He Was Back, Was he?

No way. It couldn’t be him. Could it? The similarities were unmistakable. That same broad forehead extending into his hairline. The nose that looked like you could hang your coat on it. But, it had been so many years and she had been so little when he had disappeared. No no. she was making a mistake. ‘Imagining things’ as they would tell her then.

She peered closer. He smiled, and her heart trampolined into her mouth. That sneer. There was no mistaking that sneer. So evil that you had to avert your eyes, lest your blood froze to a stop.

He had changed. His hairline had receded extending the expanse of his already wide forehead. There were grooves at the ends of his sneer. On anyone else they would have been called laugh lines, but not on him. And there was something strange about one of his eyes. The pupil had not moved at all while the other one took in his surrounds. It shone, almost translucent. Glass! Why? How? Surely, not because of her…that night, twenty-five years ago.

She had been tossing and turning for hours. She had sipped cold water, Hugged Mr.Teddy tighter. Prayed. Nothing had helped. She could feel his fists from under her bed, through the mattress, punching her spine rhythmically. And every few punches would be punctuated by a soft whistle. Should she call out to her parents? No. He was sneaky. He would find a spot to hide if they came. He always did. And they would be upset with her. She had heard them talk, 'It’s from all those books. She always has her nose buried in one. We should cancel her library subscription for a few days.’

No. She could not loose her books. He whistled again. She felt the dog-eared book under her pillow. She had stuffed it there and pretended to be asleep when her mom had popped in to switch off the lights. Matilda would not be scared of him. She was 12 too. She reached out for the drawing compass on her desk. The point gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the window. She raised her hand above her head and plunged it through the mattress. His scream rang out in the darkness. She plunged again and again and again. His scream turned into a groan, then a whimper…and then there was silence. That’s when she stopped.

For the next few nights, she slept with the compass close at hand waiting for him to strike back. But there was silence. No punching. No humming. No calling her name. He was gone.

But, now here he was. The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered on to the saucer. The noise caught the attention of his roving eye and it came to rest on her. It was his turn to peer at her. Would he recognize her after all these years and with only one good eye? No way. But what if he did? No, she could not let that happen. He was still peering at her, a hint of recognition beginning to light his one pupil. She picked up the spoon without a sound, held her breath, raised her hand and plunged it into that roving eye. Hah!

THE EART IS FLAT

 The earth is flat – I discovered last week, quite by accident. I was in an Uber headed to Mumbai’s southern tip, except I had thought that it was at the Taj President hotel. But, the GPS on the driver’s phone indicated that I had another kilometre further south. I stepped out of the car and skid off the edge of my world and landed into another. 

Squat two-storey structures lined one side of the road. The top storey was accessed by metal step ladders nailed to the pavements and the buildings. I climbed up the ladder, envious of the two 8-9-year-olds who had clambered up like monkeys. I had two thoughts – one, if you slip, you’ll crush your ankles and a couple of the 9-year olds and two, thank god you swapped the dress for jeans. Upstairs, in one of the two classrooms engaged by Down To Earth are my students who are different levels in their undergraduate degree. The NGO has recruited me for a writing workshop for them. Over the next few days, I make more trips to this point beyond my erstwhile southernmost tip of Mumbai. Now, I know exactly where to ask the cab driver to stop. While nothing like the clambering monkeys – the next day I find them shimmying up and down the precarious ladder in jest, purely to mock me I am convinced – I am a little more surefooted.

This new annexe to my world appears familiar, but I am aware that it is dissimilar. Murakami and Marquez are welcomed but struggle to fit in. The settings in my anecdotes are alien as are the situations. Real people appear cloaked as unreal characters. I start, pause, start, stop, reorganize and restart. I change my stories a little and they indulge me a little. We meet halfway. It is when the stories tumble out that the variables dissipate…our stories separated by details are united by their themes.

In a couple of days, I no longer need to look at the steps on the ladder, my feet have memorized the distance between two steps. Another day and I skip the last two rungs and hop to the pavement. That’s the power of good stories. They don’t simply speak of its people and places. They make the most foreign world intimate and add a spring to your step as you go about exploring it.

They extend the perimeter of our flat world.