Heavy hearts and light pockets

In a darkened corner of the club he pushed her against the wall, kissed her. “You believe in love at first sight?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Just not for me.”

Thank goodness he had left his wallet at home. His brand new iPhone was a different matter altogether.

The Invisible Woman

She hates waiting. It reminds her of overcrowded bus halts and doctor visits. Being the last to be picked on the team. Standing by the school gate at 3.30 pm as everyone leaves one by one. Sitting at Pizza Hut in her prettiest jeans, chewing the polish off her nails.

She feels her energy drifting away. Already her feet have grown numb. She doesn’t think she can wait much longer, enduring their stares. You know the feeling when you think the whole world is laughing at you and whispering behind your back, but no one cares, not really? No one even sees you.

She likes being invisible, though. It means no one is laughing. But for once, she wishes they would notice her. Talk to him, she wants to say. All he wants is a little attention. He gets tired of waiting, too. After all, he is only three…

Funny, how being invisible makes you put things in perspective. It gives you time to reflect. She reflects on all those moments she could have been visible, but wasn’t.

It is sad, really, how you inevitably want to go back and live the moments you didn’t.

Aftermath is everything. The tyres screech, the mother screams and everyone runs to the middle of the road. She feels the transfer of his energy as it surges through her feet, a pang so sharp and strong it almost makes her feel alive. For an instant she wonders about the moments of his short life, whether the visible moments have been enough to outweigh the invisible ones, or whether, like her, he will spend the rest of eternity feeding off the moments of those that had lived.

 

NOT MY HERO

You stood by the side of the road where

I lay wounded,

Bleeding, refusing to heal,

You did not stoop to lift me in your arms,

Nor pull me up by the hand.

No, you were not my hero,

Not my knight in shining armour.

You simply stood, your hand outstretched,

Just out of reach of mine.

I cried, I cursed, then cried some more,

You simply laughed, in your own strange way,

At me? With me?

Because of me?

Not that I cared.
I looked up from where I lay, laughing

Just a little at your silly grin.

No, you were not my Prince Charming,

Not my dashing Hollywood hero.

I wondered, within my mind,

Would that laughter ever fade?

Would that hand

Ever tire?

Not that I was afraid.

And I stared,

For suddenly your hand seemed

Closer than before,

Though I knew you had not budged an inch.

And I wanted to live,

I wanted to stand.

 

I dreamed of the day I would hold your hand.

Moment in the Sun

My little sunflower. I watch, as you stretch your tiny limbs, reaching for me. I am your sun. I, who have always been cold as death, am now the warmth that gives you life. Your face, just a moment ago a tight, angry red ball is now smooth, white and pure like mother’s milk. I touch you in wonder. It is a softness like I have never felt before, a softness that soothes my callused fingertip as I draw it gently across your rosy, baby cheek.

You stare up at me, the wonder in your squinty eyes mirroring my own. They are still adjusting to the world around…but even at this early stage, I know you know me. Clear green eyes so unlike mine, sparkling like the ripples of a stream in the sun. I lose myself in you.

I watch, seeing my pain in your eyes as your face turns red once more and then blue, and your eyes lose their sparkle as they dull and glaze over. You no longer know me.

And yet you reach out blindly, fingers stretched towards me, even as I strangle you to your death.

 

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

The feel of the wind as it whips through my hair,

Raindrops on my face.

“Pull down your visor,” he says,

“The dust will get in your eyes.”

I smell the smoke,

Hear the blaring horns

Of the city streets.

He aims for a pothole –

The biggest in sight!

I shriek,

Clutching him

Tighter around the waist.

I only wish I could see the grin that

Lights up his face…

 

And now we do the same commute,

Sitting sedately side by side.

Your eyes on the road,

You turn up the volume of your favourite show; I

Pull down the visor,

Look in the vanity mirror, and

Apply fresh makeup,

To hide my scars.

 

 

Gold Chains and Mesh Undershirts

There I was, walking down the streets of Pettah at 10.30 pm, all alone on a Thursday night. Pettah, as some of you may know, is the Sri Lankan equivalent of the “inner city area,” and despite its many charms, is not the most suitable place for a young woman to be wandering around by herself in the dead of night.

Many would already be shaking their heads, questioning my sanity. Intrepid traveller though I am, I too was beginning to curse myself for such poor logistical arrangements that left me stranded virtually in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by potential rapists, murderers, prostitutes and druggies.

I did not have much time however, to be mulling over these thoughts. I had a bus to catch! The question was, how do I get to the bus stop? At any other time of day, I would have undertaken the one kilometre walk without the least hesitation. Under the circumstances, it was out of the question. Yet, I seemed to have no alternative. There was no cab, no trishaw in sight. 

