The small bus shelter, filled to the rafters with people, stank of stale cigarette smoke and poor personal hygiene. Mira put one foot into it like the proverbial camel and shuddered.
The driving snow stung her eyes like pins. She ducked behind the stained plexi-glass wall of the shelter. The notorious Midwestern wind found its insinuating way to her bones, cutting through the wall and her layers of warm clothing.
It was a mean evening to be out on the street waiting for a recalcitrant bus. And peering through what could be spit stains—she remembered standing next to a disturbed teenager who was on a mission to draw spit graffiti on the shelter walls some days back. It had at least been a warmer day. She had been more fascinated by the boy’s sister—for wearing a spaghetti-strap top on a November afternoon from which her ample breasts were flowing out and for keeping up a normal conversation with the boy as he went, Spit! Spit! Spit!
Mira did a discreet little jig to keep warm and caught the eye of the bag lady. “Freezing huh, hon?” the woman smiled at her. Mira shivered expressively, not sure whether she should continue the conversation. The lady’s hideously patch-worked bag suggested that, “Got a dollar on you hon?” was not too far away.
Luckily, the bus turned around the corner, saving her from a potential pang of guilt she would feel when she would refuse to pay up that dollar. Of course, it was easier to give in rather than walk around with the weight of that guilt. She had perfected the art of random largesse over the years—she would refuse a series of people and then suddenly at one go, she will hand over five dollars to someone who took her fancy. Like the smart woman who had once ambushed her in the parking lot behind this bus shelter—her story of needing money to get back home was so blatantly untrue that Mira had been charmed.
The bus was thankfully warm.
She put her nose to the window and looked outside. It was like traveling inside a snow globe. Snow-diffracted lights glittering on chocolate-cake buildings, all covered by a thick layer of icing—good enough to eat. They passed the courthouse whose trees were still illuminated. Maybe someone forgot to switch them off after New Year.
She loved downtown. Mainly because it was dead, killed by a sluggish economy and parasitic growth of suburbia. Time was suspended in the still streets, old stone and brick buildings in a medley of styles, and hushed lights. One had to just close one’s eyes to time travel back to the 1920s—the era of vaudeville shows, silent movies, live canaries in cages at theaters, and little kids having a big treat for 50 cents. The city had texture—it had age lines that told stories of pioneers and entrepreneurs; of taming the land and forging factories; of golden harvests and harsh winters; of wars and strikes; and of murders and births.
The pavement was already beneath two inches of snow as she stepped down at her stop. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
She trudged her way to the apartment building, head bowed down and shoulders huddled. The 100-year old structure stood stolidly and stoically. She looked up to see the chequered quilt of lit and unlit windows. She suddenly remembered the musical lights show on Saks Fifth Avenue building during Christmas. A hysterical giggle itched in her throat.
She entered the warm lobby. Not a soul in sight.
She pulled off her gloves and pressed the elevator button. She gently swung the plastic bag she was carrying back and forth and waited. The elevator trundled down. She stepped into its capacious empty world. As it moved up, she leaned her forehead on the wall while her head dissolved into a silent scream.
She did not want to spend another night with it.
She pressed the security code on the keypad at her floor. The door opened silently, letting her into an overly warm corridor. She suddenly ached for the bright and hot summer days of home, eternally youthful in her mind. The endless sunny days; games with friends; one-day-old rice soaked in water mixed with curd for breakfast; the jasmine creeper with its hundreds of tiny white nocturnal flowers; and the countless trips to the zoo and the beach and the dam in a bumpy jeep bursting with cousins and siblings.
She paused at her door, reluctant to get in. She cannot spend another night with it.
The apartment was in partial darkness as she stepped in. She switched on the light and looked around. This was her faux struggling-student phase—she could afford a bigger place, but she just took a fancy for a studio apartment. The only other skill she needed to cultivate was to swig beer. She grimaced—it was a taste that escaped acquiring, no matter how hard she tried.
She kept the plastic bag she was carrying on the kitchen counter and walked in, shrugging out of her snow jacket. She hung her things in the closet and plonked herself on the bed.
It was not to be seen anywhere.
She reached for the remote and switched on the TV. Mind numbing television had become an addiction. She might watch a little TV, cook herself a dinner, read a book, call someone up, catch some porn on the Net, or go to sleep. One or some or all of them—her evening stretched into countless possibilities.
It was hiding somewhere, in some unseen cave of her apartment.
