The Aftermath

It was still dark when Meera forced her eyes open. She could have lain in bed for another couple of hours if she wanted to, but a voice inside her said that it was time to leave. She looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. Her husband would most likely be home soon. She turned to her left to see Sam sleeping by her side, his forehead devoid of wrinkles, his lips curled into a wry unconscious smile. He was probably dreaming of the ocean. Meera imagined him sitting alone by the waterfront, looking out into the endless stretch of blue tranquility that lay ahead of him, while gentle waves kissed his toes, and whispered goodbye as they melted into the sea. She looked at his boyish face long and hard, hoping to partake of that moment of bliss. But that fleeting felicity was his and his alone. She, on the other hand, had been singularly left out. 

Meera sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. She could tell that a man lived there. There were clothes strewn across the room, some hanging from the handles of chairs, and some crumpled in a heap on the floor. Leather shoes were paired with rubber sandals and socks were nowhere to be found. The desk had typed sheets of paper scattered all over, with no binders, no labels, and no semblance of organization. She spotted the end of her embroidered kurta peeking from underneath the stashes of paper. She wondered how it found its way to the desk, let alone be buried beneath the rubble. But it strangely didn’t seem out of place. She realized that there were no pictures on the wall. There were no framed faces peering at her, feigning familiarity. Maybe he never loved anyone enough to cling onto them. Or maybe it was just men. 

She looked at the clock again. It had only been fifteen minutes, but it almost felt like an hour. She decided to take a shower. She tried to wrap the sheet around her in an effort to leave the bed, but couldn’t. Sam was holding onto it in a death grasp. She muttered under her breath and let go of the sheet. She couldn’t afford to wake him up. After all, he looked too peaceful. Meera stood up and looked at her side of the bed. The soiled linen traced angular patterns mimicking her body – an exoskeleton reminding her of the previous night. She felt tainted and couldn’t look at it anymore. She tiptoed across and made her way to the bathroom.

Meera tried finding her way, but couldn’t see a thing inside. The geography of the room was unknown to her and the darkness wasn’t helping. She was careful to close the bathroom door behind her and switched on the light, albeit reluctantly. She found herself standing by the sink facing a mirror. She looked at the woman staring back at her, but she was unrecognizable. Her eyes were still blurry from sleep and an extended period of darkness. She squinted straight ahead, making sure that it was her she was looking at. The image had her hair in tangles. Her eyes were deep set, with shadowy circles running under them. She thought it was smudged remnants of kohl from the day before. She tried erasing them with her fingers forcefully, but they wouldn’t go. They were adamant. She stretched her arm to the side, tapping the skin beneath her elbow. The muscles were no longer as firm, and they bounced more than she would have liked. She looked down at her stomach and caressed her stretch marks longingly. There was a stitched up dent on the side, which had once been a gaping wound. And suddenly she felt violated. She looked away from the mirror and covered her breasts in shame. 

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Meera had been walking for the past hour, and she had almost reached home. The hurricane had ravaged the city and had left a deathly calm behind. There were no birds in sight. People were still holed up in their houses, some secure, sleeping peacefully in their bedrooms and some trapped under a pile of debris, afraid to start afresh. There were giant uprooted trees, stretched across the breadth of the road, resting on dented roofs and shattered windshields. Makeshift shops had been obliterated, their unsuspecting owners still on their way, harboring false hopes for a day of good business. The devastation was palpable. Meera waded in a bubble of indifference, making her way through vast stretches of human wasteland that lay on either side, her mind wandering off into the distance. 

She reached her apartment and waited for her husband to return. He might want to have some tea, she thought. She walked into the kitchen, and set some water to boil. She looked out of the window blankly. The sun was up now, and she realized she had some piled up laundry to take care off. She walked out of the kitchen, heading towards her bedroom to change, when she heard the doorbell. She stilled smelled of Sam and wanted to change first, but her visitor seemed impatient, going at the doorbell relentlessly. She roughly ironed out the creases in her shirt with her palm and opened the door. Her husband was standing there. His eyes were red. He smelt conspicuously of cheap alcohol. 

