Recovering Memory

He looked tired - hands lying listless on the table, body inert and sagging. Except for his eyes where blankness gave way to amusement off and on, recollecting some whimsical memory probably.  I leaned forward, pushing the pack of cigarettes towards him. He looked at it, unsure, and then declined with a shake of his head.

‘I can’t even remember if I enjoyed smoking,’ he said, ‘maybe, I did.’

‘Don’t think too much about it,’ I said.

‘What I can think about does not seem to be the stuff I should think about.’

‘It will all come back.’

‘It… all…? It… wouldn’t be so frustrating if I forgot… all…’

He scratched his unshaven face, pressed his eyes with his thumbs, ‘I can’t sleep. Just before you came in, I was remembering the two American ladies we met on the train. The younger one looked a lot like that girl in ‘Grey’s Anatomy’, right?’

I shrugged.

‘Not exactly, I know, but her eyes or maybe the face, something feral, something similar.’ He paused before continuing, ‘I can remember that the older lady was the attractive one… and that I talked to her more… but I can’t remember her at all… how she looked or what we talked… total blank.’ He rested his head on the table. ‘It’s maddening.’

We talked for half an hour or so in that small dank room.  Yes, he remembered me as an old friend. Maybe, if I was important to him, he would have forgotten me as well. We even talked about our old school days. He remembered most of it.

Later, outside that room, I narrated our discussion to the man who had called me to the police station.

‘Inspector, he remembers a lot. Even our school days, the girls I used to chase around and such,’ I paused, ‘but he has no memory of stuff that really mattered to him, like his girlfriend in school, and those two were really close, unlike my time-pass flings.’

‘Not the same girl, I suppose…’ the Inspector asked, leaning against the wall, looking bored.

‘What?’

‘You two were not chasing the same girl, were you?’

‘Oh, no… his type was the silent serious one… too heavy for me… I just went for the popular…’ I laughed, realizing too late that I could be misconstrued, especially there with that crowd. The Inspector still looked bored. I knew that it was just a show. He looked the type who could stalk endlessly and tire out a suspect, waiting for the submission and the confession. Oh yes, he looked that kind.

‘So, your friend there can’t remember anything, huh?’ the Inspector asked.

‘Only the important parts seem to be missing… erased…’ I tried to explain.

‘How convenient…’ he muttered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he remembers his wife,’ the Inspector paused, ‘but he can’t recollect anything that happened yesterday. Nothing… not how he found his wife dead late evening, not where he was most of the day, not what she was up to that morning, not even who could have attacked her at this resort mid-afternoon … nothing…’

‘But there was some intruder, right? The newspapers mentioned some eye-witness…’

‘Ah! People always see lots of things…’ he seemed to dismiss that line of enquiry. He kept staring at me, thoughtful, and I felt uncomfortable with his close scrutiny.

I offered, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Try to make him remember…’

‘He is my friend… she was, too… don’t you think someone else would be suitable for that…?’ I asked.

‘Conflict of interests, huh?’ he kept staring.

‘Exactly...’

‘Well, if he is not a good suspect,’ he stressed on the ‘good’ making it sound real bad, ‘you might become our next best one.’

‘What…?’

‘You were at the resort with them… you, a single guy, and them, a nice couple, together - it sounds strange, doesn’t it?’

‘We are… were… good friends, that’s all… I suggested the trip and they came along. What’s so strange about that?’

‘You were a friend of hers, you say. And you go for the popular girls… other guys’ girls?’

‘Don’t twist my words.’

‘I might not… but the media might. Do you know how uncomfortable public scrutiny can be… guilty or innocent?’

‘That’s blackmail,’ I whined.

He shrugged.

‘Don’t you people have your ways… for such things…?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Oh yes, we have our ways… but, why don’t we start with your friendly ways? Just make him remember. If he is bluffing, his best friend might be the best one to catch him unawares. Your conflict of interests might be helpful in ferreting out the truth.’  

I could guess the part he left unsaid. Or, if he is not bluffing, he might think that I did it… and… he might try to catch me. It was apparent that the Inspector had set his sights on my friend… and me.

