Where water is too heavy

When he jumped in, the water felt very warm. But it was just on the surface of the dark mass of water that lay confined and choked inside the small well, a peripheral deception. Hanging on to the concrete ring, where water flapped violently objecting to his intrusion, he felt the cold nibbling at his feet. He looked up and saw the landlady’s thick head protruding above the wall and silhouetted against the blue sky. The tubular view from inside was too ridiculous.

“Can you do it?” he heard her flat voice, which gained strength down the well and fell crashing on his ears. It was funny and awkward and for a moment he couldn’t recollect the very purpose of his plunge into this water hole. The afternoon nap had left its dizziness in his head and things were happening as if controlled by an external force. “Don’t’ go deep to find it. We can buy another bucket,” she spilled her anxiety on him.

Oh…the bucket. “No problem. It won’t be too deep,” words flew up in haste as if to escape the unnerving enclosure. He turned to look around and scraped his shoulder on the rough concrete. This was a different well, with a bore sans plants or creepers, ferns or mosses…but cased with concrete rings and the diameter was just large enough to float him.  The very strangeness of the place could have send shivers down his spine. But he wasn’t contemplating and even forgot to take a deep breath before curling himself for the final plunge down to the bottom.

It was dark and cold, and he thought he could smell water in his mouth, eyes and ears. But a different smell…from what he had smelt in the rivers and ponds, an indifferent smell that evoked nothing. Where was the bottom?  The space seemed narrowing and water thickened. A low buzz which began from a corner of the head grew louder and moved between the ears. Where is it…the bucket?

His knee hit the bottom first, and it was strangely warm. But as he spread his body to grope in the dark, his heart fell on his chest with a thud. The bucket too was warm when he found it, and it felt abnormally heavy. But something much heavier was above him and he realised it once he tried to move up…the water. It lay like a pile of concrete slabs on him, pinning him down to the bottom.

Can water be so heavy?  It was supposed to be odourless and transparent, and may be the indifferent smell and the sudden opaqueness made it heavier. And may be this has taste too. Oh yes…something sweet. No…bitter…or salty? Like colours which combine to form the colourlessness, the tastes here have merged to give this tasteless taste.

But what am I doing here? I am supposed to retrieve this bucket and the woman is waiting up there. He looked up and saw a thin light trickling down. He wanted to move towards the light, but then the entire body was too heavy and was unwilling to ascend. Tightening his grip on the handle of the metal bucket, he realised his soul was finally confined to his body…and he felt very lonely.

The Mirror

“Can we begin our journey from nowhere?” he asked and I pretended oblivious of his sudden inquisitiveness. Will he repeat that stupid question? I looked sidelong at him and saw that he was serious. He was staring straight into my face as if to catch any slight movement and I felt like a fumbling school kid.

Do we ever begin our journey? Why he should bother about a starting point when there’s no start at all? Journey belongs to someone else or something else. How should I know who or what? A direct answer would be dangerous, as it would lead to more questions. I am tired of these doubts and speculations. The other day I had dreamt sitting amidst a group of strange people in a faraway land - men, women and children, may be a Red Indian village, in a vast compound marred by shrubs and dome-shaped wigwam homes. Nobody said anything. We just sat there, not moving a muscle for hours. The weathered faces and queer headgears had turned brighter in the moonlight, which lay motionless on an equally motionless terrain. Our journey seemed to have no beginning nor any end, but it went on for ages. When I woke up, I had a strange feeling that I was already dead and gone.

“Are you deaf or am I speaking to a dead man?” He was still staring, this time his eyebrows a bit raised. I saw his eyebrows had some grey hairs, poking fun at the very question he was asking. All these years I had been giving him straight answers for whatever vague or ambiguous questions he had. And he had become more demanding these days.

“What was that you were asking?”

 “Our journey…can it start from nowhere?”

“But I thought you were asking whether I am deaf or dead.”

“That was my second one.”

“Should I answer the first or the second first?”

He smiled and moved a little closer. “I know what you are up to. See, this time I do not want a clear-cut or convincing answer from you. But you have to listen to what I have got to say…” the smile disappeared from his face and his lips twitched. Something was coming. A wave of nausea swept over me.

