The Dreamers

Lying on the cot, Azad continued to stare at the ceiling, transfixed perhaps by the hypnotic rotation of the heavy, metallic black blades of the fan. It was an old fan, this; hanging precariously to the beam by means of a rusty hook which did not inspire much confidence. The alternating creaks and thuds of the fan drowned the feeble ticking of the little, circular clock, perched on top of the soggy wooden cupboard.

The  Clock...
Azad almost smiled as recollections of the day- seven years ago- when he paid Rs 1000 for this white clock priced at Rs 999, and smartly walked away with it without waiting for the change, filtered in. He had had his heart set on the clock for quite some time now- nine months to be precise. For, exactly nine months earlier, there was a glimmer in Rekha’s eyes when she had first seen it in a dingy departmental store tucked away in the congested underbelly of their South Kolkata neighbourhood.

“That will complete our home, Azad!” she had said.
And Azad had listened.

His eyes opened as he became aware of the scraping sound of his wife’s cracked heels rubbing against the cold, grey stone floor.

Rekha...
In the reflection on the floor he could see her nightgown swishing about her ankles. There was a time when Azad entertained himself by mentally predicting her nightly routine with surprising accuracy-her neatly folding his clothes, which were flung on the chair; disposing of the vegetable peelings from the day’s cooking; standing in the middle of the room, one hand behind hip, critiquing the dilapidated, crusty wall and commenting on the need to get a paint job done; collecting her hair hanging loosely at her waist, and tying it into an untidy bun with strands sticking out. But, now, he had moved on.

The little, white clock told him that in exactly forty seconds he would feel her right arm, damp with little globules of sweat, on his bare chest, and the warmth of her breath on his cheeks.Tonight,he could smell the garlic-heavy curry in her breath.Azad tried to inch away, but she snuggled closer. It was a small bed and he knew that he and no option. Azad had to endure.

It was a particularly muggy night; so much so that when streams of tears began to manoeuvre their way through his stubble, they mingled with constant trickle of sweat sliding down his forehead.  Azad wiped his face with his left palm and then wiped his left palm on the white bed sheet, adding another stain to its existing litter of stains. He scanned the room with moist eyes. In the way of ventilation, the room had only a little blue window with rusty bars which, in any case, was not wind-facing. And the feeble whiffs of breeze that did come, only managed to dislodge tiny chunks of rust hanging to the periphery of the bars and deposit them on the grey stone floor; on the white bed sheet; on the white wall clock; in the long, dark locks of his wife. The powdery rust, together with the rotting vegetable peelings and the sweaty bodies of its occupants lent a distinct odour to the room. No wonder Azad felt suffocated; no wonder Azad felt trapped.

He turned to look at Rekha. Strangely, he did not feel guilt at having let her down. To be honest, her complaints didn’t bother him as much as a selfish sense of regret for what his life could have been. He closed his eyes once again, and hoped for some sleep to massage the throbbing pain that he felt in his temple. Yes, he would end it all tomorrow. Finally.
Slowly, he began to slide away.
And then he saw it.

It was beautiful.

The tips of her nails, varnished in a showy shade of crimson, rested on the clear crystal wine glass. With an inviting smile she raised the glass and moved closer to him with small steps, carefully calibrated to attract every fibre of his masculine attention. He reached out for the slender bottle of the fine Burgundy which stood in dignified elegance amidst the heap of stale vegetable peelings. Beyond the quivering meniscus of the translucent wine he could see her face awash in the rhythmic motion of red waves which seemed to sprawl across her features, latching onto every contour in helpless devotion. She moved even closer. Azad sensed pleasure-raw, primeval and carnal- bottled up in the minuscule space between them. His mind raced wildly and his pulse tried hard to catch up. The turgidity of the moment was seductive; so seductive that for a few seconds he resisted being seduced, if only to savour the moment in entirety. Finally, he decided that the iron of his resolve had rusted enough.

