Empty Pages Episode 10
After a break, and what can be kindly described as a low phase, here is Episode 10. Few things make me as happy as drives around Bombay. Totally recommended (though only during non traffic hours). Hope it is a good read :)
#64 Taxi
She wearily got into the taxi. Long day at work. The lift was out of order. She had spent most of her day on the staircase. She had just finished talking to one of the most toxic people she knew. Not only was her friend never happy, she ensured the caller was miserable too.She couldn't understand how people never enjoyed little things.
He got into the taxi after her, and started to ramble about traffic. Politics. The country was going to dogs. Pollution. All the old buildings that needed to be demolished. So many skyscrapers could be built in the same area. She shuddered at the thought of it. Skyscrapers reminder her of graveyards, they felt like vertical graves housing the living dead.
She had tuned him out. She was gazing outside the window. The Victorian gargoyles that were in sharp contrast to the skyscrapers around. The old church that was being repaired, with what looked like bandages across it's stained windows.
The old chawls with plants growing from crevices. Old lanterns from Christmas still on the balcony. Agiaries. The red rose that was conspicuously dangling out of the grey dilapidated balcony. The chimney of the old mills that were now ruins. She liked to think of their story. How all these buildings would have been in their heyday. He alighted having finished his rant.
She wasn't done. She told the driver to turn around. She drove through the city. Buildings old and new. Old buildings had a story, a life that was breathing through the cracks. Wrought iron staircases. A huge dog's sculpture which turned out to be a kennel. Old fashioned grilled windows. The enormous flight of stairs that lead to a library equally massive. She liked to think of living in that era. When the old was new and the outdated a novelty. If this was living in the past, she'd love to live there.
She woke up late. She was cursing her luck as she jumped out of bed. She would have to rush through her morning routine. Instant coffee would have to do. 2 slices of bread with ketchup. That's all she had time for.
Everyone at work would ask her if she was okay and she would spend all day wondering how they found out. She didn't want their sympathy or advice. She would head home at 11 pm, look at herself in the mirror to find out why. They weren't in on her secret yet. She heaved a sigh of relief. The next day onward she would wake up 20 minutes earlier than usual. Kohl check. Hair check. Breakfast check. She was out to attack the day.
Until the day she felt unusually light. Not in a good way. She was stuck in a crowded bus. With smelly armpits. Men who felt it was a good excuse to grind themselves against unwitting women. Other men who would get snapped at because their hand accidentally brushed against a girl's shoulder. Women with their lovely long hair hanging loose over their shoulders, and the people behind them with a mouthful of the same hair. That one person who would catch up with their soaps on the morning ride.
Her first reaction was to check her hair. It wasn't on her head anymore. Everyone was staring at her. She gingerly picked her wig and fixed it back in place. Her face was set in stone. She would not react. Everyone went back to their own worlds. She reached work relieved, rushed to the rest room, made sure she looked decent and got down to work. Another day quashed.
She got to work the next day, ignoring stares all the way till work. Everyone at work would look at her with soft eyes. She didn't trust this. Suddenly everyone was nice to her. She didn't trust nice. She didn't understand the sudden change of tone. Everyone wanted to help her. Fetch her coffee. Print those reports. Till she found the newspaper in the lobby. She was fuming. Somebody in the bus had clicked a photo of her and the newspaper had decided to post it for the whole city to read. If they didn't have enough news to print, they should shut down. All the pity made sense. This was the reason everyone was looking at her like she was made of glass.
She stormed into the office. She got down to work. The next person who came to her with glazed eyes would have to hear a earful. She had been stewing,the lava ready to spurt. Yes, she had been sick, no she didn't want to be treated like she was moribund. Fragile. She stomped her way to the washroom and returned looking perfectly calm and normal. She got back to work. It would be another day that she had conquered.
In a room full of women, he was the tall man, hunched over double in a seat half his size. He was also sobbing uncontrollably. That would the third baby they had lost. For nine months he had dreamt of his child, boy or girl, though he secretly wanted a daughter. Of watching them learn how to roll over. Talk. Walk. Play on the swing. Go to school.
