Four Sights

This is also an excerpt from a story that is still a work in progress. It is also a first draft, so be warned.

It was a rainy Sunday on the day I heard that my former partner died. Clouds of dark grey were colored with the stark shadows of angry gods and devious men, while the rest of the world tended to the mess the two made. Commuters both walked and ran from building to building, cautiously testing the skies with their hands and almost immediately putting up their umbrella, only to be hit by a splash of water from bikes running over puddles. The traffic appeared insurmountable, and not a single thought was heard over the cacophony of vehicle horns. Between the cars and trucks, delivery boys on faded blue motorcycles crawled past like earthworms in the rain, challenging the muddy roads of northwest Bangalore.

I chose to forgo my music today, listening instead to the sounds of the metro as it glided down the lifted tracks. Rows and rows of beaten down shacks with what looked like aluminum roofing stretched all the way to the horizon, where muted pleas of sunlight begged for an escape from their jailers. Without the sounds of Chet Baker or Miles Davis in my ear, the city begged me to listen, and I couldn’t stand to hear it, but what else was I to do? It seemed poor taste to listen to Kind of Blue when you’re on the way to a memorial, and I didn’t know the man well enough to mourn completely, though he was my partner. 

The word ‘partner’ is deceitful, in that it can mean a great many things. In this particular instance, it refers to a man with whom I briefly conspired with to commit one of the great crimes of living: doing so freely. A graduate of an obscure college in the northeast United States, I had returned home the prodigal son, determined to make more of my life than I had in the half-decade that I was there; I was true to my ambition, but not to myself. I met the man at a cafe down the street from the research lab where I had interviewed, and after many more chance encounters, we decided together to open up a digital marketing agency, a choice that terrified my parents. “You’re a science graduate!”, they said, confusion written plain on their face, coupled with hints of disappointment and frustration. They weren’t wrong, but if there was anything to be learned from 4 years of studying chemical engineering, it was that even the most interesting of phenomena could be made boring, so what did it matter what career I pursued? I couldn’t explain to them that my life’s greatest plague was boredom, and to start something with one’s own hands was about as exciting as I could imagine things getting, so I gave up and moved into a dingy, almost pathetic apartment on the other side of the city. 

It wasn’t more than a year later that we lost seed funding when one of our investors passed away, and the others were all friends of my partner’s father. The rest convened a meeting and couldn’t be clear about why they withdrew their money. I think perhaps a particularly bad strain of boredom had infected them, and how could I blame them for the symptoms of this disease? I had barely recovered myself, and I realized then that it was only coming back for me. That was the end of something I started with my own hands. 

Giving up hope in treating my ailment, I returned to the lab I interviewed with, and they presented an offer to join their upstream development team. I was also fortunate enough to be presented with an associate’s title. Both my friends and my parents were pleased with this brand, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that a well-known trade secret of the scientific community is that “associate” really means “assistant”. Then again, what did it matter? I was about as bored as I expected myself to be, but at least I wasn’t scrambling for money. After nearly a year and a half there, I had recently received the wonderful news that our lab had been granted our final stage of funding, allowing us to replace our dying machinery, upgrade our computers, increment salaries and most importantly, as our founder said, to continue doing God’s good work. If I believed in a God, I’d be certain he was having a laugh at his little joke. What I should have been celebrating – a bigger paycheck – was put off to whenever I would visit home next, and I decided to spend the weekend drinking. So it was on that same rainy Sunday, where the skies looked down on me with scorn and the rain never let up, that I reached a small, beautiful home in the middle of the city, with a hangover that could take nearly a week to sleep off. 

I was let into the home by a woman in a white salwar, while I took off my raincoat to reveal a matching kurta and pants. She bowed her head slightly as she welcomed me into the living room, her eyes not meeting mine. That was the customary gesture that let me know that her attendance was not out of grief, but of dharmic duty. She looked up at me and muttered a quick thank you, and it was at that moment that I recognized her, the mysterious woman who would show up to our offices and speak to my partner. Then, she wore exclusively bright colored suits and high heels, with thin framed glasses and her hair tied up neatly in a single ponytail. Today, she looked quite different, her hair down and eyes bare and filled with tears. I studied her face for a moment, and she looked up at me with an expression that could have only been mild mortification. Of course, I was hungover and bloodshot, and I had no doubt she thought I was staring like some kind of roadside beggar, so I made my way into the living room and stood in the hearth, hands crossed over one another in front of me.

