The Immortal

It was a somewhat clouded skyline of the city that loomed into view when he mounted atop the dilapidated buoy carelessly perched upon the bank of the Ganga.  The monsoons had tip-toed their way into the concrete jungle of the metropolis, confining themselves to silver drizzles and grumpy skies… an occasional outburst of thunder or a hesitant streak of lightning.The buoy, in answer to years of desertion, had inevitably gathered a fine layer of moss, made all the more slippery in the rain. The climb had not been easy, but he made it to the top. When he stood up, it felt as if he had scaled some hill in Darjeeling— he, the static singular, watching from a distance… watching the world beyond move on in great hurry. He sat down with hunched knees, laying his palms down, letting his fingers brush against the softness of the moss.From where he sat, the cluster of ashen high-rises across the river looked like a metal giant,  only the giant was sleeping.

His eyes travelled lazily towards the ink-dipped clouds above, and then dropped down to scan the vastness of the river that separated him from the bustle beyond. The river was fuming, he thought. The tide was in and the grey waters hurtled themselves against the buoy with all might. It reminded him of something. He smiled. When was it? Last month? The month before? Time, that slithery bi**h. It kept trickling down through his clenched fists, like these grey waters below…

It had been for the first time, then. And like all first times, it brought along with it, a strange thrill entwined with despair… and one never can separate the two. Neither could he. When the news of the chit fund fraud case spread like wild fire across the tenements of the city, he found himself unable to believe or even register what it meant, for others and for him. Then, a dimly-lit room, a whole sleepless night and a dozen pegs of rum brought to him the truth which he could not fathom earlier. Or, which, perhaps, he did not wish to fathom. No sane man who had learnt that the house in which he had invested all that ensured his survival on the face of this cruelty called life, had crashed overnight, would wish to keep terms with reality. Things mattered less and less, till he could see his whole existence being reduced to an insignificant little blob of ink—all in the course of a night. When it ended, and the first streaks of dawn crawled their way into the musty darkness of his room in north Kolkata, the sounds he heard were not of birds chirping—they were groans of dying men… survivors, of a holocaust…

The chit fund company had bloomed into existence six years back, like a freshly blossomed flower. In no time, and like a parasite, it had encroached upon the bill boards, newspapers and magazines, slots in between favorite soaps and serials on TV. Soon it opened news channels of its own and the directors and executives could be seen fluttering like social butterflies in page three parties and political meetings, all the while gaining the trust of gullible ignoramuses like him. What they promised was more than what one could dream of in a lifetime; when he came to know about the scheme, it felt like hitting upon a treasure trove. He had been hard-hit, ever since he found out that his parents had left for him little more than a rented room in a north Kolkatan locality, a house on the outskirts of the city, now in ruins after carrying the burden of his forefathers, some obsolete furniture and a diminishing bank balance. To top it all, he was a poet. Poets were not supposed to have jobs with fat salaries. Poets had no right to be rich. Poetry, like all art, fed on stings of poverty, on shabby clothes and uncombed hair, on inky rooms and windows that opened to embrace full moon nights. Poetry fed on all this, and much more. Most importantly, poetry fed on love…and love, it fed on greed.

It dawned upon him that he was in love with her. She had eyes that spoke of the nor’westers and hair that spoke of monsoon clouds.  She was the only daughter of his publisher, the one, in whose opinion, his poems deserved nothing more than the trash bin. And she wanted to marry money. Poets made good lovers, she said, but they also made despicable husbands. It occurred to him then, that he ought to have been ashamed of his worn down shoes, of his unshaven face and uncombed hair, of his rented room in north Kolkata, of the window that opened to embrace full moon nights— he ought to have been ashamed of all this that made him, him. It was then, when he shoved aside his poems and started thinking about that slithery being, money.

The scheme which the chit fund offered was like a divine answer to his disquiets. Give us your money, they said, we will double it in two years, treble it in five. It’s incredible, but it’s true. We ain’t fraudsters, and these ain’t false promises. Did you ask why you should trust us? Check out our credentials, fools. The guys you voted for, the guys who run the show in this state, are the same ones who light candles at our summits and hold honorary positions in our company. We got the government, the film stars, the intelligentsia, the whole intellectual bourgeoisie on our side. Got anything more to say? That’s what they said. And that’s where they held the people by the noose. What could he do? He was just another blind sheep in the flock of millions of blind sheep. He had to go where they led him, and the others, even if it be the burning pits of hell… he had to follow, for he loved her. He loved her.

A considerable chunk of the bank balance left to him as a legacy by his parents went into it. The old house in ruins, after being sold off to a businessman, went into it. The no-good furniture that belonged to his forefathers (who evoked no poignant memories in his mind), after getting auctioned off, went into it. Whatever little he had earned all this while… all that his trash-worthy poems could get from this world, everything, went into it. And he, after being left with almost nothing, with no tangible past, and no formidable present, he waited… for the future. For it was a future woven with threads of contentment, and peace. It whispered songs of a new apartment with marbled floors and a balcony where the rain danced with great elegance, of the smell of brewing tea and sandwiches in the kitchen, of tinkles of glass bangles and soft giggles that betrayed the presence of her whom he loved, in the next room… he could hear the whispered song all day and never get tired of it, ever.

