A Casual Affair
Short story
“Your hair is like cotton candy…Your hair is like an Indian devi’s ten hands…Your hair is like a Gordian knot…Your hair is like strands of mist on a rainy morning…”
A morning like today.
I liked to remember her on days like this. Her sun-weathered, lined face visible through locks of my long hair.
I liked to remember her amused commentary about my dreads.
Her smile was sad and old, but her voice was like a young girl’s. Her laughter still rang in my ears, like a witch casting a magic spell.
She liked singing old English songs about summertime, when the living’s easy. After a while, I sang along to her tune: “Fish are jumping and the cotton is high.”
Oh, my daddy was not rich, but her folks were. I always told myself that did not matter, at least to me. I missed her, certainly. Not what she did to me, but I missed her.
My window pane vibrated with the sound of persistent rain, and dull, intermittent thunder. How long had I been indoors this time? I had lost track of time again.
That was the first thing it took away — the H. The smack. It took away any sense of time. Then, my sense of identity. It claimed me until all my senses had been sacrificed to the monsoon Gods of rain and thunder.
I thought about her then, in a way that left me depleted. Sometimes more depleted than the H. The smack.
The mist rolled in and covered everything in its pallid beauty. Pale like her skin, which only reddened in the sun, never getting tanned. A fact she liked to complain about every time a bikini-clad brown-skinned beauty passed by.
My skin had gained the hue and texture of a young oak tree. My hair had become like the stiff palm fronds that stuck out in every direction and swayed madly in the wind, right outside my window.
Then there was the silence. The fog inside my mind was happy to be with its twin out there in the real world. I was also happy. Or whatever emotions I could still sense felt like happiness. The rest was a blur.
Its silence reflected the silence of my heart.
My heart that had been silent for a while now, almost like it had stopped beating. It made me wonder if I had become a zombie from an english horror movie. I had felt this way ever since she left me, broken.
When was that? I couldn’t tell, nor did I care to. I remained indoors to avoid time, only leaving if I needed more…
I avoided people more than I avoided time. Even my dealer, priest of ungodly hours, was not allowed inside my room. I had to go out to score the H, the smack. My mouth watered at the thought of my next fix.
My stomach grumbled, but it could wait. Even my broken heart didn’t make as much of a fuss as my belly did sometimes. I felt the hunger strengthen, rearing its starving head. But something inside me was dead already.
Not because of the H. Heroin was my medicine.
When I had enquired about the quality of his stuff, the dealer had assured me: “Doctors prescribe morphine for bodily aches and pain, I have some of that too. But I prescribe something stronger for your special condition.”
The rain fell through the day as I watched from my single mattress. I didn’t have a cot, not even a table and chair. Just the bedding, next to which sat my open backpack, spilling clothes.
These clothes didn’t fit me well anymore. My bones poked through the top of my t-shirt, though it hid my ribs well enough.
A few plates, a pot and a pan sat near an old-school stove, on the ground. Some grains of rice had stuck to the wall behind the pretend kitchen. An old vase sat in the corner, its faded beauty mocked the room’s aesthetics.
This wasn’t my home. I had merely taken it up as shelter for my holiday. I had arrived at the beach town for two weeks, a few months ago, or had it been a year already? I didn’t think so.
My friend, from whom I had sublet the room, was away for three months only. So, it could not be longer than that.
I recalled his grin as he waved goodbye, two days after my arrival. He had assured me: “Babes, bongs and the beach. You’re going to have so much fun, sir!” His parting words semed like a cruel joke now.
I sat up straight, remembering more. My stomach growled. My temples throbbed. The heroin must be fading. I left the room, noticing its filth and poverty, for the first time again.
I trudged towards the muddy back alley. The rain had let up, but large dirty drops continued to fall across my face and clothes. My slippers picked up more mud as I walked through the filthy flooded streets behind the tourist market.
A garbage can had tipped over. Rotten trash ate up half the narrow lane. A skinny dog sniffed at it, saw me and ran away, frightened.
My neighbourhood belonged to bottom feeders. It housed runaway children and poverty-stricken folk who sought to make a life through seasonal temporary work, available abundantly in this destination town.
I came from another tourist town, recalling my life more clearly, now that I could think again. There, I was the one who provided seasonal work for migrant labourers as well as locals looking to make an extra buck.
I rented out cars, second hand vehicles that I picked up for cheap from my large network of friends and family, fixed up and let out for people to drive tourists around.
That’s how I had met my friend, the one who sublet the room to me for a small sum of money. I lived in the mountains, where the air was fresh for most of monsoon, and the slopes drained rainwater naturally.
Here, the ocean seemed to double in size during the rainy season. It threatened to take over every inch of human habitation, or so it seemed.
I mused that one day the sea would successfully claim its long-lost territory. The coastal people would have no choice but to grow fins and return back to the primordial waters that all of humanity came from.
My whimsical thoughts came to an end naturally, when I reached my first destination — a small dhaba that promised fresh homestyle food.