I surveyed the room, taking care to keep my eyes narrow so that people could avoid seeing my heinous state of being, when one of our former employees crossed the room to shake my hand. 

“Good to see you, sir”

I returned the greeting with what can only be described as a half grunt, half hello, and kept my eyes focused on the room. It was an ornate, but small living room, flanked by a mantel shelf and a TV set. In the middle sat a rectangular glass coffee table, filled only with cups of water and surrounded by wicker chairs and sofas covered with thick, stained maroon cushions. The carpets were shades of beige and blood-red, covered from head to toe with fractal-like patterns, drops of water scattered from all the rain-soaked mourners who had come, like me, to pay respects. What else could they have done for a man like him? 

On the mantel, there was a large picture of him, covered with a garland of flowers and surrounded by diyas and figurines of Krishna. I looked at the picture, studying his details, something I never did when he was still alive. He was smiling in that picture, a shock of messy black hair falling over his forehead and barely obscuring narrow brown eyes. He was clean shaven in that picture, and very clearly enjoying his fifth and final sojourn with sobriety. Looking at him then, a face I had become so familiar with that I had forgotten it entirely, I felt a small lump at the bottom of my throat. Was I grieving the man with whom I had so acrimoniously ended our business? Could it be that for once in my life, I got my timing right? 

Hours passed that way, and I stepped out to a world without rain. The dark clouds hadn’t still abated, but the smell of earth, water and traffic were all too familiar to me. It was that all-too familiar epilogue after the rain, when moisture clung to the air like a scorned mistress and the cockroaches would soon come crawling out. Beside the house at the nearest intersection, a Colonial-era signpost read “5th Cross Road” in English and in Kannada below it. Next to it, cigarette butts and paan masala wrappers were scattered across the road and in puddles. At the foot of the signpost, I saw a bouquet of flowers. They were red and white roses, covered in cheap and tattered blue organza with a small note stapled to the side. Bending down to pick it up, I plucked the note from the bouquet and read it. It was written in blue ballpoint pen, and it wasn’t so much writing as it was a heart, with the initials “A + S” in the middle. Though I scoffed, I tucked the note into the inside pockets of my raincoat and headed towards the station. 

****

Around two weeks later, I got a call from my mom, asking me if I would come home to visit the extended family. My aunt and uncle had both returned from Phoenix and intended to spend the next two weeks at the family house. That Friday evening, I left work early and left a note on my supervisor’s desk, letting him know that I would be taking a week and returning the following Monday. As I placed it there, I took a moment to survey his office. The desk was bare, containing only a desktop computer and a keyboard and mouse, along with a notebook he used for writing down procedures and planning methodologies. The walls surrounding him were littered with inspirational quotes, which I would often catch him staring pensively at. Not that he struck me as a man who thought too deeply about his reality, but I would look at him doing that with great envy, as if it was so simple.

Near the bottom of the wall adjacent to his desk, I saw a paper drawing pinned to the wall, the bottom edges of it caressing his desk. He had obviously pulled it down to look at it many times. The fraying and wrinkled paper and crayon markings told me that it was obviously made by a child, depicting a sun, trees and a big blue bald man, as well as a little girl in pink. On the top right corner, in pink crayon was written the name “Anahita”. 

I walked out of the office to lighter skies. They weren’t as blue as I’d hoped to be, but Bangalore monsoons are notoriously stubborn. They cling to you, like a persistent cough that only goes away once you’ve learned to live with it, and they disappear just as unceremoniously. It took 10 minutes for me to reach the shithole that I called home, a one-bedroom unit with a kitchenette, bathroom and a single dining table that comprised both the living and the dining room. The bedroom was adjoined to the dining room and the kitchenette, and was covered in peeling lavender paint, while the kitchen was a stark cream. I’m sure it was white some time ago, but the tiling had faded, and the sink and counters were too cluttered for me to glean any white in it. Stuffing my products into my already-packed duffel bag, I replaced my raincoat for a drier one and left the apartment. On the nearly 2-hour train ride to Whitefield, I did not listen to any music. 