His dreams of months had been shattered in few minutes. The doctors had stepped out to say he had lost his baby for sure, they had tried their best, and now were doing everything they could to keep her alive.
All the women around him were talking in hushed tones. He looked up briefly, here were all these young ladies with babies they didn't want, babies that would never get to be babies. They had their reasons. Here he was, yearning for the same, only to be cheated over and over again. Life was cruel.
Two days later they sat in the car next to each other in silence. It was time to go home, but there was nothing there for them to go to. Nothing to look forward to.They just sat there looking ahead, at the wall of the parking lot.
There was a rap on the window. She turned around, opened the window, to have a bundle of blankets thrust at her. She was shocked, not quite sure what to say.
It was them or the dumps, the girl said. Her boyfriend had deserted her and their baby. She wouldn't be able to raise that baby alone and was too scared to go to any authority.
She had watched him cry that day day, she was sure he cared. Her baby was in safe hands.
Inside his head alarms were going off. Was this legal? What if somebody found out? What if somebody arrested them tomorrow?
A small foot stuck out from under the blanket, against his best judgement, he tried touching her toes.His thoughts, his fears, his everything froze for a moment, a moment that felt like forever. She had grasped his finger with her toes. She had him wrapped around her toes.
He sat there in the swing. It was a dull day. Grey skies. The air was still. There was a feeling of electricity passing through him, which he put down to nervousness. He wished he had somebody to talk to. It was just him and his mom. He wished his dad had been around. He had never actually met his father. He had only seen photos of him. His black wavy hair. Perfect skin.
His parents had met on a rainy afternoon in a diner. She was visiting London for a few months to study. He seemed to be anxious like he was on the watch out for something. Slowly they started chatting. He loved motorcycles and seemed very interested in his surroundings. She found his excitement about completely mundane things amusing. He was enthusiastically reading the paper and muttering to himself.
They walked out of the diner together. He stopped to admire the red motor cycle parked across. He traced his finger across its fuel tank, over the curves, looping around the metal letters, his warm skin against the cold metal. It sent a chill down his spine. She watched him with interest. She was in town only for a few months, would be returning to the States soon. The short span they spent together though was exceptional.
They got married secretly. He had told her it would be a bad idea, he wasn't sure how long he would be alive. For a young man, she found that a puzzling thing to say but let it be. One day he never returned. Nobody knew what happened of him. She never held it against him though, he had warned her. She moved back to the United States, not quite sure what had happened to him.
She met him again only once, years later, on a trip to London. He was a changed man at least in terms of looks. His face sunken and waxy. They spent the day together; he told her everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. He knew death was coming and this time she knew why.
She promised to leave the country at the earliest. It killed her that she couldn't do anything to save him. He didn't have anyone but her to support him, no family. He explained how of all the ways he had defied his family, marrying her had definitely been the peak of rebellion. Her presence probably wouldn't work in his favour anyway.
This was a story that her son would never hear about. The agony, the anger, the betrayal - parts of his past and present that were killing him. Her son would only hear stories of what a charming British man his father had been and how he valued friendship and loyalty.
He had his father's hair and that gave him great pride. Maybe absence had made him fond but he loved his father. He dreamt that one day his father would show up on their doorstep to take them away. The day never came though. They moved to London in his teens, and he would always hope they'd bump into each other someday.
It was a new school. Everything was different. Everyone found his accent funny and him theirs. It was the same language but they had different names for everything. Spellings. He hated that he had so much work to do. He somehow never enjoyed school, either here or before. It didn't seem like something he would want to learn.
He had dreams sometimes. Of a different world. Magical. Sometimes he would dream he was riding a motor cycle with his father in the air. Those were his favourite dreams. He would tell his mother and she would just smile. She never told him anything. It drove him crazy, it was like she knew something, but wouldn't tell.
