One Dark Night- Part 2

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. 

One dark night- Part 1

The frequency of writing has been woeful. But now with the pesky exams outta the way :P, hopefully I can change that. Here's a story I wrote recently. Felt very nice to write this one. Hope ya'll like it and can understand what I'm trying to convey. It wasn't easy writing this one. 

Business was good. I was in the one profession that did not know recession, that never had a slack in demand. As long as little boys would need a place to lose their innocence, perverted youths would need a practicing ground, and married men would need their demands satisfied, our business would run. As long as the male animal’s veins would run with unending lust, our impartial trade would have its arms open to all. I always marvel at how, no matter how much they are given, men always come back for more.

There are the first timers, full of excitement but equally nervous. They need to be guided around, and they don’t get a hang of things until the first few times. You want to make sure though, that their ignorance does not cost you. On the other end there are the married adulterers. All the experience of marriage combined with its frustrations, so they know what to do and want it real bad. Their first digression from their wives always has them being very furtive and guilty about it. But I’ve seen that flame of guilt in their eyes reduce slowly over time, as their marriage dies over time. I see it in their eyes when I’m staring at them as they’re over or under me. I stare so I don’t have to think too much, for madness lies that way. I hate the fact that somewhere I too am responsible for that, and I hate men for being this way. But hey it’s a living.

Then there are the regulars and the deviants. They come back for more, and ask for outlandish things to be done with them, demands getting more twisted by the day. But essentially men are simple. There’s a very specific button that you have to press and he will never return dissatisfied. I am even on first name terms with a few of them, and know exactly what they like done. That does not mean that I’ve built any kind of relation with them. No. Apart from a couple of my colleagues, I have no friends, no family, and no ties with this world. My emotions are non-existent and my tears have dried up. You do what we do, see society in its barest and most ruthless form for so long, and you either have to shut off your mind and soul to all of it or risk losing them.

But then one night I met him.

Business was slow that day. It was Diwali and many were with their families, their parents or their friends. A few of us had gone to the temple, bought a new dress for ourselves, and tried to celebrate it as best we could. I had bought myself a new book; I do that every year. Someday I wish to educate myself enough to get out of all this. That day will never come I know. But even a foolish wish costs you nothing. Or perhaps everything.

I was sitting by the side of the road, near the pan shop, dragging on a cigarette. A saw a man approach me. He was of medium height and build. An unremarkable face, except for eyes that seemed to gleam with intelligence. He did not look like he belonged here. Nonetheless I got up and walked towards him too.    

‘How much?’ he asked me. He cringed right after saying that, realizing how bad that had sounded. It was evident that he didn’t do this a lot, but I didn’t mind what he said. He was sorry. Men have treated me worse and have been unapologetic about it.

‘It’s hundred for the hour. Extra if you want things other than the usual.’

He looked at me for a moment. ‘Is it?’ He asked. ‘All right, one hour. Follow me, I have a place nearby.’

I walked five paces behind him as he guided me to his room. Then, looking around to see who was watching, I entered. He followed right after me. He closed the door and turned to face me.

‘All right then, let’s get started?’ I asked, reaching for my hook.

‘Please sit down. I, uh, have something else to ask you.’ He continued once I sat down. ‘How much would you charge me for the night?’

I got up instantly, alarmed. I’d had such an experience before. Right then I had thought it was a deal I couldn't let go. Someone was paying for an entire night, so there was assured income. But it had turned out to be a nightmare as the man had done all sorts of things to me. That incident gave me a first glimpse at the monsters that disguised themselves so well in society.

I walked up to this man and asked him in a harsh tone. ‘Why what’s the idea?’

He looked at me for a very long time, trying to gauge my thoughts. In time he saw my alarm, he realized what kind of person I thought he was. This seemed to hurt him, for he looked down, and when he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. I was surprised.

‘I don’t want to do anything with you. I will not harm you in any way. I just needed company for the night. The loneliness is getting to me.’ Tears flowed a little more freely from his eyes. ‘I know, it must seem weird. You must be thinking, “Doesn’t he have a family, or friends? Why has he come to me when he’s lonely?” Aren’t you?’

I nodded faintly, but said nothing.

‘My family has forsaken me. I am their prodigal child’, he said, with a smile playing at his lips. ‘And sure, I know people and meet them often, but I cannot call these people friends. People, who laugh at me behind my back, people who judge me. I live by myself, and I have no complaints about it. But sometimes I just get lonely. Tonight it got to me. I just wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t judge. Who would just be. But your eyes just spoke otherwise. I’m sorry. I’ll pay you for the hour, you can go.’

I got up slowly. My mind was in a tizzy. Never in the many years that I had been doing this, had anyone ever come across this way. Of all the men I’d met, few even bothered to ask my name, let alone talk about anything other than what they wanted to do. I did not know how to respond to a man seeking my companionship and nothing more. A man who looked at me as a person and not a body. It was disconcerting. I did not know how I could not possibly comfort him; my empathy and compassion had long been stifled to death. But I decided to trust this man.