Looking At You

All I can do is just watch as she breathes, each slow peaceful breath like a gentle wave erasing careless nothings on a sandy beach clearing the slate for new. Unable to touch or talk, I track the show of her cleavage following the opening and closing of her blouse with each breath, feeling the pressure of her unfettered breasts against my side. Her head rests on my chest, her long fine hair like weed or tentacles a blanket over me and stray strands fly with each pass of the overhead fan tickling and lashing my inert face. Her eyes remain closed except when it opens to stare deep into mine, as she traces on my chest hair with some elaborate calligraphy, mouthing the words ‘I love you’ silently. All I can do is watch and listen, and remember. I remember the day it started, I remember the day I met Anjali and the days after.

I remember November 6. It is the birthday of my first love. It is also the day I met Anjali at an inter-departmental conference. In bad times, like now, that coincidence seems strange but not then when life was full of promise and success. It was just a special day for me to make things happen rather than wait for fate to stroll by and cast her fickle glance towards me.

Anjali was the prettiest in the room and my department boasted the best minds and largest bonuses. She was interested in a vacancy and I promised to consider her application. It might seem like barter but such trivial give and take is of little importance. If not that, there would have been other ways. We talked briefly during lunch but otherwise maintained our distance and enacted the formal charade of mere colleagues.

I met her for lunch the following weekend at a discreet Italian restaurant in the city far from our suburban homes. Later, we kissed and fondled in a secluded underground car park. At forty, the adrenalin rush of fourteen felt strange and exhilarating. Weekdays passed slowly with blank faces and formal greetings. Each weekend, an hour or two at the Club or with friends were swapped for life, for time with her, for passion, for a type of love I had never felt or even thought possible.

When did I first feel that something was wrong - maybe, in late winter or early spring? I had a problem with my personal e-mails. I thought I had sent an e-mail to Anjali about a date but she never got it. I could not trace it in my drafts or sent items either. I brushed it aside, even doubting whether I had sent it. Then, I felt as if I was being followed. On weekends, two uncouth guys appeared at every corner I walked and a white car with dark tinted glasses seemed to tail my car. When I shared my fear with Anjali, she said I was just being paranoid. She did ask if we should take a break and cool off a little. I told her that I could not do without her.

In early May, on my way back home on a Sunday night, I was mugged by a bunch of hoodlums. They came in two motorcycles and a car. On a lonely stretch of the expressway, they blocked my car and made me stop. I offered money but all they wanted was to give me a sound thrashing. Nothing on the face but my sides were punched and beaten like burger patty. I had to tell Anjali about it when she touched the blue black marks on our next weekend tryst. She looked at me with fear in her lovely expressive eyes. I lay down on the bed gingerly and asked her to get on top. I was addicted to her and I didn’t care, about anything.

Two weeks back, we met at a friend’s vacant flat in the city. After spending the afternoon together, we left at six. I dropped Anjali at a taxi-stand. On my way back, I kept looking in the rear-view mirror and I was glad not to find the white car tailing me. Two blocks from my house, I parked the car by the roadside and crossed the road to get a bouquet of flowers at a florist. After the purchase, with a bouquet in hand, I had just stepped out to cross the road when I got hit by a speeding car. I hardly felt anything when the car rammed into me. I can’t remember the pain that must have followed. But I remember flying like a tossed rag-doll, looking foolish never letting go of that bouquet of flowers for my wife. I remember seeing a satisfied look on the driver’s face as the hit-and-run car smashed into my side. My wife looked very satisfied, I remember, and I think she even gave me a cold half-smile.

The doctors say that I am lucky. I am not paralyzed but I have enough nuts, bolts, plates and screws within me beneath the plaster and the bandages to make a metal detector on this mummy go wild and do a hopping jig to some merry tune. The doctors tell me that the rest depends on slow faithful healing time and the loving touch of God and my wife. My wife rarely leaves my side. When she is not scribbling little love notes on the plaster, she tells me about how she caught me and how she has warned off ‘that silly girl’ Anjali. All I can do is watch and listen, and remember, looking at her.