She jumped out of her bed. She will, first of all, cook herself a hot meal. As she walked to the kitchen, she saw it. A little ripple, a sudden movement, a presence…
It had a large awkward body. It had a fat torso, huge flippers, a long neck and a small head. It glided around with surprising ease. It looked at her with its beady eyes and did a belly flip. The skin on its underbelly was lighter than the tough leathery skin on its back. Was it a male or female? How could one tell in such a weird creature?
What the hell was it anyway? She sagged against the kitchen counter. If she had had to hallucinate, why not somebody blustery and whimsical like Gerard Depardieu? He seemed good fun as that little kid’s imaginary friend.
She turned and it was gone. Hiding again.
She opened the plastic bag that contained her task of the day. Ladies and gentlemen, please pay attention: Exhibit A: A can of baked beans. Exhibit B: A can opener. Exhibit C: A totally inept woman. What fantastic probabilistic outcome would result today from the interaction of these three variables? Would the can yield? Would the can opener triumph? Would the woman go hungry tonight?
She turned around involuntarily to look for it. If it were Gerard, she was sure he would’ve made this can-opening thing a fantastic adventure. They would’ve learned some important life lesson about her infinite possibilities. They would then sit on some bench by a golden field, during a pink dusk and chat desultorily about growing up.
But no, what she had was an ugly mute creature that ignored her completely.
She turned her attention to her task at hand. She will conquer this—she will, learning disability be damned. Maybe she fixed that online evaluation questionnaire that she took. Damn, how does one place the can opener on the can? Rachel Ray made it all look like a piece of cake—er… pun unintended.
She caught herself. She watched Food network and had favorite stars for crying out loud! This for a girl who cooked only for survival, and that too not very well! This was a new low for her pathetic-ness.
But oh the fucking can opener!
She had a passable dal going by the end of a nerve-racking 45 minutes. As the food was cooking, she switched on her computer and got online. Rajesh was fortunately around.
raj1856: "so how is the psycho doing?"
miranotnair: "it’s here again…"
raj1856: "lol! Give nessy some fish!"
miranotnair: "huh?"
raj1856: "your thingee’s Scottish cousin is a fishitarian"
miranotnair: "jeez! I’m slowly turning mad here and ur quoting nat geo?"
raj1856: "discovery, but that’s pearls before a swine and all tht… but good for u – it’s a jungle out there"
miranotnair: "do u think I need to go to a shrink?"
raj1856: "maybe u shud wait until u hear ol’ nessy’s voice in ur head."
miranotnair: "raj, r u ever going to take me seriously?"
raj1856: "why? (shudder)"
miranotnair: "god, kill me now!"
raj1856: "winter does strange things to ppl, kid. Haven’t u heard abt disturbed army ppl after their posting at sialchen?"
miranotnair: "u think I’ll be alrite?"
raj1856: "no"
miranotnair: "oh fuck off!"
raj1856: "btw, nessy is a female capable of perpetuating herself. Keep a look out for little ‘uns. Lolz!"
She wished Raj were around to hold on to physically… to feel the warmth of his skin and the heat of his gaze… to see his infectious laughter filling up the empty spaces of the apartment… to share the mundane tiresomeness of life…
She encountered it again on her way to her dinner. It glided past her, almost touching her. If it were living, it was definitely cold blooded, because the nearness enveloped her with a chilly draft. She shivered and pulled her shawl closer.
How was she supposed to sleep with this thing around?
With her dinner plate in hand, she walked over to the window and looked outside. It was snowing heavily and steadily. The street was empty. Can a street lit with lights look dark? It reminded her of a vague sci-fi movie she once saw—the protagonist was a computer program made to live in a virtual world again and again; some kind of an artificial life experiment by hyper-intelligent aliens. It had brooding empty streets, crooked buildings, and weird characters.
What was this strange world she was trapped in? What was this endless nightmare? What was this 500 sq ft cell that she was imprisoned in day after day? How long can she go on without becoming insane? Or was she already?
Fuck!
Half the dinner went into the fridge, untouched. What middle class plebian conditioning made her do that? She would throw it away in a couple of days anyway. But like a good little housewife, she always put leftover food in the fridge.
Give the girl a cigar!
She huddled under the sheets, leaned on a mountain of pillows and watched yet another episode of a cop-and-criminal show. Something about the predictable tastelessness of the show always cheered her up—there must be some actors/directors/producers in this world who went to bed with a vague sense of disquiet everyday, not understanding that it was their conscience that troubled them for putting out such a volume of puerile shows.
As she drifted in and out of sleep couple of hours later, she could feel the creature’s weight settling on the bed.
Eat me or leave me now!
Hot tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. How long before she gave in? How long before all this ended?