With a carefully concealed grunt which accompanied the effort, and a resoundingly sharp pop, he pulled out the soft, brown cork which sealed the orifice. He admired the fleeting hue of startled surprise which passed over her eyes as he opened the bottle; he wondered at how effortlessly her features transitioned to convey a playful, flirtatious mischief. Slowly, he poured the wine down the sides of her glass. The soft gurgle of the wine flowing ignited an acute thirst within him-a thirst he hadn’t felt in years.

She smiled briefly as she watched the red spirit fill her glass. Then, she directed a loaded glance into his eyes- a glance as oblique in direction as in connotation. With that smile still in place, she gently placed the glass between her lips and savoured, if a touch exaggeratedly, the taste of the Burgundy soaking her palate. Without waiting for him to fill his glass, she turned her back on him in one graceful twist of her slender torso and started walking away with a gait that seemed to mock him. He watched, empty glass in hand, as she walked away; he watched her raven hair oscillate at her waist; he watched as her nightgown swished about her ankles.

Rekha...
She walked as far as the confines of the room permitted her to-as far as the soggy wooden cupboard. And since she could walk away from him no further, she stood there sporadically looking over her shoulder, hurling enticing glances and sipping away with poise.

Azad was conscious of a pang of desperation; the desire to consummate the agonizing incompleteness of the moment tormented him. But he had decided to play it cool; he had decided to revel in the enigma, be stimulated by the mystery. For once, he wanted to be challenged. She was an angel his libido had conjured up; and Azad knew all too well that angels didn’t come easy.

So he leant against the wall, took a deep breath and poured himself a drink.

On a sunny afternoon, seven years ago, Rekha had hurried into their home clutching in one hand a brown paper bag and squeezing, with the other, Azad’s right forefinger. Palpably excited, she shut the door behind them and proceeded towards the small dining table.

“Hold on to this, will you?” she said, thrusting the paper package towards Azad.

With a swipe of the hand she cleared the litter of peelings on the table and tossed the soiled clothes onto the chair.Then, collecting the package from Azad, she gently placed it on the table. Azad noticed the gleam of anticipation in Rekha’s eyes as she carefully tore off the paper-like a mother awaiting a newborn. She bent over slightly to take another closer look at the clock.

He stood and watched in curious fascination with his hands folded.

“The only thing that will change about it the hundredth time you gape at it is the time it shows”, he quipped.

She just looked at him and smiled back. Normally, she would counter his snide remark with a carefully chosen volley of irrelevant arguments to elicit just the right amount of annoyance in him; enough to crease his forehead and cause the tip of his brows to raise themselves ever so slightly, but avoiding the scowl which caused his nostrils to quiver and lips to rearrange themselves in an unpleasant formation she couldn’t quite describe. They had been married nine years now.

Rekha raised the gleaming white clock and pressed it softly against her ears. With her eyes closed, she listened to the ticking of the clock.Yes, it was alive. It was the closest they had come to creating life, she thought.

Azad couldn’t help let out a soft chuckle. On some days and in some moments, he was fond of her. Affectionately, if a touch mechanically, he ran his fingers through her hair. The smoothness of her tresses was rudely terminated by what his fingers recognized as tiny fragments of gravel- the rust perhaps, which these days seemed to pervade everything in his domestic life. The chuckle dissolved; his forehead creased; the tips of his brows rose slightly; and then Azad scowled.

He disentangled his fingers from her locks, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, walked towards the door and stepped out. As he lit his cigarette he could hear Rekha vigorously pacing inside mumbling something about finding a suitable place to plant the clock. Azad wondered why he couldn’t share her excitement. For nine months, all he had wanted to do was to be able to afford it; to be able to see this very gleam of excitement in her eyes and joy of possession in her stride as she clasped it in her hands- a joy which had eluded her in childbirth nine months ago.
He could understand, at some level, why it was more than just a clock for Rekha.Perhaps, for her, it meant that not all happiness was out of reach.

But it was, after all, only a clock, he rationalized.

“Azad!” she cried out from within.

He took one last, deep drag and stubbed out his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke with a tired sigh and went in.