My dad was waiting at the station when I reached, looking sternly into the distance. Upon seeing me, he gave me a familiar smile and a clap on the shoulder, and we both got into the car and drove. It would normally be only 15 minutes from the station to the villa complex, but rush hour traffic turned it into 45, which we passed by listening to Mohammad Rafi and Jagjit Singh. I stared out of the window, doing my best to decipher the lyrics with my limited understanding of the language, while my dad hummed along with a familiar joviality. In his voice, I heard two friends, who hadn’t seen each other for some years, but in each other found that lost companionship over many whiskeys and many more laughs. 

My father was no stranger to that feeling, but I couldn’t have been more divorced from it. I felt that those gray skies, the mediator of all happinesses that hated me so much were, in that instance giving me what they felt were my just desserts. 

The villa we lived in was comprised of a series of small rooms that gave the impression that they were large, proving to me that even inanimate settings can have a Napoleon complex. Walking past the living room brought me to our small dining table, with a door to the kitchen on one side and the remaining area surrounded by nearly empty bookshelves made of polished wood. I went up the stairs right behind the table to my room, where I left my bag and raincoat. Sitting on the bed, I looked around at a room that hadn’t changed since I was five. Once again, the lump returned, and all I could do was stare listlessly at the sheets. 

Downstairs, I heard the familiar sounds of guests entering, coupled with a few giggles from my mom. I listened to the voices, deciphering that they were my neighbors, who were indeed a very peculiar couple. In fact, every neighbor of ours, at least those who lived on our street, had their own very specific idiosyncrasies, some so apparent that you could figure them out the second you met them. Though I used to laugh at them, partly out of affection and partly out of hilarity, I can’t bring myself to laugh anymore. Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by growing up around people with actual character. I changed into a clean salmon shirt and beige linen trousers, and then headed downstairs. 

**** 

I was lying on a bumpy couch in the middle of a very messy apartment. Outside, it was dark, and there was snow falling in a steady rhythm. Opening my eyes, I watched each snowflake fall in small concentric circles down towards the ground, where a million cars were parked. Behind the lot, there was a dark forest, and the branches were weeping thick, heavy white tears.

There were so many snowflakes, all moving at the same speed that they had their own unique stillness to them, completely undisturbed by the world and our conspiracies and doing nothing more than simply falling. They were the stalwart romantics of the winter, throwing away every rational impulse to live as they threw themselves into the arms of their beloved. A crueler fate, I could not imagine.  

She came up silently behind me and placed a hot cup of tea on the table besides the couch. We both were still, and then I felt her lean against me as her arms came up around my neck, gentle fingers caressing my face. Though her hands kept moving, like the heartsick snowflakes, it all felt so incredibly still. As if even the slightest change would cause this moment to disappear. 

The sensation stayed even as the strands of her hair pulled away from me, even as her arms seemed to fade away from around me, and as her perfume faded into the distinct scent of limerence. Somewhere in the forest, I saw a green light, and I felt myself reaching out to touch it. 

****

I woke up to the late morning sun streaming in through diaphanous curtains. Shaking the sleep from my body, I wandered down the stairs and plopped down on the nearest chair at the dining table for breakfast, where my parents were already sitting. 

