A Meeting in the Café – 1

Rahul gazed unblinkingly at his reflection in the mirror, looking for signs of a past that could provide him with subtle indications of the future. He wanted to know where destiny was leading him. He thought of the telephone call he had received a few days ago. An old man, on the verge of death, had begged to meet him. He was dumbstruck when the man introduced himself. He didn’t know how to react. There was a void deep inside him. He was aware that he was talking to a man, whom he had always been very curious about. Enmeshed in the trappings of his own life he had forgotten this man in the last few years. But deep within him was a strain of curiosity. Rahul had finally agreed to meet him after deciding on a convenient date, time and venue. When confronted with an overpowering turmoil in the depths of his soul, further intensified by the fear of dying a lonely and painful death, Rahul would immerse himself in the darkness of his study and look at his reflection in the mirror. Faint specks of light emerging through countless pores in the linen fabric of the curtains and tiny cracks in the panels of the doors and windows ensured that he could see his reflection. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the reflection that looked like an amorphous ghost took on a definite shape and he could make out the curved lines of his ears, his cheek, his nose and lips. Hours passed thus and then, overcome by disgust, he would fling the curtains wide open, and allow the light to rush into the dusty corners of his room. In that halo of light he imagined the scarred and ravaged face of his mother, her eyes sunken in the hollow sockets of her skull shrunk with age and disillusionment – eyes that were charming at one point in time. She warned him, in her feeble cough-worn voice, to run away and not to stare at her through the keyhole. Rahul paced with a cigarette in his hand, inhaling the smoke as though it were the last drag of his life. As the pale blue rings of smoke emerged from his nostrils, he waved them away with his hands. He lost his balance and fell down on the marble tiled floor, now cracked and corrugated with lack of maintenance and disuse. He lay there looking up at the damp ceiling, devastated by the rainwater that had seeped in year after year making innumerable saline patches and ruining the carved designs. Rahul smoked one cigarette after another till he was exhausted. His parched throat craved water. There was a raging fire ravaging his insides. But Rahul didn’t make any attempt to quench his thirst. Behind a screen of smoke he saw a dark adolescent with long tresses, walking through a forsaken mansion looking intently for something. The boy moved from one wall to another, pausing at the weed-infested doors, and the multi-coloured glass panels of the tall windows with their iron grilles. Lizards darted on the wet walls like streaks of lightning. The mansion was lit by sunbeams pouring through the openings in the walls, windows and glass panes. Between these patches of light were the frozen layers of darkness. The boy moved through the rooms, flitting through the rising smoke, light and darkness, hurriedly at times and sometimes slowly, looking furtively behind him as through chased by unseen djinns. On reaching one end of this empty mansion, he came across a spiral staircase without banisters, leading to the upper floors. He contemplated his next move for a while, and then moved on. He crossed identical floors drowned in thick billows of smoke to enter a wide terrace strewn with moss, dead leaves, half eaten fruits and bird droppings. A look of happiness and amazement shone on his face as though his dream was suddenly realized. He saw a sunlit valley of violet flowers stretching out before him. There was a deep blue river flowing on one side, its surface gently rippled by a southern wind. Rahul thought of a caption for the scene, “If you dare to cross your fears you will experience absolute happiness.” Rahul laughed. He knew that was not true. He was not sure how advertisements worked on human minds, or whether they worked at all. But the kind of money spent on advertisements of products and concepts amazed him. A few months ago he’d been diagnosed with a critical illness; a spectre of impending death ticked inside his body. The pathological reports had made him laugh and it was a laughter that welled up from deep within. It was so wild that it created a prickling sensation in his hair follicles and struck the doctor and his accompanying nurses with undiluted terror.