Bright sunlight woke her up in the morning. She got up and staggered to the window. It was a dazzling day outside. Snowploughs were busy at work—so were people. The street below had a steady stream of traffic.
Ms O’Hara, your favorite day is here!
She opened the blinds on all windows, setting her little apartment awash with winter sunlight, for her nocturnal companion seemed to be allergic to it.
As she made herself a cup of tea, she opened the bottom kitchen draw. The bottle of vodka was nestling there, unopened.
She smiled to herself.
© Priya Thiagarajan
The driving snow stung her eyes like pins. She ducked behind the stained plexi-glass wall of the shelter. The notorious Midwestern wind found its insinuating way to her bones, cutting through the wall and her layers of warm clothing.
It was a mean evening to be out on the street waiting for a recalcitrant bus. And peering through what could be spit stains—she remembered standing next to a disturbed teenager who was on a mission to draw spit graffiti on the shelter walls some days back. It had at least been a warmer day. She had been more fascinated by the boy’s sister—for wearing a spaghetti-strap top on a November afternoon from which her ample breasts were flowing out and for keeping up a normal conversation with the boy as he went, Spit! Spit! Spit!
Mira did a discreet little jig to keep warm and caught the eye of the bag lady. “Freezing huh, hon?” the woman smiled at her. Mira shivered expressively, not sure whether she should continue the conversation. The lady’s hideously patch-worked bag suggested that, “Got a dollar on you hon?” was not too far away.
Luckily, the bus turned around the corner, saving her from a potential pang of guilt she would feel when she would refuse to pay up that dollar. Of course, it was easier to give in rather than walk around with the weight of that guilt. She had perfected the art of random largesse over the years—she would refuse a series of people and then suddenly at one go, she will hand over five dollars to someone who took her fancy. Like the smart woman who had once ambushed her in the parking lot behind this bus shelter—her story of needing money to get back home was so blatantly untrue that Mira had been charmed.
The bus was thankfully warm.
She put her nose to the window and looked outside. It was like traveling inside a snow globe. Snow-diffracted lights glittering on chocolate-cake buildings, all covered by a thick layer of icing—good enough to eat. They passed the courthouse whose trees were still illuminated. Maybe someone forgot to switch them off after New Year.
She loved downtown. Mainly because it was dead, killed by a sluggish economy and parasitic growth of suburbia. Time was suspended in the still streets, old stone and brick buildings in a medley of styles, and hushed lights. One had to just close one’s eyes to time travel back to the 1920s—the era of vaudeville shows, silent movies, live canaries in cages at theaters, and little kids having a big treat for 50 cents. The city had texture—it had age lines that told stories of pioneers and entrepreneurs; of taming the land and forging factories; of golden harvests and harsh winters; of wars and strikes; and of murders and births.
The pavement was already beneath two inches of snow as she stepped down at her stop. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
She trudged her way to the apartment building, head bowed down and shoulders huddled. The 100-year old structure stood stolidly and stoically. She looked up to see the chequered quilt of lit and unlit windows. She suddenly remembered the musical lights show on Saks Fifth Avenue building during Christmas. A hysterical giggle itched in her throat.
She entered the warm lobby. Not a soul in sight.
She pulled off her gloves and pressed the elevator button. She gently swung the plastic bag she was carrying back and forth and waited. The elevator trundled down. She stepped into its capacious empty world. As it moved up, she leaned her forehead on the wall while her head dissolved into a silent scream.
She did not want to spend another night with it.
She pressed the security code on the keypad at her floor. The door opened silently, letting her into an overly warm corridor. She suddenly ached for the bright and hot summer days of home, eternally youthful in her mind. The endless sunny days; games with friends; one-day-old rice soaked in water mixed with curd for breakfast; the jasmine creeper with its hundreds of tiny white nocturnal flowers; and the countless trips to the zoo and the beach and the dam in a bumpy jeep bursting with cousins and siblings.
She paused at her door, reluctant to get in. She cannot spend another night with it.
The apartment was in partial darkness as she stepped in. She switched on the light and looked around. This was her faux struggling-student phase—she could afford a bigger place, but she just took a fancy for a studio apartment. The only other skill she needed to cultivate was to swig beer. She grimaced—it was a taste that escaped acquiring, no matter how hard she tried.
She kept the plastic bag she was carrying on the kitchen counter and walked in, shrugging out of her snow jacket. She hung her things in the closet and plonked herself on the bed.
It was not to be seen anywhere.
She reached for the remote and switched on the TV. Mind numbing television had become an addiction. She might watch a little TV, cook herself a dinner, read a book, call someone up, catch some porn on the Net, or go to sleep. One or some or all of them—her evening stretched into countless possibilities.