His sat there on the swing, drawing in the mud with his shoes. He wished he could get somebody to do his chores. He heard a whip-like crack and looked around . At the same moment, an owl dropped a thick letter into his lap. It was addressed to him so plainly there could no mistake. He traced his name written in emerald ink. Polaris Black.
He had avoided coming home. All these years, he had not wanted in the slightest to come home, meet his folks or friends. It wasn't like he hated them. He just wasn't on the same plane, hadn't been for a while.
They had something working for them, something to share, some piece of joy. Every time they did, it hurt him that he had nothing to share but failures. It wasn't jealousy or resentment. It just made him feel like rain to their sunshine. He was the downer. Never having any joy to share with others. He told himself he would meet people when he had a story worth telling, when he wasn't at his lowest. It pushed him into a shell.
The day would take years though. 10 years later he was back in town. He gathered the courage to visit his college. The students were done for the day. The fact that he was no longer the said student itself felt a little unnatural. He walked into his old classroom. Few professors had recognised him on his way in. He was surprised they did. He had always considered himself an insignificant existence in college.
The room bore thousands of memories. He sat down on the the tenth, his favourite spot. The perfect view of the trees swaying to the breeze. The perfect distance from the professor, not too close to be considered a nerd, nor too far away to be their target. Also close enough to run from the back exit if one had to bunk. He had spent many droning lectures, on the same bench, staring outside the same window, dreaming dreams that seemed juvenile now.
Every bench had a story attached to it almost. Over the years the graffiti on the desk had only grown. He sat there grinning to himself, feeling at peace with himself. He heard a thud next to him. His college best friend was grinning at him from the other end of the bench. Soon others from the gang filed in. They discussed their youth, the memories. The successes, the failures and the present forgotten. It felt good. Like cold lemonade on a sunny day.
He visited the bridge every Tuesday. without fail.Most of the regular commuters knew it was Tuesday simply by the fact that he was standing there. Rain, sunshine, snow, hail. No matter what the weather, he would be there every Tuesday.
Most people thought he was crazy. Spending the whole day on the bridge once a week. He would wait there till Wednesday morning and then leave, ignoring all the staring looks till then.
She was new to town. It made her curious - why somebody would spend a full day on the bridge was beyond her. She stopped by one day, arriving at midnight, like he did. She sat down next to him, not sure how to ask him. They sat there in silence.
Soon enough there was the noise of someone else amidst them. Somebody was going to jump. She started panicking, not him. He slowly walked down to the young boy, maintained a safe distance, not too threatening, not too distant. He was talking in a soothing voice. They talked for over an hour. By the end of the second hour, he had allowed him to help, been driven home by the police after calling his parents.
He came back and sat down next to her. He knew what she had wanted to ask,he proceeded to tell her his story : His seventeen year old had jumped from the same bridge on a Tuesday, ten years back, for no apparent reason. He didn't seem depressed. He didn't seem to have any enemies. Nothing. One day he was with them, one day he wasn't. The currents were so quick, so dangerous, finding the body was impossible.
He had thought his teenage son's biggest dilemma would have been girls, or which party to attend or maybe what subject to pursue. Not whether or not he should end his life. The Tuesday he had got the call, he had felt vacuum inside him. Hopeless. His son had thought his death wouldn't matter to him. It crushed him.
From the next Tuesday onward, he would man the same bridge. He would talk every person possible, out of the decision to end their lives. Sometimes it didn't work, he admitted. But when it did, it brought him peace. The satisfaction of changing somebody's life, making them give themselves a second chance. The comfort in knowing that no other parent would have to go through the agony he did. He didn't mind being called crazy. Every life mattered.
He was scared of the dark. He couldn't sleep without the night lamp on. He needed the reassurance that if he wasn't alone, he would be able to see his company. His father would make fun of him, for wanting his night lamp always in working condition.
His father on the other hand enjoyed his dark room. The darkness. Ever since he lost his job and his wife died, the darkness and the bottle were his only company. He rarely left the house.His son did try, he came up with all kinds of excuses. He'd have none of it.
