The gentle steam never fails to relax him. He travels from physics to economics. Into a philosopher’s mind from Morocco or a novice from New York. He travels into a story of a random storyteller on the internet. Somehow in the moisture his gut talked to him. He delays putting on his black tee shirt and grey shorts as he admires himself clearly in the mirror before letting the dense steam escape with him.
Strange he thinks touching the bulge on his side head. It hurt him.
‘Open the window’ an immediate cry from the kitchen drags his attention. He fails to recognize the short figure. ‘Let the steam out’ she advises turning her head around; her hand still fiddling the ladle.
‘I’ve made your favorite. Egg curry!’ she coos with delight.
He doesn’t know how to react. He has no idea of his whereabouts. He blankly stares at the short lady as she walks past him from the kitchen to the narrow corridor and into the living room. He scans her. Oddly he follows her lead. On the couch he sees a young lad probably about ten or eleven devotedly watching the television. He doesn’t recognize him either. He feels a sudden surge of cold flowing through his chest.
His eyes first fall on the framed medical certificate that hangs on the wall on top of the couch. ‘Look Dada Randy Orton’s match is up next’ the young lad immediately says, guiding his vision without giving him the time to soak the information from the certificate.
His impatience doesn’t allow him to stare at the television long enough.
The fuel of curiosity inside him is burning. ‘Who are you?’ he asks the short lady. ‘And who is he?’
‘I seriously don’t have time for your silly pranks today’ the short lady’s first reaction towards him is an irritated one. He feels uncomfortable. He can’t comprehend the short lady’s intolerant reaction. ‘I’m really tired of you acting so immature’ she says.
‘I’m serious. I don’t know you’ he tries to assure her.
She releases a sigh of annoyance.
The short rude lady’s intolerance of his questions spreads anger in him. He contemplates leaving the premise rather than pursue but then just as he turns around to leave he spots a man ascending the stairs. He has a moustache and seems like an authority figure of the house. He can’t place the moustache man anywhere either.
‘Is the food ready?’ the moustache man asks the short rude lady.
‘Yes’ the short rude lady answers still searching for her channel.
‘How were your classes today?’ the moustache man asks him this time.
Confused, nervous and cold he doesn’t know what to answer. He feels alone. He presses the side bulge again. It hurts him again, a little more this time.
‘What happened?’ the moustache man asks.
‘Can any of you tell me where I am?’ he asks back looking at the three of them individually, his finger still caressing the side of his head. The moustache man smirks hearing the question.
‘Look Mohit your brother doesn’t know where he is’ the moustache man ridicules. The young lad smirks too. While the short rude lady gave the impression of hostility, the moustache man gave off mockery but all of them seemed to be accustomed to such inquiry.
‘WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP JOKING?’ he yells with hostility now. The constant disrespect finally pushes him over.
Meanwhile for the other three the loudness in his voice was unprecedented. Unaccustomed to such an aggression, the three of them stare at him with a This-is-getting-out-of-hand look.
‘I can’t believe you shouted at your father. .’ the lady declares ashamed of her upbringing ‘. . . just so you could pull off your prank. I didn’t expect this from you’
‘I DON’T KNOW HIM!’ he responds, still yelling. ‘I don’t know you either!’ his reply is adamant.
‘Grow up, will you?’ the short rude lady sadly preaches.
‘I don’t need any advice from you old lady’ he backlashes alarmingly.
‘Stop it now please, I beg you’ she says. She is sad. She is terrified. Horror struck! She could cry almost any second now.
‘Fuck it. I’m leaving’ he says having enough of it among all the strange faces. There was no point staying there.
‘So you don’t know who I am’ the moustache man asks, having stayed silent for a minute there.
‘No’ he answers.
‘You don’t know her?’
‘No’
‘Do you know whose phone is that?’ the moustache man asks pointing to a black cellphone that lay on top of the table.
He answers the same.
‘Ok why don’t you take a rest on the couch?’ the moustache man calmly says ‘...And we’ll help you’.
‘What are you talking about?’ The lady depressingly asks the moustache man for playing along with his son’s nuisance.
‘Please’ the moustache man says looking at him. He does not know if it is a concerned order or a request. Whatever it was, the moustache man’s tone somehow obliged him to take a seat. ‘I’ll be right back’ the moustache man says and picks up the phone leaving him with the short rude lady and the young lad.
The moustache man closes the door behind him. Inside the room, he places the black bag that belonged to his son from the patio chair and onto the floor.