Inaction frightens me more than anything else. I started walking. As I turned the corner, I saw –

A lone trishaw!!

Now this might look like salvation to those of you unfamiliar with the territory, yet the sheer statistical indications of crimes committed by trishaw drivers would be enough to make the bravest human a little wary.

Needless to say, I was a little wary. But I still felt it was the lesser of the two evils. Walking up to the vehicle however, my heart sank.

The driver stood next to it.

He was dressed in a sarong and mesh undershirt, considered normal attire among certain segments of society. He had thick chains of gold around his neck and wrists, several large rings, tattoos covering his biceps and an overgrown beard. He put out his cigarette as I approached, but the smell of tobacco seemed to emanate from all over his person as he towered above me like some Neanderthal being.

Definitely for me, a nightmare come to life. I make it a point to avoid such drivers during the day; what hope did I have at night? It was not like I was spoilt for choice though, and the sooner I got to the bus stop, the better.

“Where to? Get in Miss,” he addressed me in Sinhala.

“Near the SLT building,” I replied, deliberately being as vague as possible (I am paranoid that one day one of these drivers would discover my home, and begin stalking me, or worse).

“Head office?” he inquired.

“No, no, their office near the Kottan tree” (yes, that wild almond tree is a famous landmark in the city).

“Oh miss ,you want to catch the bus? To go where?”

Now he was just being smart, and I didn’t like it in the least.

“Kadawata,” I replied reluctantly.

“Miss, going to the Kottan tree bus stop at this time is not safe. The place is deserted, and you might have to wait for God knows how long for a bus to come…

“Let me drop you at the station, the bus passes that way, and there are more people there.”

So now he was trying to take me further in his vehicle. Which gave him more time to...

What?? My head was giving…screaming, rather – all the wrong signals, but like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter, I nodded my assent.

Five minutes later (what seemed like an eternity) we reached the station. I resumed breathing. Rs. 92, the meter said. I was just about to pay him, take my bags and get the hell away but he stopped me.

“Don’t get out of the trishaw, Miss. I will stop the next bus that passes.”

And so he stood there, outside the trishaw while I sat inside, waiting for the next bus to pass. After about ten minutes one did come, and my hero in the mesh undershirt put out his hand to stop it and then signalled me to get out of the trishaw. As I reached for my traveling bag he outdid me, waiting for me to get in to the bus before handing it in.

He stood outside until I was seated and gave me a small wave of acknowledgement. I smiled, albeit a little shakily, and then settled in and closed my eyes with a sigh of relief.

It was not till much later that I realized with a start –

Not once had he requested his fare. I still had the hundred rupee note crumpled in my hand.

 

The Bride

"Hey sis it's for you."

"Again?"

Cassie giggled, shaking her head as her cousin handed her the phone, smiling.

"Yes Rajeev, this is Cassie...and can you please tell Adrian if he calls me one more time before the wedding –

“What's wrong...?"

Though spoken in a low voice, the other women in the room looked up simultaneously at the tension in the last words of the conversation.

"A-Adrian...? For God's sake! Tell me, where is he?" Cassie shouted.

The others stared as her whole body seemed to shudder for a moment, and then she went still. "Which one?" She nodded. "I'll be there now."

Turning to face her cousin, Cassie spoke in that same voice of deadly calm. "Adrian is dead. I must go to the police station."

*     *     *

Inspector Ranil of the Slave Island Police Station looked up in surprise at the woman who had just entered. Although he had known that the deceased was a groom on the way to his wedding he hadn't quite expected to see the bride standing in front of him like this, dressed in her wedding gown, her veil pinned on a little crooked. Then again, what could he have expected? That she would change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before coming to the police station? Actually he hadn't known what to expect anyway, the situation was unnerving enough. It was only natural for the poor little girl to run in crying, lifting her voluminous skirts as she ran, tears forming furrows of mascara down her rosy cheeks.

But the bride looked calm enough. The inspector took in her dry eyes in some admiration, as well as a little fear...was this how he would have liked his wife to react in the same situation, he wondered... But he could see that behind her façade she was struggling inwards – her hands were clutched tightly around a lace glove to keep them from trembling, and her lips quivered slightly as she spoke.     

Inspector Ranil inhaled deeply. He was not enjoying himself. "Your – your...fiancé...has been unfortunately killed in an accident." He paused momentarily before the word fiancé, because he had nearly used the word husband before recalling that it was not the case. "On Union Place." On the way to the church, he thought unhappily.