The returns of the first two years were tremendous. Those who had invested had not been fools, after all. They roamed around, with bloated chests, sneering at those who had never trusted in chit funds and thus, had missed the grand opportunity of seeing their money multiply. The company directors gave speeches on solidarity and honesty–they recruited more agents and invited more big-shots to be a part of this growth.  One could see smiling faces everywhere…the ministers were smiling, the film stars, well they could never stop smiling, the people were smiling, he himself… after all these years, he was smiling. He told her about it. She seemed pleased, but not sure. Did they say they would treble the money in five years, she asked. He confirmed it from his agent, yes, they would. Well, then, she pointed out, why don’t you invest in it for another five years and then we shall see. Five more years, he thought. He could wait a lifetime and beyond…for her… five years would be a puddle on the banks of eternity– he could jump over it and more… and never get tired of it, ever.

Five years, like one of fate’s innumerable ironies, never passed. It ended somewhere in between, like an all-engulfing full stop. Time, it seemed had surrendered to the inevitable, as if it had always meant to… and all that was left behind were fragments of shattered dreams and a city of  the living dead.The morning after the news of the chit fund scam spread, he had rushed to meet her ,gripped by an insane desperation… Yes? She asked when she came. It was more than a question… it dissolved everything into nothing, yet it held the universe trapped within it, and more. Yes? She asked. And he had no answer. She handed him a wedding invitation. Do come, she said. And left without word.

The Emptiness arrived in no time… like locusts, overshadowing the skies… itsfeet raising storms of dust, its silence hammering against the chest. The city was seething with parasites. It had watchdogs stationed for him at every lane, every bend, and every nook. They were patrolling around, the hawk-eyed beasts, looking for him and for others like him. Looking for the failures, the vacuum vessels, the emptied ones. You could run, but you could never hide. They would catch you, drain the little that was left within, and eat into your flesh, your bones, with you helplessly watching all the while, doing nothing. Emptiness had an insatiable appetite; it kept you alive so that it could feed on you for ages…

After a while, he decided to give in. It was not that he decided it, though… there was not enough left within him to make a steady, coherent decision. It was rather an invisible pull that led him to the rope. It had been lying on the terrace for months…discarded, like him. A good fat rope. His landlord had required its use for heaving up some furniture, he recalled. Now nobody remembered it, nobody thought about its existence, its presence was no longer of any particular importance to anybody. Save him, he thought. That had been for the first time. And like all first times, his mind was fraught with thrill and despair. This was it, he thought. This was it, then… the end and the beginning , all at once.. the end of what was, the beginning of what could be……….this was it..

“Someday, some light years later, perhaps,

In some other , distant life,

If we were to meet all of a sudden

Not on yellow shores of a green ocean,

Not beneath moonlit skies,

Or in a boat floating on waters

As still as your held-breath…

Not in front of a raging fire,

That lights up a dark forest—

What if, we were to meet all of a sudden?

In a crowded bus,

Or across a dingy lane full of flies,

At a grocery store with a list

Of things to buy—-

What if we were to meet face to face then?

Would you still know me?

Would my eyes pierce your soul still?

Would you fall in love with me again?

Like you have, in so many lives before?”

 

He couldn’t conquer the urge to pen down a poem as his suicide note. Well, he thought, someone’s going to read it—someone… some police officer, some sergeant, maybe they would even print it in the papers, and then, at last, he would be of some worth. That would show her father that his poetry could rise above the trash bins if they could…that would show her. Or would it? He didn’t know. He didn’t know…he didn’t want to know.

The next morning breathed itself into his room. It found him lying on his damp bed, alive. The rope lay on one corner, and along with it, chunks of the wooden beam of the ceiling that had been clearly too weary to carry the burden of his life…or death, or perhaps, both. He woke up, his pillow wet with tears and looked out of his window…into nothingness.

Now, the memory of that day brought a smile to his lips. It had been his first attempt.To end it all. But it hadn’t been his to begin with, and it hadn’t been his to end either. He couldn’t end it the way he wanted it to… He had tried time and again only to find out this truth. He had tried sleeping pills. His body seemed to embrace them. He had tried rat poison. He threw it all up before the venom could reach his intestines. He had tried drowning himself in the river. That had been smart, for he knew no swimming. The waters were just about to gush into his lungs when he felt the tug of a sturdy hand. Damned fisherman. He had tried crossing the roads with eyes closed in the middle of crazy traffic. All he could hear were the sounds of screeching brakes and an outburst of the choicest slangs one could hope to hear, from all around him. He had been robbed naked.. they had robbed him of his life, they had even robbed him of his death..

