to?”He proudly exclaimed, “Havy matal. Back ishtrit boyej.”

Soon-to-be Crime Scene Three: A restaurant, good food, decent service. The Maître d' usually gives us a discount.

She smiled at him from across the table, dimples forming fetchingly across her cheeks. He felt a flutter in his stomach...no wait, that was probably the kofta curry. His wallet would probably hate him, but right now, Dhaka Romeo was definitely blissed out at having managed a date with the Babe Next Door. Their fingers inched forward, crawling across the expanse of tablecloth for a rendezvous at the centrepiece. Chugchugchug... broooomm.
With a dying groan, the generator gave out, plunging the room into darkness. A medley of exclamations, complaints and apologies arose. It turned out that the frequency with which Electricity went AWOL, even the uber-romantic candles were running out. Suddenly, a beam of light appeared from the doorway, as two familiar figures walked in, armed with their trusty, cheap, mug-proof cell-phones. “Just happened to be passing by!” Sabs chimed, while Az grinned rakishly.
“The Rising Investigators! We're saved!”

The pair walked in, bearing a pair of dusty artefacts not seen in years. “We found these at a kutcha bazaar. They're called hurricane lamps, and they run on kerosene.”The little crowd watched, rapt, as Sabs poured the oil in. Flicking his thumbnail over the tip, Az lit a match, and then lit the tapers. A pattering of applause went around as the small flames flickered to life, illuminating tired, sweaty faces, the interlinked fingers of Dhaka Romeo and Babe Next Door. The emergency had been thwarted and romance restored, but it was clear that there was still a job to be done. Electricity had to be found. The Rising Investigators stepped out into the Darkness. Our two heroes were hot on the trail of the elusive Electricity, chasing the sightings, interrogating eyewitnesses, who gave different accounts.

“We had 'im an hour back.”
“Comes and goes...”
“Aijka soy baar gese!”
“Afa, bhaiya... ey torss-ta kinben?”, grinned a toothless 'Amare-maaf-koira-den' Dilip, ever the opportunist.

All over, men roared in anguish, women screamed and children ran amok, happy, excited, frightened - an outpouring of emotion not felt since the day before. One by one, the generators gave out. The lines at the CNG filling stations grew longer. Tempers frayed. Nails were bitten. Locks of hair were torn out in utter frustration. The suspense crescendoed......and then the lights came back on. Az hit 'Save', and Sabs clicked on 'Send', and the article on power-cuts was on its way to the Rising Stars, and the two writers, shared a moment of self-congratulation. Once again, Rising Stars has a cover story. The day is saved!

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Thursday, January 22, 2009

Face-off

I stand facing the room. Thirty pairs of eyes stare back at me, weighing me like tomatoes at a kitchen market. I smile, knowing their collective fate is in my hands, and letting them know it. The silence stretches uncomfortably, and the nervous bodies begin to shift uneasily. I speak, breaking the tension. "Hello class, I am your new teacher."

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Thursday, January 15, 2009

Bizarre Love Triangle

The flickering flames created a sensuous dance of light and shadows that glided over his stern profile; cold and forbidding as a statue. She turned eagerly towards him as a flower seeks the light, knowing she would be spurned. Warm teardrops splashed down her cheeks as she finally turned away, each a stab at my heart, which she owned, unaware

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Thursday, January 08, 2009

Rude Awakening

First it was the persistent tinkle of bells. She reached out towards the source of the noise, but it evaded her blindly groping hands. Then a louder beat joined the tinkle as she crawled, bleary-eyed, towards it. As a wailing flute entered the melody, she dived...and went sliding down the bed, the alarm on her cell-phone singing in triumph.

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Thursday, December 25, 2008

A tap at the window

It was the faintest sounds, and I thought I had imagined it. Outside my window lay a winter wonderland, a familiar landscape obscured by mist and bathed in silvery moonlight. There it was again, like the whispered echo of a heartbeat. And then I saw it; a fly trapped between the wire screen and the windowpane, struggling to get free.

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