"The car was hit by an oncoming lorry. The driver has been arrested and –

“And he has been found to have been under the influence..." he finished somewhat lamely. How to justify a death by claiming it was unintentional?

The girl showed almost no emotion. At that moment a young man rushed in, shirt half unbuttoned and tie loosened. He glanced at Cassie and made as if to hug her, but on seeing her composed look his expression softened, and he sat beside her.

The inspector was feeling increasingly awkward, and the entry of a third party seemed to relieve him. He gave the best man an inquiring look, and Rajeev replied, "Yes Sir, Adrian's parents will be here shortly."

Cassie turned towards Rajeev, a look in her eyes. "I am so sorry," he said softly, "when we arrived it was too late..." Cassie nodded quickly. Then she turned back towards the inspector.

"Sir, it was not an accident. My fiancé was murdered."

The inspector gave a start. “Cassie! What are you saying? Come, we should go now," Rajeev said.

Cassie’s eyes filled with tears. “Don't you see? Every one of you was blind. So totally blind, just like him."

Inspector Ranil had been watching the interchange with some interest. "Ma'am is there anyone you suspect?" he asked, looking intently at her expression.

"Yes. Suranjith Wijesuriya."

She spoke softly but firmly.

Rajeev stared at her. "Are you crazy? Sir she's under so much stress that –”  

"I know perfectly well what I am saying. He killed him, just like he said he would." She was trembling again, but Inspector Ranil noticed that this time, it was not just sorrow or even fear.

"I need to know, ma'am," he asked her, "Who is this Suranjith? Had he threatened to kill Adrian Fernandez? Why?"

"Suranjith is my ex-boyfriend. I broke up with him more than two years ago but ever since then he never left me alone...he kept telling me to get back with him...He – he said he loved me so much that he couldn't live without me, that I would never find  a man who could love me as much as he did..."

It was only a very rare woman, the inspector thought, with whom it was possible for a man to fall so passionately in love with that it became an obsession, a craze. He had come across so many crimes of the sort – each a case of unrequited love where a man was driven to kill – stabbings, stranglings, poisonings, suicides...

None of the women involved in these tragedies were particularly beautiful, angelic or extraordinary in any way. They were not the type of woman one would expect a man to die for. And yet, he thought, the irony was that men always did, time and time again.

He looked at her again. The sophistication of the grown woman, the maturity and control of the adult, yet at the same time an almost childlike simplicity and sincerity in the eyes that looked at him, appealing, vulnerable, but also fierce, hard and unyielding. And he now knew what had unsettled him earlier, when she had first walked in.

"When Suranjith saw me with Adrian at a party he assaulted him. It was only because his friends were restraining him that a fight was avoided. But I saw his eyes that day," she went on, "up until then I had felt pity for him, but that day I felt nothing but disgust. And now – I hate him!"

The inspector looked up in amazement at the intensity in her voice, and saw such passionate hatred in her eyes as he had never thought possible in such a woman.

"I was at that party too", Rajeev said. "Several times afterwards he threatened both Adrian for hitting on his girl and me for supporting it."

"Adrian never saw it as a threat. He kept telling me that Suranjith would grow out of it one day, that he would find himself another girl and move on with his life..." She smiled tenderly. "Adrian was the kind of person who thought that just because he had a large heart, so did everyone else. He did not understand that people could be vengeful, dangerous...that they could hate.

"But I knew Suranjith. And I was scared. That is why I begged all our friends to keep our relationship a secret, and why we hid it from him that we were getting married..."

"In that case, ma'am –”

"But he found out. And he told me that he would kill Adrian rather than let him marry me, because I didn't deserve a loser like that." Cassie shivered. Rajeev put his hand over hers.

Inspector Ranil cleared his throat. "Ma'am I think you should leave now. We will put in some inquiries regarding the whereabouts of this fellow and do the needful. We might need you again tomorrow to make a formal statement. And before you go, ma'am," he added respectfully, "the – err...the body is in the police mortuary until the investigations are completed..."       

Cassie stood up. "Thank you," she said. How many women in this position would think to thank him, he wondered. "I do not wish to see it. To the rest of the world Adrian maybe dead...but to me he is not." She put her hand over her heart. "This love, this laughter, this joy inside of me...it is all him.” She looked towards the door to the mortuary. "That is not Adrian. He is with me, as always.” And as she smiled her face looked beautiful, angelic almost.

In spite of himself, Inspector Ranil felt a little queasy. He looked in the direction that Cassie's eyes were turned, where suddenly, a ray of mid-morning light came in through the grimy window, a bar of golden dust...a spotlight illuminating – what?

And in that moment Rajeev caught the gleam in those angelic eyes... And ever so slightly, they smiled at each other.