By that time, he had had quite a collection of suicide notes. All of them were poems … he wrote them all in a feverish frenzy, each poem was penned as if it were his last child born out of the nib.. his last message to a world that had  left him  gagged,stabbed,stranded on an island and moved on. He kept this strange collection safely in his wallet, he treasured them, protected them like a mother. With each failed suicidal attempt, his wallet gained weight. He never gave a thought as to what purpose those letters addressed to no one, would serve… yet something inside him gave an elated lurch every time he spread out the collection on the table. He touched the sheets, some of them quite faded, some with nearly illegible hand-writing, some unfinished…he knew each was better than the last. He knew he outdid himself with each new attempt to die.

Dusk descended on the city like an orange veil, shrouding the skyscrapers, the factories, the bustling stream of life made of men and women who kept moving in no particular direction. Sitting on the buoy, he saw the waters below turn from grey to an ominous green, and eventually take shelter within layers of bluish silver. It was another full moon night. The rain had withdrawn itself into the skies beyond the skies, allowing the stars to arrange themselves on the canvas above. He felt tired of the waters and the skies.. tired of the moon and stars and all the elements of the cosmos that had conspired to make him a poet. Earlier that day, he had lost his wallet, and along with it… all that his futile life could produce. It had been  an aimless walk through the bazaar— his eyes, unbeknownst to himself, kept rummaging through the unstoppable activity that emanated itself through every object around. Adamant Bengali Babus kept haggling with equally unyielding sellers over a pound of fish. Vegetable vendors hawked cauliflowers and spring onions beside mud-splattered lanes. The air reeked with the stink of dead fish, rotten vegetables and raw blood of chickens that had submitted meekly to their executors. Rats, fattened on a diet of trampled fish gills and cabbage leaves, promenaded leisurely through the murkiness, as if they owned the bazaar. This was what they called being alive, he noted—this was what he could never be a part of.. and could never find  the reason to be a part of…

He emerged from the other side of the bazaar heaving a sigh of relief… the walk had been an infernal ordeal, it felt like being out in the light after travelling through the shades for years. But the price of the journey had been too high… he instinctively pushed his hands into his rear pocket and his fingers missed the familiar touch of worn out leather. It was gone, the wallet. And so were the treasured ramblings of an unknown, unsung poet, obliterated forever from existence.

He climbed down from the buoy and made his way towards the railway tracks. The streets that would take him to his destination meandered through a slum district before finally diffusing into the tracks. His gait was nonchalant and slow… night had engulfed the neon lights above, spreading its wings like an albatross, cloaking the world below in its obscurity. The only lights that seeped into view were dim beams from fifty watt bulbs, whose luxury some fortunate families could afford. Hungry, naked children with snotty noses played in the dust with flags of  rival political parties, oblivious to the annals of blood-smeared feuds and combats that the streamers  narrated. Couples made animal love behind tattered curtains, their lewd expressions of pleasure clearly audible to passers-by. Barely clothed women busily cooked the day’s earnings on mud ovens – the smell of burnt rice mingled with smoke, spiraled upwards to meet the clouds above. He walked through it all, without stopping by and gaping at the surrounds, as he would have done on other days.. he walked as if in a daze, pulled by an invisible string towards the tracks.. from far beyond, the shrill siren of an approaching train burst upon the quietness..

The landlord opened the door with some exasperation. What on earth, he grumbled, that too at this time of the day, when I am just about to take my afternoon nap. A bespectacled face with a toothbrush moustache greeted him on the other side. Yes? The landlord asked, chewing betel nuts.

A reticent voice asked… Is this the address of Mister So and So?

Yes, said the landlord, chomping the betel nuts with more fervor, while his brows wrinkled in anticipation.

Is he home?

No, sir.

Well, I am from Such and Such Publishers. I think this wallet here belongs to your tenant. I came across it in quite an inappropriate place, lying in the most neglected manner by the roadside.  But trust me sir, what I found within was quite, yes quite remarkable I must say… poems, I mean. There was this card which mentioned this address… I couldn’t, I mean, I deemed it most proper to deliver it by hand, and also make certain propositions, you know, could you please. I mean at what time is he usually available?

The landlord gave his jaws a rest. Ahem, he said… ahem… You see Mister So and So is not quite a man of principles, I must say. He has queer timings, goes by with a queer expression on his face and in short, he leads a queer life. Never pays his rent on time, oh sir, never, he doesn’t. In fact he is six months due already, could you believe it? Six months due!! I don’t believe in squabbles, I don’t, and my wife respects me for that, she does. But this is exploitation!! This is nothing short of robbery, I say!!  This is…

The man from Such and Such Publishers stopped him with supreme effort. Please. Sir. Could you just tell me when he might be at home?

How do I know, retorted the landlord. Haven’t seen him on this doorstep since yesterday morning, have I?  Usually returns by night, don’t know what happened. And let me tell you mister, I don’t care. I simply don’t and my wife says I am right in doing so.

Okay, I get it, right then, said the stranger, you could give him this card of mine when he comes. It has my contact number… ask him to call me up, will you?

Reluctantly, the landlord took the card and closed the doors, drawing the bolts. Good riddance he said, and started chewing his betel nuts. Now for a nice afternoon nap.

__END__