“I do not know whether this happened yesterday or the day before. I am not sure whether it ever happened. But I know it should be happening at some point of time in anyone’s life.” He lingered for a moment as if searching for the right words. The room was unpleasantly cold and quiet. I could hear him breathing hard.

“How long I had been asleep, I am not sure. It was quite dark when I got up, day or night, I didn’t know. Some strange thoughts led me straight outside and I was in the middle of a desert, not a soul around. I felt very lonely and wanted to walk thinking that I would bump into something, an encounter that would shake me up from the very roots. You know, I walked and walked, dragging my bare feet through the silky sands, climbing up and down the dunes. Nothing happened. The sky above me remained blank, no sun, no moon, no stars, no clouds and no colours. But there wasn’t darkness or any light, just the sky above and the sands beneath me. Me…? Suddenly I couldn’t feel myself. I had disappeared. I tried to feel my face, my hands, legs…what could I feel them with? There was nothing…not even the sky or the sands. All had evaporated into some void…” he stopped and was panting.

“You…who are you?” I could hardly speak. But he wasn’t listening to me anyway.

“You see, I am nowhere now. And I think I can begin my journey, fresh from here.” He grinned and remained still.

I felt my right hand groping on the table and it found something round, hard and cold. It felt like a paper weight and I threw it at him with whatever strength I could muster. And I heard the glass breaking. It was all around me, lying scattered, the bits and pieces of glass. I had broken the mirror on the wall and he had just vanished.

The journey had already begun.

The Lucky Bamboo

I felt the cold and soon started shivering. The air-conditioner was on and its funny sound turned more absurd to my ear. Is there somebody to switch it off? How could there be anyone except myself? I have to get up from the bed, take three steps to the switchboard, raise my left or right hand…it wasn’t a big deal. But getting up from the bed didn’t seem that simple. My body wasn’t moving an inch. The arms, legs, the head, the torso, the entire body lay still, ignoring my command.

I didn’t panic, but got furious, furious against my body for its seemingly intentional lethargy that went in conflict with my needs. It was time to use the solid and singular force from within, to give a powerful push to my limps, to make them shed their inertia and act to my will.

The inner strength rose from deep within and it ballooned out. Was I thinking of those carnival nights dotted with colourful balloons? As a child I had watched with awe at the gypsy who went on pumping air into the thin rubber, which I thought would burst any moment.

Thud. I lay on the floor fully awake and felt totally stupid. Sunlight was peeping in from beneath the door and I had fallen from my bed in sleep on a fine morning. What were those dreams that preceded the falls I had in my childhood nights? Could recall nothing. But it was completely ludicrous to have fallen at this age when one shouldn’t have false dreams.

Then I saw it…in the semidarkness that lit the room. It stood there ominously - the lucky bamboo, which was sprouting leaves from a vase kept at the corner of the room. “This will bring you luck,” the friend who kept it there last evening had said. The luck couldn’t wait for another night and I was so close to breaking my neck.

“Are you hurt?” There was some concern in his voice. “No.”

“See, you are lucky.” Was there a naughty smile his eyes when he said it?

The lucky bamboo had just begun bringing me good luck…

The door

The chair squeaked and moved unsteadily under him. He was not at peace with either the chair or himself. Or this little room was attacking each and every claustrophobic cell in his frail body. His chest continued to heave and then remain still for a few seconds as if someone was trying to strangle him. The air was growing thick and heavy and I too felt the nausea slowly climbing up my trachea, making me dizzy and sick. May be it was time to utter some nonsense and laugh it off. Wash the sickness away with words and sounds, a bright idea that was, I thought. And I begin in a monotonous way.

“I was alone for three days and nights, all to myself, in a strange city, doing nothing but sleep and keep awaking on a cold bed in a dingy hotel room.” Another gulp of air is stuck in him and his poor chest is unwilling to deflate. I look the other way and cannot help but continue. “People had gone crazy with their communal instincts and many were dead and gone in a few days time. Hacked, stabbed, shot, raped, mutilated…the killings had the variety which no entertainment shows could brag off. The dawn-to-dusk curfew had already been imposed when the train carrying me broke into the deathly stillness of the station, wearily but cautiously. The sun had set and the chill sparked off by hatred had thrown a thick blanket over the entire city.

