part 2 of the story. Only so that people don't get bored reading it all at once. As usual, I'm not looking for a fairy tale ending. Let's be realistic now! :P
I walked up to him and gingerly ran my hand over his head.
He caught hold if it and held it for a while. To me, that gesture was more
intimate than anything I had encountered despite being in my profession. He looked up. I smiled at him and he smiled back.
‘I’ll stay.’ I told him.
He nodded and thanked me. He then asked me if I wanted anything
to eat or drink. I asked for a glass of water. As he handed me the glass, he
looked at my face again. It looked like a thought just seemed to hit him right then.
‘You’re actually beautiful’ he said. I just smiled it away.
I wasn’t used to compliments. I changed the topic.
‘What’s your name? What do
you do?’
‘I’m a struggling writer. I work as a journalist in a local
newspaper to make ends meet, but I am mainly trying to get my book published.
As for my name’, he smiled sadly at this, ’let’s do away with names, for I want
to be known only as the man who wanted to talk to you. I do not want you to put
a name to it; I’m sure I will be the object of much ridicule?’
I was a little stung at this. It was quite clear that here
was a man who spoke his heart, not thinking whether his words hurt. But at
least he was forthright. He needed my company, but at the same time he was also
a little ashamed to be with me right now, because of who I was, and what we
were doing. A pang of anger flashed through me but then I realized this was an
honest and simple man, who had acknowledged my individuality by wanting to talk.
For that itself, I was grateful to him. He might not have wanted me to be there
right now, but I was all he had got. And he had not considered that inadequate.
That was enough for me.
‘Alright then, no names. What do you write about?’
‘I write about the hypocrisies of society. Of the shallow
rich men and the rotten holy men. How civility is just a handy cloak for us to
get what we want in any which way. It’s not pleasant, what I write. It wars
with a man’s idea of how good our society is; it questions his beliefs. I guess
that’s why I haven’t found too many takers for my work.’
I nodded in agreement. Smiling wistfully, I said, ‘I know
that world only too well. I suppose these publishing people are part of that
same hypocritical society, and can’t find the honesty within them to publish
your work.’
He smiled at that. ‘How long have you been, you know, doing
this?’
I shot him a look, taking my time to answer. ‘Been almost
eight years now.’
‘What did you do before this? Do you have any family?’
‘I do have a family back in my village. They don’t know what
I’m doing here. Can we not talk about me please? It is not pleasant. Show me
your work, I want to read it.’
He handed me a bunch of sheets; they contained poems, short
stories, and commentaries. I was immediately struck by the parallelism in his
writing and his behavior. I had gauged him rightly. This man minced no words
and he called a spade a spade. Then he proceeded to shatter your dearly held
beliefs with that very spade.
You did not want to believe what we wrote about,
but you could not refute his claims as false either.
I lit another
cigarette as I sat on his bed and read. He had gotten up a while ago to go into
another small room, which I guess was his kitchen. He came out five minutes
later, carrying two plates of rice and curry. He looked at me and put down the
plates and came close to me. I froze, not knowing what he had suddenly wanted.
He took the cigarette out of my hand and crushed it.
‘Don’t smoke. It ruins your lungs, and blackens your lips.
Look.’ He touched my lips with all the innocence of a child and showed me the
faint black deposit on his finger. I couldn’t help but smile at that. I told
him I wouldn’t smoke while I was there. He gave me one of the plates and told
me to eat, as I must be hungry.
The food was delicious; he said he had made it himself. We
ate and talked about his writing. I asked him questions about it and he loved
to share his ideas behind it. We joked and laughed; something I hadn’t done
since I remember. And before we knew it, it was morning.
He looked outside and then back of me. ‘I guess you have to
go then?’ He asked glumly.
I very badly wanted to tell him that I would love to stay
there for as long as I lived. But reality descended on me like a hasty
raincloud, suddenly turning my joy to gloom. I was what I was after all, and
tonight my usual life would continue again. I had to get back to that reality,
and not hope for this pleasure too much.
‘Yes. I have to.’ I
said curtly. I got up, gathered my stuff and made to leave.
‘Wait’, he said. And again his demeanor was permeated with
awkwardness. ‘I still have to, you know, pay you.’
I walked up to him, and held his hand. I gave it a tiny
squeeze. I shook my head and turned around to leave.
‘Thank you.’ He said. I turned around to see him looking at
me with tears in his eyes. ‘Thank you for understanding.’
I felt something hot run down my left cheek and realized
that for the first time in ages, I too was crying.
‘No. Thank you. For making me feel human again.’
‘Will we meet again?’ he
asked.
Smiling sadly at that, I said, ‘I hope not. I cannot afford
to dream of a better life.’ I paused. ‘I must go now. Goodbye.’ I turned around
and left.
As I left his room, I felt tremendously sad that I had to
get back to my daily life. I didn’t even know his name, and I knew our paths
would not likely cross again. What had happened was a one-time surreal
experience. That knowledge crushed me. I had blunted my emotions over time, I
had forgotten to feel. But for the first
time in many years, I felt a distinct hatred for what I did. Ironically, the
hatred that had been subdued by the abuse of countless men had flared up due to
the tender affections of one of them.