The clock had been accommodated on top of the cupboard, where it seemed to beam down victoriously at Azad. Rekha was at the table, scribbling away furiously on a piece of ruled paper. She always wrote on ruled paper.

“Seven years.” she said, without looking up.

Azad didn’t reply. He waited for her to explain; she enjoyed it.

“Seven years is the time it’ll take us to make our home...complete.” She continued writing, her features drenched in the satiety and involvement of a child building a castle of sand.
“Done!” she squealed in delight and tucked a hanging strand of hair behind her ears. “If we accomplish this in the next seven years .....” she started.
Giggling like an enthused schoolgirl, she handed him the piece of paper.

As Azad browsed through her list, he was aware of a surge of restlessness within. A colour television; a music system; a scooter and a new paint job for the house – this, if Rekha were to have it her way, would be the culmination of the best years of his life. Azad was suddenly clouded by an emotion he could only place as sadness- an overbearing, crippling feeling of depression.

He had read about exotic cuisines which he had dreamt of titillating his taste buds with; he had heard of white sand beaches in Greece and imagined sunbathing in them; he had fantasized about hiking in the snow laden Alpines and making love to exquisite Spanish women with the perfect tan. And above all he had hoped he would one day sample the finest red wines from the choicest French vineyards. His marriage to Rekha was suddenly suffocating; the piece of paper he now held in his hands was, most certainly, a sentence of life imprisonment. Azad now felt weak.

She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“Thank you, Azad!”
Azad stared back at her blankly. She tried to kiss him again. This time he resisted.
“I’m tired, Rekha.” he said and retired to the cot. He knew he had hurt Rekha deeply. But he didn’t care. Strangely, all he could think about then was the red Burgundy wine from the vineyards of Eastern France.

The fine red wine.....
Leaning against the wall, he dislodged some flakes hanging from the now crusty and worn out coat of paint. He sipped the wine and instinctively closed his eyes, letting the taste permeate his senses. She stood there, leaning against the cupboard with her legs crossed in front of her, her nightgown fluttering in the gentle night breeze and strands of her hair scattered across her face. Taking another sip, he now walked up to her. Using his forefinger, he tried to brush aside the hair veiling her sublime features. She wriggled playfully at the touch of his fingertips and he spilt some of his wine on her long, shapely arms. As streams of red trickled down her arms, he admired the contrast her perfect bronze skin offered. He placed his arms on the curves of her waist and leaned forward to kiss her. Her eyelids drooped in submission. He could now feel the softness of her breasts caressing his chest. He kissed her gently at first-and then, forcing her against cupboard, more passionately. Clasping the side of her head with one hand, he started unbuttoning her gown with the other. As he slid his arms down her gown to stroke her feminity, her torso reciprocated with vigour and the cupboard vibrated in sync with the ebb and flow of their passion.

The clock on top of the cupboard teetered for a while and when, Azad’s dream could no longer contain the overpowering current of his desires, it tumbled from the top with a jarring shatter.

Azad awoke with his chest pounding and saliva trickling down the corner of his mouth. He stared motionless at the ceiling for a few moments and then almost involuntarily he smiled. He wasn’t sure but he felt something akin to liberation. He swept his eyes across the room-the filthy pile on the table, rusty bars of the window, the dilapidated walls and the cupboard with the clock perched on top. And inexplicably, this morose setting now aroused him both physically and mentally.

No, he would not end it all today. His life wasn’t throttled by his marriage, he decided. The romance had to be found in his mind; in his life; in Rekha -not in the beaches of Greece or the vineyards of France.

He was overcome by the desire to make love to Rekha.Now. It had been seven long years for Rekha too, he thought- seven years of chasing her dreams. She had counted on him to help her chase them but he hadn’t obliged.

He turned around to plant a kiss on her lips. But she wasn’t there. All that remained was a note written on a piece of blank paper.

“You are free. Find happiness. So will I.

He was Azad.Free.
To Dream.
Alone...

He continued to stare at the ceiling, transfixed perhaps by the hypnotic rotation of the heavy, metallic black blades of the fan.

And then he smiled.