He hated how his father was destroying himself. He tried to push his father out of the house,hardly succeeding though. He wanted out. He hated what this place had become after his mother died. He wanted to start over.
He didn't want to move, didn't want to leave. This place, with all its cracks, its peeling paint and leaky taps, this place was all he had as evidence of his successful past. When he wasn't a drunk. A widower. A terrible dad. An unemployed slob spiralling into the bottle.
He tried his best to drag his father out of this miserable hole. He would get a job, they'd move to a better place, somewhere nobody knew their past. Maybe his father would snap out of his bottle and get back to normal.
He was scared of leaving the house again. What if he never had a chance to come back. How was he going to face people? What would they tell him? He didn't think he had it in him anymore, to live the life he lived, talking to people, being normal. Functional.
He was scared the darkness of the house would engulf him. He didn't want to become the shadow of his father. He wanted to leave before the gloom maimed him too.He was scared of the dark, his father was scared of the light.
She wasn't done. She told the driver to turn around. She drove through the city. Buildings old and new. Old buildings had a story, a life that was breathing through the cracks. Wrought iron staircases. A huge dog's sculpture which turned out to be a kennel. Old fashioned grilled windows. The enormous flight of stairs that lead to a library equally massive. She liked to think of living in that era. When the old was new and the outdated a novelty. If this was living in the past, she'd love to live there.
#65 Kohl
She woke up late. She was cursing her luck as she jumped out of bed. She would have to rush through her morning routine. Instant coffee would have to do. 2 slices of bread with ketchup. That's all she had time for. Everyone at work would ask her if she was okay and she would spend all day wondering how they found out. She didn't want their sympathy or advice. She would head home at 11 pm, look at herself in the mirror to find out why. They weren't in on her secret yet. She heaved a sigh of relief. The next day onward she would wake up 20 minutes earlier than usual. Kohl check. Hair check. Breakfast check. She was out to attack the day.
Until the day she felt unusually light. Not in a good way. She was stuck in a crowded bus. With smelly armpits. Men who felt it was a good excuse to grind themselves against unwitting women. Other men who would get snapped at because their hand accidentally brushed against a girl's shoulder. Women with their lovely long hair hanging loose over their shoulders, and the people behind them with a mouthful of the same hair. That one person who would catch up with their soaps on the morning ride.
Her first reaction was to check her hair. It wasn't on her head anymore. Everyone was staring at her. She gingerly picked her wig and fixed it back in place. Her face was set in stone. She would not react. Everyone went back to their own worlds. She reached work relieved, rushed to the rest room, made sure she looked decent and got down to work. Another day quashed.
She got to work the next day, ignoring stares all the way till work. Everyone at work would look at her with soft eyes. She didn't trust this. Suddenly everyone was nice to her. She didn't trust nice. She didn't understand the sudden change of tone. Everyone wanted to help her. Fetch her coffee. Print those reports. Till she found the newspaper in the lobby. She was fuming. Somebody in the bus had clicked a photo of her and the newspaper had decided to post it for the whole city to read. If they didn't have enough news to print, they should shut down. All the pity made sense. This was the reason everyone was looking at her like she was made of glass.
She stormed into the office. She got down to work. The next person who came to her with glazed eyes would have to hear a earful. She had been stewing,the lava ready to spurt. Yes, she had been sick, no she didn't want to be treated like she was moribund. Fragile. She stomped her way to the washroom and returned looking perfectly calm and normal. She got back to work. It would be another day that she had conquered.
#66 The bundle
His dreams of months had been shattered in few minutes. The doctors had stepped out to say he had lost his baby for sure, they had tried their best, and now were doing everything they could to keep her alive.
All the women around him were talking in hushed tones. He looked up briefly, here were all these young ladies with babies they didn't want, babies that would never get to be babies. They had their reasons. Here he was, yearning for the same, only to be cheated over and over again. Life was cruel.
Two days later they sat in the car next to each other in silence. It was time to go home, but there was nothing there for them to go to. Nothing to look forward to.They just sat there looking ahead, at the wall of the parking lot.