“There were strange men all around, in hooded jackets with the bayonets sticking out from behind their pockmarked faces. But we were many, hapless souls, destined to spend the chilly night at the station. Nothing to fear when there are so many people around us with those anxious looks.”

He has his eyes stuck on the floor beneath. There’s nothing but the pale and discoloured floor tiles staring back at him, I believe. I follow his gaze, but soon withdraw as I see on the floor a face vivid with sorrow looking up straight into my eyes. Has he dropped his face on the floor?

“But you know what? Loneliness strikes us like a mortar shell when we have nobody to speak to. And it’s when we are tired of speaking to ourselves that we fall asleep. Two days and two nights had passed since I took shelter in that small hotel room. They had lifted the curfew for a few hours, but immobility had gripped my aching body. A stair down, the restaurant gave me the strength to sustain. But a few long stares made me a little bit nervous. But once shut inside, the world outside my door was too far and there was total silence. I slept, stirred in my sleep, spoke to so many people and travelled in trains to enter stations devoid of strange and armed men.

“Was there a knock at the door? I wake up and stare at the door that bore filthy stains all across. Someone is shouting in a croaky voice. It’s a strange language and I am at a loss. I hear more voices, more terrifying due to the incomprehensibility. Hell has broken loose outside the room and I see myself moving towards the door. A heavy rush of light blinds me as I open the door. I can see nothing and my heart skips a beat when I realise that the voices have stopped. I knew they were staring at me, watching me from the front, left and right. I stood there unmoving, trying hard with my eyeballs to push out the light that blinded me.

How long I stood there, I don’t know. I heard no voices. Did I ever think they were going to strike? The light cleared my eyes, and I was lying on the bed, all in sweat and gasping for breath. The door was shut, and somebody was talking outside, somewhere in the lobby, but in a low voice, hardly perceivable. Did I open the door a few minutes ago? I couldn’t say for sure.

Did I really cross the narrow and slippery border between dreams and reality? Or did I cross it in my dream? I turn my face and look at him. He is not there and the chair is empty. Where has he gone, or wasn’t he here on that chair when I began talking?

But, was there a knock at the door? Someone is shouting in a husky voice. More voices follow and unsteadily, I move towards the door.

Wahiba sands

It happened so quickly. My reflexes made me turn around and sands hit me on the nape.

This had been my first venture into a sandy desert and I was sitting so stupidly inside the car thinking about something utterly worthless. The vehicle stopped when they spotted Mikael, the man I was looking for, riding a camel through the sand dunes. For a moment I thought this man was crazy. He should be, as truth or things which are almost truth always come flashing. Anyway I was after this world-renowned Swedish explorer and I had to step out from the cool comfort of the four-wheeler to meet him.

Mercury levels were high and sands wore a deathly look. I was never a good observer and the fool I am, I was just thinking how poor I am in observing things at the very minute. And it hit me when I was staggering down towards Mikael. The winds, rather a head-on-collision, making me cover my face and turn around. It blows for a while, and I feel sands pricking my exposed neck and hands.

That's how cowards who flee the battlefield get treated, a shower of bullets from heavy artillery of the enemy to rip open their ever-stooping spines. Besides being stupid I feel I am a coward too, and reluctantly turn around to face the sandy winds. Behind the cloud of sands I barely see Mikael approach. Sands get into my nose, ears, into my shirt, I am all covered in a handful of dust.

"Welcome, my friend," wind blows away Mikael's greeting and I can't hear what he is saying. I feel the presence of a ventriloquist who roars into my timid ears. Welcome, says the desert. Welcome to my province of peace and violence, warmth and chill, the known and the unknown...I feel choked, my head heavy on my weak shoulders...Where have I trespassed into? Or who has crossed the threshold of my impertinence...comprehensions?

From behind the dust emerges a smiling face with nostril flaps and child's curiosity. Come, we could take millions of steps forward through this vast terrain...each step different from the previous one. I gape at the long eyelashes and furry ears, as the animal slowly turns away. Is something happening under my feet? I look down and discover that my feet have grown wide. Now that I may not sink down...the sands wouldnt swallow me...and I could walk for ages.