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| Sunday, 22 August 2004 |
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A smudged destiny by Suresh Mohamed The rain fell like thick crystal needles under the lamp-post near the bus-stop, where Gnanasena was waiting to board a bus home, after work. The cacophony of the raindrops on the rusted roof of the bus-halt, conjured up the sound of a hot oily pan, splattered with water. It was 9 post meridiem. There was an air of deserted isolation on the road and within him. There was a couple under an umbrella, chattering like two birds on a bough. Neither the thunder nor the lightening could distract their attention from one another. As he shifted his view, there stood a man under the hood of the leaking bus-stop, old and shivering. He had taken refuge under it in spite of the leaky roof. A circular part of the roof accommodated him like the halo of a saint. He was shivering, rubbing his palms together as if trying to generate heat. Had he rubbed them a little more harder, he would have ignited a fire. Figure Suddenly his eyes turned toward a figure in the dark and his clairvoyance confirmed it to be the person who would while away his loneliness .The woman stood rotating an unfurled black umbrella bi-directionally - clockwise and anti-clockwise on her shoulders. The mysterious figure in silhouette attracted his attention. Gunasena was always challenged by mysteries, and now entrusted with a new one to demystify the mystery figure. Challenge coupled with curiosity, he embarked on an odyssey of a lifetime, which would smudge his destiny, tarnish his character and blur his future. He drew close to the woman but her face was hidden under the umbrella. He got closer, to unmask the face buried under the black umbrella. She turned her face towards him, as if she sniffed a prey close by. Her facing him wasn't sudden, it was gradual, like the unveiling of a statue for the first time to the public. But he understood. This statue had been unveiled to the public for a long time. She wore thick red lipstick and a smile that was both provocative and inviting. He, in vain, tried to domineer the bolting hormones and to fight against the chemical reactions that were taking place inside him, to accept the invitation extended. A lean tempting voice inside him said 'succumb'. Yet, he tried to occupy his mind with other affairs - books, friends, family, library, but they were only superficial, just floating like oil on water. But underneath, his thoughts were revolving round her, like an electron around its nucleus. In spite of his struggle, he was drawn towards her like a wave towards the beach, with an urgency, with a sense of unison. The environment seemed to have been set to stage the drama: his loneliness, the rainy weather, an inviting woman. He yearned to while away his loneliness. Nocturnal rain is the best weather for lecherous activities. A woman, who is willing to fulfil his craving in the best of weather. "Okay, let's try this" he succumbed. Doubt Suddenly, he was struck by the novice's syndrome - doubt- what if she is not a sex worker. His mind was now embattled with scepticism implanted by friends and family alike, that his judgments were erroneous, his logic irrational and his arguments fallacious. So he neither judged , wasted logic nor did he argue, but when in doubt he verified. He cleared his doubts when she glued her eyes on him and nodded her head invitingly. Her unwavering look almost made him paralytic - his legs shaking, heart thumping and there was a loosening effect in his abdomen. That one look was his Waterloo. Unable to contain the volcanic rumblings within, he spat out the typical buzzword in purchasing Keeyada (how much?). She offered a reasonable rate but he declined it by using yet another stereotype word in bargaining Wedi (too much). Then she gave a discounted price, as if not wanting to lose the only customer for the day. He was fortunate that she didn't come out with the seller's version of the haggling deng badu ganang (the prices of goods are up). A Sex worker is one commodity whose price is highly negotiable, and is determined by depreciating the tenure of public service in the market. Even if there was a 200 per cent increase in price, no one would protest, holding placards or hold a death fast before train stations to bring down the prices. It is the only commodity where value for money is measured by the service rendered during consumption. Trapped He immediately felt that he was trapped by his own words. There was no way out. He couldn't withdraw his words - the thumbprint of his image - which he had upheld on many an occasion, especially in situations of this nature. Yet, he was already feeling as if he was falling into a bottomless abyss. As they hailed and boarded a taxi, he felt he was being dragged to the abattoir. With a sudden ticklish feeling in his body, his vision became blurred, the pillars of his convictions shaken and he could not recognise the boundaries dividing the pure from the impure, light from darkness, good from bad and spousal sex from adultery. A while ago, the boundary had looked like a clear straight line on the horizon. Dilapidated They got down before a dilapidated building, walls eroded, windows dangling in the wind making a creaking noise in the joints. The taxi driver was like Oliver Twist, asking for more. In other words, he was saying "Look, I know what you are upto, and you are spending your money in vain, so why don't you pay this family-man a bit more'. He palmed a 100-buck for the 80-buck hire. The driver thanked him with an enjoy-yourself smile. The dark, pot-arrack-stomached, sarong-clad guy ushered the two to a room. Even as he entered he felt nauseated by the odour, and after a while, by the very act itself. The air in the room smelled dusty, and of rats. The sheet on the bed had stains all over and never seemed to have been changed for months. It was a prepaid session and was short, as was her temper, after taking her fee. After the session was over, he was sitting on the bed running his fingers through the hair, sunk in deep thought. Had he wanted to, he still could have stopped it at any stage, but he had casually succumbed to circumstantial pressures. In spite of his conscience he had just given in. His much-trumpeted slogan 'victory by resistance'now has a frog in the throat. Through this experience he had come to realise that there were two kinds of victory: Resistance to evil was one and succumbing to evil, was the other. He began to feel ashamed. Could stoning him to death bring justification to this evil deed, more than a contrite and a repentant heart could? On the stroke of midnight, the peak hour for devils and demons, he reached home. Sleep He could not sleep the whole night. He tossed on the bed. Closer to dawn, the rest-warranting body proved victorious over the restless mind. He woke up with a hangover. The woman was sculpted his mind She haunted him like a ghost, a creature he wished he had never met. When he threw himself on the bed on the night before, directly above his head, the fan swung at a slow pace, spiralling before his eyes, like the symbolic technique used for cinematic flashbacks,and he was piloted back to the place, woman and act and all were relayed. Pain He whole body was engulfed with pain, especially in the joints. As he stood under the shower, his mind flashed back to the sleepless night, and no matter what posture he slept, sleep never came. When he woke in the morning, he felt emasculated, bled out: of strength, of authority, of morale, and of character. He couldn't remember the last time he spent a sleepless night. He was able to sleep well in the night, in the day, in the morning and the hours in between - around the clock. But the night he couldn't. Why? Guilt was inhospitable to sleep. |
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