There was a rap on the window. She turned around, opened the window, to have a bundle of blankets thrust at her. She was shocked, not quite sure what to say.
It was them or the dumps, the girl said. Her boyfriend had deserted her and their baby. She wouldn't be able to raise that baby alone and was too scared to go to any authority.
She had watched him cry that day day, she was sure he cared. Her baby was in safe hands.
Inside his head alarms were going off. Was this legal? What if somebody found out? What if somebody arrested them tomorrow?
A small foot stuck out from under the blanket, against his best judgement, he tried touching her toes.His thoughts, his fears, his everything froze for a moment, a moment that felt like forever. She had grasped his finger with her toes. She had him wrapped around her toes.
#67 Polaris
He sat there in the swing. It was a dull day. Grey skies. The air was still. There was a feeling of electricity passing through him, which he put down to nervousness. He wished he had somebody to talk to. It was just him and his mom. He wished his dad had been around. He had never actually met his father. He had only seen photos of him. His black wavy hair. Perfect skin. His parents had met on a rainy afternoon in a diner. She was visiting London for a few months to study. He seemed to be anxious like he was on the watch out for something. Slowly they started chatting. He loved motorcycles and seemed very interested in his surroundings. She found his excitement about completely mundane things amusing. He was enthusiastically reading the paper and muttering to himself.
They walked out of the diner together. He stopped to admire the red motor cycle parked across. He traced his finger across its fuel tank, over the curves, looping around the metal letters, his warm skin against the cold metal. It sent a chill down his spine. She watched him with interest. She was in town only for a few months, would be returning to the States soon. The short span they spent together though was exceptional.
They got married secretly. He had told her it would be a bad idea, he wasn't sure how long he would be alive. For a young man, she found that a puzzling thing to say but let it be. One day he never returned. Nobody knew what happened of him. She never held it against him though, he had warned her. She moved back to the United States, not quite sure what had happened to him.
She met him again only once, years later, on a trip to London. He was a changed man at least in terms of looks. His face sunken and waxy. They spent the day together; he told her everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. He knew death was coming and this time she knew why.
She promised to leave the country at the earliest. It killed her that she couldn't do anything to save him. He didn't have anyone but her to support him, no family. He explained how of all the ways he had defied his family, marrying her had definitely been the peak of rebellion. Her presence probably wouldn't work in his favour anyway.
This was a story that her son would never hear about. The agony, the anger, the betrayal - parts of his past and present that were killing him. Her son would only hear stories of what a charming British man his father had been and how he valued friendship and loyalty.
He had his father's hair and that gave him great pride. Maybe absence had made him fond but he loved his father. He dreamt that one day his father would show up on their doorstep to take them away. The day never came though. They moved to London in his teens, and he would always hope they'd bump into each other someday.
It was a new school. Everything was different. Everyone found his accent funny and him theirs. It was the same language but they had different names for everything. Spellings. He hated that he had so much work to do. He somehow never enjoyed school, either here or before. It didn't seem like something he would want to learn.
He had dreams sometimes. Of a different world. Magical. Sometimes he would dream he was riding a motor cycle with his father in the air. Those were his favourite dreams. He would tell his mother and she would just smile. She never told him anything. It drove him crazy, it was like she knew something, but wouldn't tell.
His sat there on the swing, drawing in the mud with his shoes. He wished he could get somebody to do his chores. He heard a whip-like crack and looked around . At the same moment, an owl dropped a thick letter into his lap. It was addressed to him so plainly there could no mistake. He traced his name written in emerald ink. Polaris Black.
#68 Bench
He had avoided coming home. All these years, he had not wanted in the slightest to come home, meet his folks or friends. It wasn't like he hated them. He just wasn't on the same plane, hadn't been for a while. They had something working for them, something to share, some piece of joy. Every time they did, it hurt him that he had nothing to share but failures. It wasn't jealousy or resentment. It just made him feel like rain to their sunshine. He was the downer. Never having any joy to share with others. He told himself he would meet people when he had a story worth telling, when he wasn't at his lowest. It pushed him into a shell.