Spam

The first message came three weeks back, on a busy Monday. The subject was “URGENT”. The sender’s address seemed to be that of an old schoolteacher.  I could not be sure because I had not saved our e-mail correspondence.  The main message was, ‘…in Bangkok. Last night, I was attacked. I suffered minor injuries and lost my money, bag and other possessions. I urgently need fifty thousand rupees. Kindly help me by sending the money via bank transfer to…’ It sounded so believable. But, what was my old schoolteacher doing in Bangkok? And, he would have called me and not e-mailed. I have heard of spam where hackers adopt identities from e-mail correspondence.

I had nearly forgotten that message when I got the second nine days back, on a Saturday. The subject was the same. The sender’s name and address matched that of my ex-wife. Once again, ‘…raped… hostage… in Vancouver…’ The give-away was the last line, the same barring the account details. Anyway, she is in California, I think, not Canada. Who gets raped in Vancouver?

The third, I got last night. The gist was the same. The sender was an old girlfriend. It was weird getting an e-mail from her. I knew her when there were no e-mails. The last time we were together, I was drunk and had no business driving. I thought she was dead and I barely managed to escape from that crash site without being noticed.

Sharing Solitude

SHARING SOLITUDE

(click here to download the 8MB PDF file)

Excerpts:

I knew then that this trip would be different. It was my fifth trip to Goa in ten years and in the last four trips, the common factor had been a bewildering and stifling sense of desolate despondency...

‘We seem to be in the only place in Goa without a beach or shack or shop or bar or house or restaurant...’ she said...

That morning, all that I wanted was the bliss of solitude; and by night, I had no bed, no room, no toilet and I stood accused of being a rapist.

n.b. Any resemblance to real people, places, events and customs might be a coincidence.

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.

Silence

The doorbell rang at a quarter to three. Mrs. John called from the bedroom, ‘Hold on. I am coming.’

She looked in the mirror once again. With a good-natured pout, she pinched her love-handles and, at the same time, tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and seemed pleased with her hairstyle. She picked up the handbag lying on the bed and ran to the door. She looked through the peephole as she turned the lock. With the key half-way through the lock, she paused, looking worried, remaining still and silent.

She opened the door slowly. ‘Ah Sudha, it’s you. I thought it could be the neighbor. We go together to pick up the kids from the bus-stop.’

The visitor gave an apologetic smile as reply. She looked sad, tired and sleep-deprived. Her loose bun of hair and crumpled clothes, that looked as if she had slept in those, stood out against her beautiful, graceful and habitually elegant self.

Mrs. John stood nervously, biting her lower lip and blocking the way inside. ‘The bus comes at ten past three,’ she blurted out.

‘Can I sit for a while till your neighbor comes?’ Sudha asked.

‘Of course, of course…’ Mrs. John said without much enthusiasm.

‘I am going mad, Theresa. I had to get out of the house. Do you know how I longed to talk to someone this past week? I just want to sit with a friend for some time…’ Sudha said as she entered the apartment. Then, she added, ‘Maybe, it is not right…I should go…I don’t want to trouble you.’ She turned towards the door.

‘What nonsense…how are you troubling me? Come inside,’ Mrs John led her to the kitchen, ‘let’s sit here and have some iced tea.’

They did not talk till Mrs. John poured the tea in two tall glasses and joined the other at the small round table.

‘What have I done, Theresa? Why is everyone avoiding me?’ Sudha asked.

‘It’s not you, Sudha, not you, of course.’ Mrs. John reached over and held the other’s hand.

‘Even you…now, at the door, didn’t you pray that I would just go away?’

Mrs. John remained silent for a few moments, taking in her friend’s distressed face. ‘She is here, Sudha. That’s why…’

Sudha looked surprised and her mouth opened but no words came out.

‘I suggested to her parents that a change of scene and the kids here might be good for her. She has not spoken a word since that day, always lying in bed, not crying, not sleeping, just lying there,’ Mrs. John explained. ‘To tell you the truth, I did not expect her parents to accept my offer but the day before yesterday, they seemed so glad to leave her here.’

‘Poor girl…if only I could do something for her. Do you know what I have been praying for? For God to take my life, though that won’t be compensation enough,’ Sudha said. ‘How I have thought of killing myself.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Sudha. What good is that to anyone? You didn’t do anything and don’t forget your kids.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know…’ Sudha put her head on the table and started crying.

The doorbell rang again. Mrs. John got up, ‘That must be the neighbor.’

Sudha got up from the table, still crying. ‘I should go, too.’

