Palimpsest

The paradox was palpable. The officious edifice evoked no string of emotion in the thousands that justified its being. They swarmed in thousands in the faint anticipation of the earth skipping the next ten hours of her itinerary; yet, there was a certain fitness in the geometric integrity its shadow commanded-everything crammed to fit itself within the symmetry; the late birds stood gauging the elasticity of the umbrae devouring the colossal principle of even a fleeting glance. The modest surroundings echoed the cacophony of the intercourse between conflicting ideologies of acceleration. She loved the dynamics, in a moment she could translate the chaotic traffic into its components and get lost in one of its most neglected facades.

The office building looked no different from across the street than from within. When she usually walked in, life deserted the place leaving the furniture in disarray and floors mauled with dirt. As she let the liquid flow over yesterday’s reminiscence she felt the power of the creator- the power to invigorate life into the inanimate, the power to restore order and yet remain invisible to the myriad. When all was done, she would let the place breathe the air cooler, conditioned by the trail of the cleansing liquid and walk out with the air of a deft executioner.

She felt no need to change her clothes for the job. ‘Those that did’, she often mused, ‘were the amateurs’. She’d not liked them- the mediocre who’d gossip in hushed tones while she passed by; they thought she was insane. She did not care to differ. She had the job and she paid the cost to the guy who’d managed to give that to her without probing much. He had asked her what her name was, ‘Geeta’, she had said. She was called Geeta, she clarified to herself. She did not know if that was her name, she’d never felt any sense of belonging to it.

**********

The features were blurred- the painted faces of the lipstick clad women who changed costumes every other minute- the colour had faded on her side of the screen but nevertheless, there was colour, it was the same colour of her thatched roof. She did not see the roof again after that night. There was a woman to whom she clung. The woman was telling her a story of some people who needed her home and how they gave another home, some sarkar. She was happy because suddenly she got to eat and see colour she had never seen. There were people all around her with bulging rags that clanked each time they rubbed, they were walking.

The new place was no different, it didn’t have the roof though, she wondered. Others whose faculties co-ordinated better found they had to start life from the scratch on the barren land. The food was over, and the grandeur of the colour had grown faint. They knew it was hoping against hope, but they assured each other that their new found money would buy them some land; they actually did not know what to do with it otherwise. They were again on the move. Few of them did not last the length; the woman to whom she clung did not. She had not liked the woman, her mother, very much. The more hunger stung, the more closer her mother cuddled and looked longingly at her, impressing her barren breasts that had nothing to offer. But she wailed when shoulders changed, though stronger shoulders held her this time, shoulders that did not yet bear the weight of six children.

It was a new group of people whose newness wore out fast acquiring pseudonyms evidencing relations. She was a quick learner- love did not satiate hunger, laps did not keep one warm in winters nor did nomenclature assure privacy. These people were unlike the woman; they scrapped off food and some brought in food while it was still edible. The place she had shifted to was bright and busy, the surface was rough. When the bulk of a body hit her in sleep, she just felt suffocated. But then, she assumed, that was how so many people could sleep together. She was fine, she reassured herself, for three nights. Then she ran.

**********

She was not very concerned what they did with the stuff, she knew it made them feel nice. She did not attach benevolence to her job because it didn’t matter. But she would not herself buy one of it, they acted funny, and their limp bodies flopped over after having it- just as the woman to whom she had clung to. She’d been waiting for quite sometime now. The consignment had to come about an hour earlier and was still nowhere to be seen. Instead she felt something more firm around her wrists- handcuffs.

People in there did not bother with each other’s privacy except for the daily routine and the pesky female. This was no paradise, there was a liquidity crunch- she knew all of that. The female wanted a sob story; she said she was convinced all was just plain goof up- mix up of people. The pest talked a lot about release, dearth of evidence, sentence…- mere words out of rote memory. Geeta would not bargain with apathy, even if it meant her ticket to freedom. She despised philanthropy that stared into the begging bowl reminding each time how indebted it was to them. She was in there because she earned a livelihood; she didn’t care how the pest took that.

When she had first walked in here, she was afraid of being in jail, just because it was called jail. Perhaps her mother would have liked the food and roof the place offered, even if social mores despised it. The inmates acknowledged the power within each other, the power of deception or perhaps of taking a life. There was no fate- they were it. Life there was passionate, in love, laughter, fight or play – there was a wild streak about it. Every one of them felt secure with the other - their windcheater against winter. But no one spoke about the winter that awaited them when they walked out– that was an unwritten dictum. When it came they did not look back at what they had left. Perhaps the winter would not last long and they would be back here shunned by those who’ve remained snug all winter, those who thought people out of jail had no right to live outside it. When she walked out, it was dark; the rain drenched her tears. Although she didn’t know why, she had promised never to come back.

**********
She loved looking at the building from her shanty across the street; it was her way of getting used to her new life. It was sweltering and she was tired that day. A yawn interrupted her thoughts and she gave way to the comfort of slumber.

There was a lot of commotion, quite enough to wake her up. The night had made its presence felt by now. Yellow bulbs glowed from solitary poles and life flew around it. The city had been on usual business, cars zoomed past her abode on the footpath, bikes raced and tired bodies carried themselves homeward. But something was not quite right. Cluttered speech intercepted the smooth rumble of the engine.

Something was different about the building today. She couldn’t at first glance tell what it was. But, for six months that she entered there it had always a deserted demeanour, like someone waiting to confide. The watchman for the first time since she could remember was out at the gate and suddenly the building acquired the import of officiousness that was expected out of it. Her heart almost leapt out of her when they asked for her id “perhaps he’d found out that she was a convict”! This was something else, she guessed, as they checked her id and let her go. For once, she wanted to run to the changing room. Whisper suddenly seemed alien to this place. They were talking- loud and clear. Yesterday evening they found, they said, a bomb in the building- diffused and dead by now except for the trail of terror it left behind. There was intended some sort of a search.
“Obviously, we would be the ones who would be targeted. They think only money can drive people to do these things”, a spontaneous voice remarked.

The voice from the far end of the corridor grew subliminal. The breeze did nothing to stop the sweat that broke out. She felt breathless for a moment, as though the barren breast had fallen over her again, as though the shoulder had been changed again. She saw it all- they would come back into her life, she would be the obvious person- aloof and cold. What would matter the most would perhaps be her reluctance to divulge. She wanted to talk to them, all of them, she wanted to tell them how she hated them, how she loved herself, how she did not know how to like others…..anything that would stop them from pointing to her… that would make them feel that she was a just one of them. But she could only hear herself heaving. She walked- her pace increasing with each step that she took. Her winter had just set in but she was sure it would be long and she was not prepared for it. She was afraid that if she were to stop, she would not have the strength to walk ever again. Darkness crept out into the sky and she gave way to the intruding breeze. She had found her way out- the way to never have the winter. People around were busy to hear the splash that sucked her. All that could be heard that night was the sound of the crashing waves.