“Tea?” she said, with forced animation. 

He looked away and stumbled into the house. He muttered incoherently and Meera took it for a yes. The boiling water spilled all over the stove. It hissed like a serpent as it made its way to the floor. 

Forbidden Fruit

Sam sat there, ensconced in a cloud of stale smoke and with every round of marijuana, he lost count of the passing minutes. He had a tinge of a headache, the kind that makes one smile without reason. He felt an invisible hand, grasping his head and lifting him above the ground, high enough to see his own human form slouched on the desk below. It was as if his body was not his own anymore, and his shoulders felt awfully light. There was a certain twisted relief in absolute submission; a secret freedom in servile dependence.

He remembered being summoned to a classroom near the terrace a couple of hours after dinner, when the last of the wakeful eyes had drooped, heavy with fatigue. It was a call from the school ‘elite’, and when it came to the popular clique, exhaustion wasn’t an option. He tiptoed up the dark staircase, down the winding hallway, and crept through the deceptively open window at the end of it. The room was pitch black, and Sam couldn’t see a step in front of him except for the glowing ends of a bunch of cigarettes, a few feet away. It took a few minutes of getting used to and before long, the residual light streaming in through the open windows revealed a handful of smoky silhouettes. They were all hunched in a circle, making every effort to blend in with the darkness that surrounded them. The forbidden nature of their activity demanded them to be discreet, and addiction was surely not an excuse to get caught.

“Join us sir. It’s about time.” Rishi whispered out to him from somewhere. 

He followed the voice without question. He could tell that he was happy to see him, even from his whisper. Rishi handed out a burning roll to him. Sam nestled the stub between his practiced fingers and breathed in like a pro. The light at the end flickered briefly from the lengthy drag. The smoke hardly made him cough. The momentary burning in the throat was a fraction of what it used to feel like. Rishi looked at him with a sense of pride and adult satisfaction. He knew he had taught him well. 

This was not the first time that Sam was invited to join the ‘Royal Secret Society’ in their nightly trysts. They met once every two days, in the same cramped classroom near the terrace. Very few people frequented that room through the day, and if they left the windows open through the night, the leftover smoke made its way out silently, without raising a hair, carrying their adolescent secrets with it. It was a privilege to be invited to join the circle, and Rishi handpicked its members personally. They smoked weed, talked about the logistics of sex, exchanged rare rock ballads and dispelled myths about masturbation being unhealthy. Not everyone deserved to be included in these clandestine meetings, and whatever knowledge was imparted in that room was a gift. It was said that one entered the society as a boy, only to leave it as a man; enlightened and ready to take on the world. As a part of an elaborate induction ritual, members were sworn into secrecy and they were not allowed to discuss anything that went on during their meetings. If word went around that someone was disloyal, he was called out, stripped off his privileges, and subjected to months of public humiliation, so much so, that he would rue the day he had foolishly gossiped. 

Sam still couldn’t believe that he was sitting there, an equal part of the famed coterie. His initial days of torment didn’t seem too distant. Even after they had shared their first smoke and burnt their childish follies that cold night, Rishi took his time before he acknowledged Sam in full view.  He would continue to test his patience and mock him in front of everyone, as if nothing had transpired between them. Sam convinced himself that Rishi could never be his friend, and the slightest possibility was only a product of naivety. He tried not to think about it, but Rishi’s recurrent efforts at harassment made it incredibly hard for him to continue. And one day, it all stopped. Just like that. Rishi was a whole new person. It was as if an angel had kissed him on the forehead the night before. Sam was no longer ridiculed, and Rishi stood up for him every time someone dared to ridicule him. The tables of fate had been turned, and for once he was sitting on the other side, jeering at some new abandoned, unsuspecting freshman. Strangely, he liked raising the derisive finger. 

“What’re you thinking about? Please don’t tell me it has anything to do with tomorrow’s midterm”, laughed Rishi. 