Alcoholism – ‘NO’
Brain tumor – ‘NO’
Parkinson’s – ‘NO!’
Alzheimer’s – ‘NO!!’
. . .
Endless stream of possibilities run through his head as he sits on the chair which is natural given his profession but the possibilities also bring emotions which he doesn't want to accept. He hadn’t noticed a twitch or a smirk. His son had never swore in front of him- that had dragged his attention.
Something is wrong! He thought.
He puts on his glasses and levels the cellphone he grabbed earlier in front of his eyes.
| Today | |
| Annie | 16:11 |
| 9843390579 | 14:58 |
| Mom | 14:17 |
| Annie | 14:08 |
| Annie | 13:25 |
| Prakash | 12:41 |
| Prakash | 8:37 |
| Yesterday | |
| Annie | 23:25 |
| Annie | 18:50 |
| Bumzee | 18:25 |
| Annie | 18:20 |
| Prakash | 17:30 |
| Annie | 10:20 |
The moustache man almost immediately slides his thumb on the screen. The picture on the dial-up screen pops up of a fair and beautiful girl with straight chocolate brown hair. She has upturned eyes and dainty nose- a face he vaguely recalls but can’t place anywhere.
‘Hi baby’ greets a soft voice.
‘Hello’ the moustache man responds.
‘Hello?’ the soft voice immediately turns suspicious.
‘Is this Annie?’
‘Baby stop messing with me again’ the suspicious voice replies frustrated too.
The man cleared his throat. ‘This is Mahim’s father’ he said.
All of a sudden she got nervous ‘Umm.. Yes.. I’m so sorry.. Yes uncle, how can I help you?’ the voice on the other side panics . ‘I mean Namaste’ she says.
‘Namaste’ he greets her back. ‘Do you and Mahim go to the same college?’ he asks. He is confused about what to ask or how to begin the investigation.
‘Yes uncle’ she says.
‘Did you meet him today?’
The moustache man senses hesitation. ‘No’ she says.
‘Why not?’
She hesitates again. He also hears a faint mumble. There is no response. ‘Hello’ the moustache man breaks the silence.
‘Yes Uncle’ the voice is a little stiff now.
‘Why didn’t you meet him today?’ he asks again.
There is a slight hesitation again this time.
‘He did not come to college today’ she finally says the truth.
‘What?’ the moustache man asks surprisingly. ‘Where did he go?’ he asks as if he is sure she’d know the answer.
‘He said he’d go to meet Prakash’
Now the moustache man knew Prakash. He had practically seen Prakash grow up to be a political and a business enthusiast. He knew Prakash as well as he knew his son.
‘Thank you dear’ the moustache man thanks.
The stiff voice now giggles a little before it gets serious ‘Is something wrong?’ hears the moustache man from the other side.
‘I hope not,’ he says.
The moustache man learned two things - His son had a girlfriend and that he bunked classes. The former did not matter as much; in fact she sounded decent to him. But the latter information worried him.
What does he do if he doesn’t go to college? He asks himself worryingly.
Suddenly drug problems seemed like a possibility. But he immediately cast the demonic thought aside. He loves his son to a great extent like every father and reasons that he is simply overthinking. He doesn’t act like a professional.
Unwillingly he places the phone to his right ear again-
‘Sup fucker’ the moustache man is greeted from the other side.
‘Hello’
‘Yup blurt it out’
‘Babu. This is Mohan. Mahim’s father’ the moustache man notifies.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry Uncle’ Prakash drops his lingo. ‘Namaste Mohan Uncle’ Prakash greets.
‘Namaste babu. How are you?’ the moustache man formally asks.
‘I’m good Uncle. How are you?’
‘I’m fine too’ the moustache man says.
They both remain silent.
‘Babu I have to ask you something’ the moustache man further toils around before diving in.
‘Yes sure uncle’ Prakash grants.
‘Where were you both today?’
‘We were in college’ Prakash replies contradicting the girl he spoke with earlier.
‘Babu please don’t lie’ the moustache man requests.
‘We were in college the whole day Uncle’ Prakash assures.’ Who said we weren’t?’ Prakash asks as if someone ratted out on them.
‘The office administrator from your College’ the moustache man lies too.
Prakash surrenders. ‘I’m sorry uncle. Please don’t tell my parents’ Prakash pleads almost immediately. The moustache man’s tactics never disappointed him. He knew how he ought to deal with young boys. Especially the ones he knew very well. ‘I won’t. Just tell me where you both were?’ the moustache man presents a non-negotiable choice.