In that instant, a memory popped into my head of my part-time job at university. I had taken work in a desk job of the administration building, where my job was mostly directing visitors to offices or otherwise helping them with complaints. One morning, after I had shaken myself out of bed and bolted down from the dorms to work without more than a few hours sleep, an elderly woman came in. She looked to be in her 60s, though her hair was black with streaks of brown. At the crown, I could see a few white whiskers creeping out like weeds in her false garden. She appeared to be East Asian, and approached me with hesitation, clutching the handle of her brown purse bag to her lavender blouse. She pointed a shaky finger at me and asked, “You. Help? Office?”, before reaching for her phone. I tried to ask her where exactly she wanted to go, but she couldn’t find the words, and instead spoke to me in her native language. Helpless, I reached for the phone to call my supervisor, until I saw Andrew approach from the corner of my eye. He was tall and muscular, with jet-black hair styled in a pompadour, and wore a perpetual salesman’s smile. Despite being an international student, he ingratiated himself in with the local population with a practiced ease, and his accent eventually lost the memories of his upbringing. He began conversation with her, which clued me in to the fact that the lady was attempting to speak Mandarin to me and directed her to the bursar’s office with hand gestures and a smile. Turning to me, he said “I’m glad she didn’t ask for anything else. My Mandarin’s gone to shit!” and grinned before heading back to his place at the desk just behind mine. 

It was strange that the lady should be in my memory, nearly four years after the fact. I had said all of 3 words to her, but the impression she left was so distinct that I still remember her, years later. I remember the dyed hair, the blood red lipstick on a worn and tired face, and the shaky smile she gave me, though her eyes were filled with anxiousness. I remember the way her features changed when Andrew spoke, going from panic to joy the moment someone spoke to her in the language she grew up speaking. It dawned on me then that it was probably the language her mother spoke to her in. In that moment, she must have caught a glimpse of home, of the hearth, and of her mother, who I’m sure had long since passed. 

The voice of my own mother interrupted my reverie, and I got to eating breakfast, the pleasantness of which was interrupted by my father and the rustling of his newspaper. 

“How’s work going?”

“Good, we got the next round of funding. I got a small pay bump, not a lot though.”

“Where’s the money going?”

“I’ve been pouring a bunch into my savings, but I was thinking of buying an old Enfield.”

With that, my mother stopped serving the eggs and gave me a death stare of near biblical proportions. 

“You are not riding a bike in this weather, and definitely not on the roads in Yeshwanthpur.”

“Why not? I’ve done enough riding around here, plus it’ll help me get around the city for errands much faster.”

“You can’t just Instacart your orders? What’s the need to put yourself in harm’s way?”

“I’m tired of being cooped up in the house”, I said, and looked studiously at my eggs, hoping desperately they would start dancing. Even if they so much as changed colors, I would’ve been fine with it, as long as it didn’t mean continuing with this conversation. 

My dad sighed loudly, a cue to change the topic. Peering at me through his reading glasses, he asked, “Have you heard back from any master’s programs?”

“Northeastern reached out for an interview, it’s for their business school.” 

“I still have to confirm a time”, I almost said, but held it back, and told them instead that it was next week. 

At that, my father looked at me through his reading glasses, and smiled. It was almost as if he was proud of me. Almost. 

“Boston is a very nice city. It’s a big biotech hub from what I hear. The thing about these things is beta, you’ll have to have some serious conversations to get a job.”

Looking down at his food, he said almost to himself, “Management in a biotech company – big deal.”

“Let us know how it goes!”, my mother chimed in, herself beaming. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that they should only be prepared for disappointment, but I knew that letting them get their hopes up would make the blow sting even worse. Still, what was I to say to the only two people who wanted something good for me? 

After we finished breakfast, my mom suggested a game of badminton with my dad. He could only sigh wearily and retreat to his room, choosing instead to attend his meetings. It wasn’t so long ago that he used to skip those meetings to play badminton with me, but now they had become a routine to him. I guess it really was that long ago, considering I was almost 23 now. With little to do except to wait my aunt and uncle’s imminent arrival, I retreated upstairs to play video games. 

They arrived at a quarter to three, and we spent most of the afternoon snacking, chatting and drinking. By six, my uncle had gotten drunk and insisted on singing while my dad accompanied him on guitar, and before long the whole house was full of music and laughter. In the gaps left by the happiness in the air, I struggled to find my place, and so I sat and listened instead as all the sounds and all the music hit a glass wall in front of my face. 

Returning to my room, head spinning from the beer, I responded to Northeastern University’s email, confirming my time for next Friday.