Absolution (III)

On her way back, there is mist in her head.

Today is Saturday, a day that allows her the luxury to go back to sleep at any time during the day with a misty head, and wake up with an even mistier one. Saturdays for her are an announcement of herself to herself. Most other days, she falls just short — sometimes her loudhailer is muffled by the hubbub outside and at other times, she just does not find herself. On Saturdays, by the design of her lifestyle, she remains protected from an ever interfering environment. Having lived most of her adult life alone, she does not mind solitude. A two bedroom apartment shared by two people, with one of them almost never home, is indeed a luxury in the city, but one she considers worthwhile of an investment. Speaking of the city, even after a couple of years here, she thinks she remains an outsider who, for some reason, the city does not want to espouse. On her part, she has tried internalising some of it, but has spat it out inadvertently. So at long last, she has made peace with it — acquiescing in her symbiotic relationship with the city. The confines of a Saturday have played a good part in it.

When she woke her up earlier in the day, it did not feel like a new day to her, but almost like a continuation of the previous evening. Only when he initiated a conversation did she realise it was indeed a new day, which was to some extent, evident in her response. While she was clothed the way she would be on any other morning when she woke up, she had an eyeful of another human being, which ought to raise alarms for her. There was an unassuming intruder in her personal space, and she was more than aware of it. However, she tried to conjure some levity through her response. What followed was an easy going conversation, and a habit (/ addiction) she is not particularly proud of. She has lapped up most things pop, and cigarette is the first among equals. Could it have been the “cigarette after sex?”, she wonders to herself, and instantly admonishes herself, both at how much of a sucker she has become for conformity and trying to be a part of pop culture herself, and at how long after sex could she still classify a cigarette as “cigarette after sex”. Last evening they had talked about this band called “Cigarettes After Sex”. Dream pop, niche, fishy, moot, questionable. A lot of time after that still feels dreamy, though.

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They’d gone out for breakfast together. Conversations can be any one of the four cells in an interesting vs. smooth matrix, and today has been laboured and uninteresting. The morning has mostly been don’t ask don’t tell. They have gone about their business after that cigarette, with the occasional chatter sprinkled like coffee powder on a cup of coffee that has been dispensed from the vending machine in a small town marriage party — as little and as inconsequential.

“This is not going smooth now, is it?” He tries to shake it off.

“I wouldn’t think so. We began well with our Saturday routines, and your pretentious music.” She is still trying hard to be funny.

“I appreciate you came over,” he sputters.

“You’ve thanked me once, and once is enough, don’t you think? Of course if there is some metaphorical sense that I am missing, now is time you unravel it. I am listening.” She looked at him with assuredness.

“No nothing much, I mean. Do you have something that you want to talk about?” He looks at her, and waves to the waiter at the cafe. She is returning his gaze. “Like, you know, may be some sense of where do you think the last night is in the overall scheme of things?”

“I don’t know. I guess I have not given it enough thought to bring it up in a conversation with you at this moment.” She looks around and nods in approval. “I love the place though. You never mentioned this before?”

“Fair enough.” He hunches his shoulders. “Yeah, the place is good, but I am not a regular patron. I prefer cooking my food at home,” he said, with a hint of arrogance in his tone. “I am ordering a bowl of muesli, with berries and honey. What do you want to have? They have some of the best sandwiches in town here.”

They order their meal. The place is not very crowded — it’s a small cafe, unusually lit up with natural light, and about 6 tables. The stereo is playing a some warm instrumental jazz. There are a few posters on the wall, mainly European landscapes, and small time artists.

“I have been meaning to talk to you about stuff that’s been going on, you know. Like, sit down and take a stock of where we are and how invested we are within each of our worlds.” He says, hesitantly.

“That is too complicated a sentence for me to even be responding to. So can we please not pretend to be all intellectual and solemn about stuff?” That was the first hint of frustration from her.

“This is not complicated or flowery, you know. I am an exponent of subtlety if I may, and you’d agree that conversations are best navigated when not viewed as black and white?” He had slowed down considerably by the time he ended, and his face wore an apologetic look.

“I think you were right. It is not going smooth,” she almost threw her hand in the air. “Look, I have known you for a reasonably long period of time. Can we not just shed this skin of propriety that we’ve been wearing all this while and be our true selves?” Whenever she gets agitated, words come out ever so measured, and ever so slowly from her mouth. “I understand, and totally respect, that some people like to be guarded, but I cannot bring myself to appreciate this tentativeness in the grab of circumspection.”

“No, of course, I mean, yes. I am not being a devious bastard with my questions. I was just trying to get a sense of, you know, if you are okay with things as they stand now.” There is a lot of honesty in the tone if this question.

“Yes, I am. Now can we act like grown ups and finish our breakfast, please?” There was sharp bite in her reply, which could have been an acknowledgement of her discomfiture.

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Of course as human being we always have to grapple with a moral dilemma, and so did they. It is one thing to talk about the manner in which we want to lead our lives, and significantly another to actually do so. This is not to say that it is a very difficult thing to walk the talk, but that it requires a lot of conviction and courage. The more righteous amongst us fancy believing that our choices are guided by an sense of individuality that arises from a certain code we subconsciously live by. More times than not, this righteous lot feels inhibited in the way it handles its desires. When faced with choices, our limitations as individuals driven mainly be desire become much stronger than our strengths that bear the wright of our convictions. Sometimes, we crumble. And it is not that we don’t think through the options we have and the choices we make when we crumble. Sometimes, we assume that everything is not that complicated as it is made out to be, and that eventually, all things will fall in place. While the latter definitely happens, and in the process, can bring about severe disruptions and dislocations, the former is only seldom consistent. Sometimes, our tendencies to make black and white out of grey leaves us undone.

He dropped her off to the bus station, with their bodies consciously trying to maintain distance. There is comparatively lesser traffic on the roads, almost relenting and making space for the two bodies. The buses are comparatively lighter on human sweat and odour on a Saturday. She prefers buses as the means of transport, since the city does not accommodate bicycles kindly enough, and buses bring with them a lot of strange faces, and most riddled with stories.

As a welcome change, she has a scandal on her face today.