It was hiding somewhere, in some unseen cave of her apartment.
She jumped out of her bed. She will, first of all, cook herself a hot meal. As she walked to the kitchen, she saw it. A little ripple, a sudden movement, a presence…
It had a large awkward body. It had a fat torso, huge flippers, a long neck and a small head. It glided around with surprising ease. It looked at her with its beady eyes and did a belly flip. The skin on its underbelly was lighter than the tough leathery skin on its back. Was it a male or female? How could one tell in such a weird creature?
What the hell was it anyway? She sagged against the kitchen counter. If she had had to hallucinate, why not somebody blustery and whimsical like Gerard Depardieu? He seemed good fun as that little kid’s imaginary friend.
She turned and it was gone. Hiding again.
She opened the plastic bag that contained her task of the day. Ladies and gentlemen, please pay attention: Exhibit A: A can of baked beans. Exhibit B: A can opener. Exhibit C: A totally inept woman. What fantastic probabilistic outcome would result today from the interaction of these three variables? Would the can yield? Would the can opener triumph? Would the woman go hungry tonight?
She turned around involuntarily to look for it. If it were Gerard, she was sure he would’ve made this can-opening thing a fantastic adventure. They would’ve learned some important life lesson about her infinite possibilities. They would then sit on some bench by a golden field, during a pink dusk and chat desultorily about growing up.
But no, what she had was an ugly mute creature that ignored her completely.
She turned her attention to her task at hand. She will conquer this—she will, learning disability be damned. Maybe she fixed that online evaluation questionnaire that she took. Damn, how does one place the can opener on the can? Rachel Ray made it all look like a piece of cake—er… pun unintended.
She caught herself. She watched Food network and had favorite stars for crying out loud! This for a girl who cooked only for survival, and that too not very well! This was a new low for her pathetic-ness.
But oh the fucking can opener!
She had a passable dal going by the end of a nerve-racking 45 minutes. As the food was cooking, she switched on her computer and got online. Rajesh was fortunately around.
She wished Raj were around to hold on to physically… to feel the warmth of his skin and the heat of his gaze… to see his infectious laughter filling up the empty spaces of the apartment… to share the mundane tiresomeness of life…
She encountered it again on her way to her dinner. It glided past her, almost touching her. If it were living, it was definitely cold blooded, because the nearness enveloped her with a chilly draft. She shivered and pulled her shawl closer.
How was she supposed to sleep with this thing around?
With her dinner plate in hand, she walked over to the window and looked outside. It was snowing heavily and steadily. The street was empty. Can a street lit with lights look dark? It reminded her of a vague sci-fi movie she once saw—the protagonist was a computer program made to live in a virtual world again and again; some kind of an artificial life experiment by hyper-intelligent aliens. It had brooding empty streets, crooked buildings, and weird characters.
What was this strange world she was trapped in? What was this endless nightmare? What was this 500 sq ft cell that she was imprisoned in day after day? How long can she go on without becoming insane? Or was she already?
Fuck!
Half the dinner went into the fridge, untouched. What middle class plebian conditioning made her do that? She would throw it away in a couple of days anyway. But like a good little housewife, she always put leftover food in the fridge.
Give the girl a cigar!
She huddled under the sheets, leaned on a mountain of pillows and watched yet another episode of a cop-and-criminal show. Something about the predictable tastelessness of the show always cheered her up—there must be some actors/directors/producers in this world who went to bed with a vague sense of disquiet everyday, not understanding that it was their conscience that troubled them for putting out such a volume of puerile shows.
As she drifted in and out of sleep couple of hours later, she could feel the creature’s weight settling on the bed.
Eat me or leave me now!
Hot tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. How long before she gave in? How long before all this ended?
Bright sunlight woke her up in the morning. She got up and staggered to the window. It was a dazzling day outside. Snowploughs were busy at work—so were people. The street below had a steady stream of traffic.
Ms O’Hara, your favorite day is here!
She opened the blinds on all windows, setting her little apartment awash with winter sunlight, for her nocturnal companion seemed to be allergic to it.
As she made herself a cup of tea, she opened the bottom kitchen draw. The bottle of vodka was nestling there, unopened.
She smiled to herself.
© Priya Thiagarajan
Comments
Yeah, it is existential - I am feeling terribly existential nowadays. :-)
Which reminds me of that immortal line from Captain Haddock who on the eve of their Tibet expedition said, "What's the point in going up there? One has to climb down all the same."
Also, can I link your blog to mine?
You may link my blog to yours - I already have linked yours to mine.