“Fish curry and rice!” The manager behind the rickety desk called out, as soon as he saw me. A fake smile was plastered on his face, like most resteraunters and guesthouse owners here. Still, he did a good job of remembering customers and kept a healthy distance from junkies like me.
After I relieved myself in the broken pot that served as a urinal for customers and staff alike, I headed towards my preferred corner table. It was a good spot from which I could observe the rest of the dhaba.
The waiters were grumpy. They were forced to work more through the off-season when most other places were closed. Still, it got them enough cash to send back to their families, or pay for alcohol and prostitutes.
Most of them lived in shared accommodations, small rooms with cramped bunkbeds. They usually wore singlets and boxer shorts or faded pyjamas. Mosquitoes feasted on their bare skin as they served meals and took orders for second helpings.
Who was I to judge them? I considered many of them my friends, or as close to it as one could get when consantly high on heroin.
The drug had worn off completely and I felt my strength return, despite my growing hunger. My eyes could focus enough to see my meal. This encouraged my appetite. The fish tempted me enough that I forgot about my woes, for a moment.
I dug in with my fingers, ignoring the glass of dirty spoons before me. It helped that the fish was always piping hot, and the side-serving of fresh salad provided a nice contrast.
My appetite disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived, before I could finish my meal. The small amount of heroin that remained in my blood was at work again, hungry to find its molecular mates. Shocked at the sobriety that a big meal inevitably brought along with it.
I sighed, resisting the urge to hurry to my dealer for more. I concentrated on the thinning crowd and sipped on a glass of water. I didn’t even have the appetite for a bottle of coke or sweet packaged lassi made from local curd.
My favourite waiter emerged from the bathroom. He was a south Indian man who always wore a lungi, like the sarongs favoured by women on the beach. It was pulled up from the bottom to meet his waist, so that his legs were well ventilated.
He always sported a smile and never drank alcohol, not even a drop. His preferred vices were dark hasish and fair women, or so he liked to joke. Everyone who knew him, knew that he venerated his wife and children who had remained back in his village. He had moved here for work when their small farm had lost all fertility after a few bad seasons.
He worked hard to eke out a living and was the only peninsular man around. No one could pronounce his complicated name, so the others had taken to calling him 'Kalia', referring to his darker complexion.
This name reminded me of bollywood villains, which was in stark contrast to his pleasant nature. So, I simply called him Dost — my friend.
Dost walked up to my corner table and sat down heavily. He looked tired after rush hour, but wore the genuine smile that he usually carried like a secret weapon against the harsh realities of the world.
He pulled out a bidi from his shirt pocket. He emptied it on the table, denting the folded leaves that made up the outer shell in the process. He added bits of hasish and carefully mixed it with the tobacco. I watched him fill it back up and light the tip with a matchstick before either of us spoke.
“Where were you? It’s been two days now.” Dost enquired with a concerned look.
So, I hadn’t eaten for two days again. That explained the hunger and the finished heroin. I had gone on a binger again, without realizing it.
I avoided looking up and lied: “I went sightseeing, roamed around here and there. Who doesn’t get tired of being in one place?” Lying had never been my forte. My large hazel eyes always gave me away.
“You were sightseeing in this weather? Who will believe you? You need to eat, my friend. Look, get your fix, I’m no one to judge you for that. I do what I need to, but I always eat three meals a day.” My friend puffed on his marijuana bidi, taking a long last drag before throwing away the filterless butt.
He continued: “Why do you need to do the same thing everytime? Drink some alcohol with those losers some day, you’ll have fun. They’ll take you to the tastiest whores in town. So what if they have brown skin?” He said all this rapidly, nodding at the young staff who were now gathering for their meal and a shared bottle of local alcohol.
Dost made another bidi-joint rapidly. This time he held it out for me to light up. I accepted it, gladly. Pot calmed my frayed nerves that were now clamoring for harder drugs.
I didn’t bother responding. Dost understood and left me in peace as we shared the joint. The rain started up again but only for a short while.
By the time we were done, the younger boys had cleaned up the dhaba, swept out fallen bits of food with stick brooms, and thrown water on tables and chairs.
Dost had a calm far-off look, and smiled at his pleasant high. Momentarily, I felt jealous of my friend’s ease and good health. Mostly, I was glad for his company through these tiresome hours.
At the age of 27, I never thought I would give in to drug addiction so easily. Back home I used to avoid the homemade alcohol that were part and parcel of family gatherings, festivals and weddings.
I rarely smoked the high quality hashish that was so freely available in my mountain hometown.
I got up to leave. Too many thoughts were dangerous, and threatened to take over what remained of my sanity.
Dost had mellowed out. By the time he made his third joint, he could only raise a hand as a gesture of farewell.
I paid the manager with crumpled notes, and slipped my wallet in the back pocket of my baggy jeans.