Mrs. John told her, ‘Why don’t you wait here? I will be back in ten minutes or so. You sit here and finish the tea. We can talk when I get back…maybe, we can go out to the park for a walk.’ Half-way out of the kitchen, she turned back, ‘Please don’t go to the bedroom. Her parents and Mr. John too will be terribly upset with me if they knew that I left you here with Jaya.’

‘Do you think I will trouble Jaya? Don’t worry, Theresa. I can’t even go in front of her. I feel so guilty.’ Sudha sat down again, her face in her hands.

‘Hush, hush…’ Mrs. John patted her friend’s shoulder. She tried to comfort her friend before leaving.

The apartment was silent. Sudha sipped her tea and calmed herself. She got up from the table and stood by the kitchen window. She could see Mrs. John and her neighbor exit from the compound and go towards the school bus-stop. Sudha moved inside towards the kids’ bedroom.

Jaya was lying on a bed next to a table and a bunker, probably that of Mrs. John’s kids. Sudha went up to her.

Jaya sat up in bed, startled and distraught, and moved to the far corner of the bed. She kept staring at Sudha with strangely blank wide-open eyes.

‘Jaya, my Jaya, if only I could say sorry to you…but I can’t even say that…’ Sudha said. ‘I was telling Theresa…Mrs. John…that I would kill myself if that could set things right for you…even kill him…’

Jaya flinched but remained mute.

‘This last one week…I do not know how many deaths I have died…always thinking about you.’ Sudha said, still standing by the bed. ‘If only I could turn the clock back…’

Sudha moved closer to the bed. She stood there for a while, looking down at Jaya, without speaking. Jaya kept staring at her. Sudha sat on the edge of the bed, with her hands on her lap and not making any move to touch.

‘You remind me of myself,’ Sudha said softly, ‘do you know that I suffered like you once? I was a little younger than you when it happened to me, not yet thirteen. And my uncle…my own relative…in our ancestral house, he…how can I talk about it? Do you know that I have never talked about it? But I can still remember everything. It was afternoon…not even the shroud of darkness as in your case…and that uncle was drunk and brutal. He…my husband…touched you…it was wrong…but crazy too…some kind of crazy attachment and care…mine was different. He wasn’t brutal like my uncle, was he? I was so angry and scared then. I too could not speak for days, though I wanted to shout it out, to tell the truth…I thought of saying even more than the truth…for revenge. Do you know who told me to keep quiet? My own parents…they told me that we would only get hurt more. That I would get hurt even more…that I would be blamed. I never talked about it.’

‘For days and weeks, I thought about it. I could think only about that. I wondered about what I had done wrong…how I brought it on myself. I never used to wear clothes like yours. My mother used to make me wear a petticoat always. I keep thinking about what I could have done to prevent what happened to you. I could have talked to your mother or to you. Men are animals at times, it is their charm and their curse, and how they behave depends a lot on us women. I should have warned you. Not to be so friendly with men and boys, not to hug them or sit too close, not to sit carelessly with your legs wide. I should have talked to your mother about your tight-fitting dresses, how you have matured so fast, how your cheap bra makes you look more developed than your thirteen years. Oh, how I wish I had done something! But, you should never think that you are to be blamed. You might think that some time but it is not true.’

The kid kept staring at Sudha, hugging herself tightly, as if trying to be in a cocoon or covering herself from view.

Sudha looked at her watch, stood up and walked towards the door. She then turned towards Jaya and said, ‘Remember that I would do anything to help you. My kids too, your dear friends, they would do anything for you. They have not gone to school since their father was taken into custody after your parents complained. They can’t face the world, they say. I don’t know if they understand everything. But, for you, they want to give up everything. More than anyone, even the police, we…me and my kids, your friends…want you to speak the truth about whatever happened that night. Then, at least, everything will be over. Family, life…we are ready to die after that. We just want you to be fine.’

  Sudha left the room after a long look at Jaya. The kid lay down curled, eyes wide open, tearless, still and silent. Sudha went back to the kitchen and stood by the window.

A few minutes later, Mrs. John returned with her kids.

Sudha said to Mrs. John, ‘Just being here, standing by this window in your house, has helped me so much. Thank you for everything, Theresa. I should go now.’

‘Stay a little longer, Sudha.’ Mrs. John said.

Sudha took the other’s hands in hers, ‘You might get into unnecessary trouble.’

‘Ah yes, that’s true…’ Mrs. John admitted, ‘how I wish that poor thing would at least speak.’

‘Yes, I hope she will break her silence.’