Sam woke up from some sort of a trance. Infact he wasn’t thinking at all. He was busy trying to flesh out the patterns that the smoke trails traced in his brain. The foggy serpents coiled around his head, mapping contours down his spine stealthily. It was as if the world had come to a halt; there was comfort in its listlessness. Midterms were barely tangible. 

“Nothing really. I totally forgot about tomorrow”, he said.

“That’s my boy!” said Rishi, resting a congratulatory arm around his shoulder. “Midterms are stupid. This is real.”

Sam nodded in agreement. His tongue felt heavy.

“I wanted to tell you something. But you have to promise not to tell anyone”, whispered Rishi.

Sam looked at him, half listening. “Absolutely. You can trust me”, he said in a tone of absent reassurance. 

‘I think I like someone.”

“Really? Who is it? Is it a boy?” Sam lowered his voice at the end, not knowing what to expect.

Rishi laughed. “No it’s not a boy stupid. You think I’m a faggot?”

“Of course not. Sorry. I’m a bit wasted. Who is it?”

“Her name’s Noor. She’s the gardener’s daughter.”

“Wow. Congratulations! So, does she know?”

“No she doesn’t. I mean, not yet. I haven’t spoken to her.”

“Ever? So how do you know you like her?” asked Sam curiously. 

“You just know these things. You’ll know when it’s your time.”

Sam felt embarrassed having asked that. Of course you’ll know.

“So when are you going to tell her?” his voice ringing with excitement.

Rishi smiled wryly. “I’m working on it”, he said.

                                               ……………………………..

It was just another regular Sunday morning. Midterms were over, and most of the boys had gone home for the holidays. Sam never wanted to leave Glenwood. He was happier here. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what his father looked like. He never came to meet him. How was he doing? Maybe he’d married again. Maybe he had new children now, running around the house and drumming empty cereal bowls with metal spoons. Maybe he joined their impromptu orchestra, spontaneously breaking into song. Sam remembered him having a baritone to die for, but the last time he had heard him sing seemed like a distant memory. Maybe he doesn’t love Sam anymore. Maybe his efforts at building a new life had reduced his past to a few forgotten pictures, stashed away amidst a pile of nameless envelopes. 

Sam looked out into the distance; the silence in the corridor was refreshing. He noticed someone sitting at the end of the hallway, almost hiding behind the last pillar. He wasn’t expecting anyone there. As far as he knew, everyone had gone home except for Mr. Bentley and a few members of the staff. He walked towards her, curiosity egging him on. He stopped himself a few feet away from the bend, trying to figure out who she was from a distance. She was sitting there with an open sketchbook, unperturbed. She was drawing a boat. Each deft stroke breathed life into the thatched hood of the dinghy. She made it seem ridiculously simple. 

“How long will you be standing there?” she said, barely looking up.

Sam was startled. He didn’t realize how long he was staring at her. He felt the blood rush to his face. He said nothing.

“My name’s Noor.”

Sam knew who she was. “So you are the gardener’s daughter, right?”

Noor didn’t expect him to know her. She looked up, surprised. Her long wavy hair covered half her almond-shaped face. There was an inexplicable mystery in her eye. 

“I am. But how did you know?” she asked.

Sam didn’t have a good answer. Honesty was definitely out of bounds. He decided to be noncommittal instead. 

“I’ve been here long enough. You get to know people.”

“Sure you do. You can sit if you want.”

Sam hesitated for a moment. What if Rishi saw them? But he wasn’t doing anything. It was just harmless conversation. Either way Rishi had gone home. Maybe it would be easier for him to talk to her, if she befriended Sam. He felt his guilt leaving him. There was no need to overthink this. 

“Why not.” 

Sam went and sat next to her. He was careful not to sit too close.

“So what’re you drawing?” he asked.

“A boat. I love boats.”

“Me too,” he added simply.

In his mind, he raced back to the time when he would spend hours drawing boats, scribbling on scrap paper with wax crayons, unaware of the world around him. They danced on waves, bobbed in brimming tubs, lazed in puddles of filthy rainwater, sailing from one utopian island to another. They had hope; a hope to unearth new continents, a hope to find happiness, a hope to carry on.