The day would take years though. 10 years later he was back in town. He gathered the courage to visit his college. The students were done for the day. The fact that he was no longer the said student itself felt a little unnatural. He walked into his old classroom. Few professors had recognised him on his way in. He was surprised they did. He had always considered himself an insignificant existence in college.
The room bore thousands of memories. He sat down on the the tenth, his favourite spot. The perfect view of the trees swaying to the breeze. The perfect distance from the professor, not too close to be considered a nerd, nor too far away to be their target. Also close enough to run from the back exit if one had to bunk. He had spent many droning lectures, on the same bench, staring outside the same window, dreaming dreams that seemed juvenile now.
Every bench had a story attached to it almost. Over the years the graffiti on the desk had only grown. He sat there grinning to himself, feeling at peace with himself. He heard a thud next to him. His college best friend was grinning at him from the other end of the bench. Soon others from the gang filed in. They discussed their youth, the memories. The successes, the failures and the present forgotten. It felt good. Like cold lemonade on a sunny day.
#69 The Bridge
Most people thought he was crazy. Spending the whole day on the bridge once a week. He would wait there till Wednesday morning and then leave, ignoring all the staring looks till then.
She was new to town. It made her curious - why somebody would spend a full day on the bridge was beyond her. She stopped by one day, arriving at midnight, like he did. She sat down next to him, not sure how to ask him. They sat there in silence.
Soon enough there was the noise of someone else amidst them. Somebody was going to jump. She started panicking, not him. He slowly walked down to the young boy, maintained a safe distance, not too threatening, not too distant. He was talking in a soothing voice. They talked for over an hour. By the end of the second hour, he had allowed him to help, been driven home by the police after calling his parents.
He came back and sat down next to her. He knew what she had wanted to ask,he proceeded to tell her his story : His seventeen year old had jumped from the same bridge on a Tuesday, ten years back, for no apparent reason. He didn't seem depressed. He didn't seem to have any enemies. Nothing. One day he was with them, one day he wasn't. The currents were so quick, so dangerous, finding the body was impossible.
He had thought his teenage son's biggest dilemma would have been girls, or which party to attend or maybe what subject to pursue. Not whether or not he should end his life. The Tuesday he had got the call, he had felt vacuum inside him. Hopeless. His son had thought his death wouldn't matter to him. It crushed him.
From the next Tuesday onward, he would man the same bridge. He would talk every person possible, out of the decision to end their lives. Sometimes it didn't work, he admitted. But when it did, it brought him peace. The satisfaction of changing somebody's life, making them give themselves a second chance. The comfort in knowing that no other parent would have to go through the agony he did. He didn't mind being called crazy. Every life mattered.
#70 Black and White
His father on the other hand enjoyed his dark room. The darkness. Ever since he lost his job and his wife died, the darkness and the bottle were his only company. He rarely left the house.His son did try, he came up with all kinds of excuses. He'd have none of it.
He hated how his father was destroying himself. He tried to push his father out of the house,hardly succeeding though. He wanted out. He hated what this place had become after his mother died. He wanted to start over.
He didn't want to move, didn't want to leave. This place, with all its cracks, its peeling paint and leaky taps, this place was all he had as evidence of his successful past. When he wasn't a drunk. A widower. A terrible dad. An unemployed slob spiralling into the bottle.
He tried his best to drag his father out of this miserable hole. He would get a job, they'd move to a better place, somewhere nobody knew their past. Maybe his father would snap out of his bottle and get back to normal.
He was scared of leaving the house again. What if he never had a chance to come back. How was he going to face people? What would they tell him? He didn't think he had it in him anymore, to live the life he lived, talking to people, being normal. Functional.
He was scared the darkness of the house would engulf him. He didn't want to become the shadow of his father. He wanted to leave before the gloom maimed him too.He was scared of the dark, his father was scared of the light.
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