‘There is a field near Bikash’s place. We were there talking’
‘The whole day??’ the moustache man asks surprisingly.
Prakash hesitates too ‘Almost’ Prakash says unwillingly.
‘What did you talk about?’ The moustache man interrogates now.
‘Uncle I’d rather you ask Mahim’
‘What is it?’ The moustache man asks once again.
Prakash hesitates more the same way Annie did. Scared whether his lies would he reported to his parents he complies-
‘Well he has written a novel and he had given it to me for a read and asked for my feedbacks’
‘He has written a novel?’ he asks surprisingly.
‘Yes uncle’
‘Hmm.. Anything else?’ The moustache man resorts back to normal despite learning a great deal about his son. He has a bigger problem beyond the door.
‘No not really’
‘Thank you babu’
‘Uncle?’ Prakash calls softly.
‘Yes’
‘Please don’t tell my parents’ frightened Prakash requests.
‘I won’t’ the moustache man assures and hangs up.
The moustache man removes his black glasses and rubs his face to release his stress. He folds the glasses and taps his chin trying to unchain himself from the shackles of the cruel truth. Perhaps I’m not as liberal as I thought I was, he thinks. All his life his first born wanted to be a storyteller but there he was just outside the oak door miserably studying to be a doctor like his old man. A subject his old man recommended. Or did I push him to be a doctor? He scrutinized himself now.
He thought he knew everything about his children, especially his first born. ‘You’re my blood. You’re son. I’ll love you no matter what’ he had said the day he couldn’t hold back his tears as he held the child in his arms as he came out of his mother's womb.
Other memories followed.
The memories started to play like a montage before his eyes - how his first born grew up to love coffee. Very strong coffee. How he liked to think by playing with a pen in his hand. The moustache man knew that his first born expressed his true feelings very rarely and joking around with people he loved was just a coping mechanism. A mechanism to fit in.
As he smiles remembering the little things he loved about his son his left toe touches the bag. He knows it belongs to his son. He also realizes that the bag would bear a mental burden for him as soon as he opens. But he knows he has to. Audaciously he reaches for the bag- To decode the true story of his first born. Perhaps to understand the emotions of his son a little better.
His fingers grab something stiff- The yellow bookmark at the top opens mid-way through the journal.
January 3rd 2012
Yet another boring day. You know the kind of days you desperately feel like traveling. Atleast to a genre. The kind of day when you get a seat on a crowded local bus and yet you’re not happy about it. The kind of days when a ray of sunlight falls right on your face just to annoy you. Days you get high just so you could feel creative. Disappointing you further is the old and rusty bus- like it could collapse any minute if it has to go through one more speed bump.
Well to try and feel more optimistic, I guess something is happening. At Least I’m doing what my friend Prakash advised me to. I am constantly trying to write something.
‘About what?’ I’d asked.
‘Anything’ Prakash had advised.
So I write whatever comes to my mind. I’d asked him for feedback on my first novel and he advised me to first try writing short stories and that for writing short stories I ought to write more often. A polite way of saying “it sucks''. He reads a lot so I took his advice rather seriously. But I just wonder what the heck I’ve been writing for the last two days.
‘Anything’ my inner voice immediately replies to me.
But I don’t like a lot about my writing, especially the fact that I mix all the tenses. Jack Kerauac, Prakash says, is also a writer who writes anything that comes to his mind. But I am confident that Jack Kerauac doesn’t mix all the tenses. None of the writers do but again I haven’t read his works.
‘Also try writing poems and reading lyrics of songs you like listening to before jumping into novels’ Prakash had advised- Which reminds me of a line from a nepali song I have been listening to for the last couple of days.
“Sajha bus ko euta kunama tolaudai bityo jindagani”
Roughly translated to “Life has almost ended gazing out from the corner of a local bus” It sounds much more beautiful in Nepali.
As I look outside the window my inner voice reminds me that I have to accomplish my dreams but it’s a long way throuG
Ouch!!!!!! I gotta stop resting my head against the window rail. I hate unexpected turns. Why is the government still operating this bus? Ouch, this is it for now. My head hurts.
The moustache man ponders upon the ink yanked across the page. He imagines all of it- a sunny afternoon, his emotionally suffocated son high on weed, the bus taking a sudden turn, his son’s head badly bumping against the rail. His brain immediately plays it- The sight of his son stroking his head half an hour ago. One of the possibility suddenly awares him-
‘Amnesia’ the moustache man mumbles.