It was one of those nights.
Sam was lying in bed, tossing
and turning, for hours, staring at the ticking clock every five minutes. The
second hand completed its usual cycles but the minutes somehow didn't seem to
pass. He lay on his side, clutching his pillow and shutting his eyes tight, in
the effort to sleep; the intensity of it coaxing a tear out the corner of his
eye. He rolled on his bed continually from one side to the other, grabbing a
sheet once in a while and throwing it over his head to block the lingering
light he imagined, seeping through the fabric. But the darkness was not
impervious enough. The light always seemed to find its way through a rogue hole
hidden amidst the mesh of woven threads; undetected. Increasing frustration at
his failed attempts at sleep made him feel warm. He flung the sheet onto the
floor and let out an impatient sigh. He stared at the ceiling thinking about
what he could do to outlast this wretched drawn out night. He felt awfully
lethargic to work. He didn't have a captivating book to lose himself in. He was
in no mood to watch television as the only entertainment it had to offer at
that unearthly hour was steamy late night movies. He could call someone, he
thought. But who would be unfortunate enough to be awake then? More
importantly, who would he call? Not
one name came to mind. He felt empty at having drawn a blank and decided to dig
up his old phonebook from amongst the mess he called his desk. Even if he wasn't successful, that meaningless night would still have some purpose.
After hours of rummaging through stacks of paper and
scattered stationery, he chanced upon a leather bound note book peeking from the
darkest recess of one of his drawers. He instantly recognized its matted cover.
It was his phonebook. He felt an odd childish sense of achievement. He
remembered the day his father handed it to him. It was the day he was leaving
for boarding school in Darjeeling. He was all of thirteen then, fragile and
scared. His father had said to him, in his most dispassionate business-like
tone, “Son, this is for emergencies only.”
At that time, he couldn't imagine any other use for it. Since then the
pages had gotten filled with a million names, some with faces and some without.
He opened the book to find a few words strewn across the front page in neat,
carefully formed letters: “This book
belongs to Samarth Khanna. Class VII.” There was a boyish pastel scribble of a dinghy
next to it. He couldn't remember the last time he had thought of one of those.
He turned the yellow tattered pages and breathed them in. The scent was oddly
familiar. It smelled of a time when the air was clean and the world less
complicated; a smell somewhere lost in translation.
He came across a few familiar names. Rishi, his best friend
for almost two decades. Where was he now?
He tried hard to remember what he looked like when he last saw him fifteen
years ago. It was a blur. The only thing that did remain after all these years
were some cruel words and nasty name calling. They did not last. Should I call him? For a moment he was naive enough to think he still had the same number. Then he thought about all the
years in between when he did not stop to think of Rishi even once. He had moved
on like there had never been any them.
A few pages into the book, and he came across a bunch of names. Malini. Tara.
Fatima. Ruhi. Names of women he had met, some young and some old. Women who
ceased to have faces after all these years. Women who never lasted more than a
few nights of urgent lovemaking. They came and went, like pigeons on a terrace, hardly
leaving a trace.
Sam gave up his search and slammed the phonebook shut. While
he sat there facing the barren wall in front of him, a drunken night at
Labyrinth came to mind. The night he had met Meera. He couldn't forget that
face; those deep kohl smeared eyes, the mop of unruly hair, the mocking
unbridled laughter. He had gone back each night after they first met, hoping
she would be there, lost in a trance somewhere in the crowd. But she never
showed up. After a week of disappointment, he had stopped going, convinced that
Meera was just a figment of his imagination; an illusion conjured up by dimly
lit hallways and hours of inebriation. He had thought of calling her a few
times but his ego had come in the way.
He looked at the clock. It was three in the morning. He took
out his wallet and after shuffling through stashes of business cards, pulled
out a familiar dried up scrap of tissue that he had been avoiding so far. He
unfolded it carefully, afraid that it might crumble into dust like some precious
ancient piece of parchment. He dialed the digits on it, half expecting the number to
not exist. A ring suggested that it was real and that was enough reassurance
for him that night. He decided to hang up but something stopped him. There was
a familiar voice at the other end.
“Hello?”
Sam almost jumped out of his skin, as if he had heard a
ghost. What was she doing up at this
hour? His heart was beating uncontrollably. He couldn't speak, his throat
parched.
“Who the hell is this?!” she said indignantly.
Sam cleared his throat. “Meera?”
“Yes! But who are you? Do you know what time it is?! What do
you want?”
Sam didn't know the answer to that. What did he want? Does she even remember him?
He was being stupid.
“This is Sam.”
“Sam?! Sam who? I don’t know any Sam. Do you want me to call
the police?” she threatened.
Sam mustered some courage and continued. “We met at
Labyrinth. You gave me your number.”
Meera was silent for a moment. Sam was convinced that she
thought he was a stalker. He wanted to hang up. As if somehow having read his
thoughts, she started laughing that instant. That loud resonating laugh. Sam didn't feel insulted like the last
time he heard it. In fact he felt a strange sense of relief. It meant that she
remembered.
“So Mr. Sam from the nightclub, considering you ran away the
last time we met, I thought I’d scared you. Is a phone call at 3 AM your idea of
revenge?” she continued in that infectious strain of humour.
“Not really. I couldn't sleep.”
“So you want me to sing to you? Just so you know, my songs
work better as wake up calls.” Sam found her self-depreciation charming. He
tried to think of a reason for waking her in the middle of the night.
“Can we meet for coffee tomorrow? If you don’t mind that is.”
“Umm. I actually do mind.” she replied almost instantly.
Sam didn't know what to say. It was a mistake, he thought.
But he wanted to know why.
“I think coffee is too elitist. Now, tea I cannot refuse.”
Sam laughed. He couldn't remember the last time someone made
him do that. They decided to meet the next day at a cafe two blocks away. “See you tomorrow then. Goodnight,”
he said.
“I think you meant good morning.”
She hung up. Sam could hear her smiling when she did. It was
in fact morning. The first mellow rays streamed in through the window as he
looked out. He pulled the covers over his head and slept like he never had.