I began walking towards my narrow lane. The dealer stayed a few houses away from me. The garbage smelled more strongly, now that my senses had returned. I quickened my pace but stopped to scratch the dog, who finally lumbered up to me, probably hoping for fresh food.
In that instant, I was pushed against a wall. What felt like a knife was thrust against my spine. The dog ran away, howling.
A rough voice said “Don’t make a sound or I’ll kill you in an instant”. I couldn’t see my assailant’s face, but I could sense his size. I had never been a brawny man, and my addiction had leached me of my masculinity.
Raindrops splattered around me, and felt like a thunderous roar in my ears. As my breath quickened, my heart woke up and beat heavily against my scrawny chest. The assailant checked my pockets and snatched out my wallet with its thick wad of notes.
He left as suddenly as he had come. I heard him run down the lane in the same direction as the dog. Numbly, I stayed in the same position, using the wall as support to hold myself up.
Eventually, I sat down with my back against the wall. The smell of putrefying garbage filled my nose and mouth as I gasped for breath. It brought me back to my senses. The dog was back, sniffing my face, as if to check on me.
I hugged the little creature to calm myself. Sounds of people in a parallel lane threatened to send me back into frenzy mode.
I got up and ran the other way, towards the beach. I didn’t have money to buy heroin anymore.
I clambered up a jagged rock. The rain had started falling in full swing again. Waves smashed their head against the rock, like demented beasts.
I remembered the first time I had climbed this rock. The sea had been gentler then, the sky — a pretty postcard blue with big puffy clouds.
That was the day I had met her.
She had walked down the beach wearing a flowery dress, her bare legs were pink and hairless. Her hair reminded me of maize that grew in my fields back home. I smiled at her from my perch on top of a low wall. An unlit cigarette hung from my lips.
She smiled back and asked if she could bum a smoke. I held out my pack and said: “You can take all of them if you stay and smoke with me.”
She smiled, accepted only one cigarette but allowed me to light it up. She didn’t leave. I took that as a good sign.
Shortly after that, we began meeting every day. She had enough money to pay for our meals at the overpriced shack cafes that dotted the beachfront.
We danced together when a live band played on weekends. We got drunk on cheap wine and made love.
She was older, at least by a decade, but still beautiful. She would be tipsy after two glasses of wine and laugh with her head tipped back. Her face would turn pink with happiness.
I didn’t mind being a kept man as long as I could see her smile, touch her bare legs under the table, and her breasts back in her air-conditioned hotel room. She didn’t mind sleeping over in my cheap accommodation every now and then, when I felt like being in my own space.
She had warned me from the beginning that she was on holiday, and would return back to her country, husband and teenage children at the end of her stay.
I had ignored the implications, choosing to enjoy the moment and her beautiful body. Or so I thought. Memories of our time together rushed through my mind in a random order.
Back in the present, I looked down at the raging water. Perhaps, it was time to end it all. Perhaps, I would become a fish, grow gills, and forget my past life. I would like that.
I took a deep breath and counted till three. My legs trembled like the jelly she ate for dessert, but they were fastened to the rock. My mind and heart had given up, but my body wanted to stay alive.
I sat down, gasping. The waves tore at my feet and the rocks poked at my bones. Still trembling, I climbed down from the rock. I forced myself to return to my room, before I gave in to my worst thoughts again.
Back on my mattress, and sober now, I had nowhere to go to escape my thoughts. The drug dealer never gave away his goods without being paid upfront.
I didn’t have anything precious enough to barter, except my life, which the dealer didn’t care about, and my body that I would not sell. My body broke the night she betrayed me.
Towards the end of her holiday, I had begun to feel the pain of our short-lived relationship, that came with an expiry date. I could not tolerate the thought of losing her. The idea of another man touching her, even her husband, drove me crazy.
A few days before she was scheduled to leave, we got into a massive argument. She tried to reason with me, explaining that I had misunderstood the meaning of our friendship. It had only been a casual affair and she had to go.
“Don’t go, don’t leave me, don’t you love me?” I had screamed at her, fighting back tears.
“Love? Love? We were only temporary, I told you!” She screamed back at me, her face was red with anger.
“How can you be with another man? How can you think of going back to him after being with me?” I fought back, determined to convince her of my worth.
“Another man? You are the other man. He is my husband, and my children need me.” She was in tears, shocked at my misbehaviour.
“I’ll follow you, I know where you live. I’ll follow you back and explain it all to him so we can be together.”
Desperation had overtaken my better senses. I could not accept that she did not want me anymore. Truly shocked now, she slapped me and pushed me against a wall. She picked up her purse and walked out in a hurry.
I remained in my room, nursing my broken heart. Big, awful sobs escaped me. I felt like I could die. I convinced myself that there had been a mistake. That she would reconsider if I met her again and pleaded my case well enough.
I dressed up, trimmed my beard and went to the hotel to do exactly that. I knocked at her door. She opened it a crack and peered out. She wasn’t shocked to see me but she looked sad.
“What do you want now?” She asked impatiently.
“Let me explain, let me explain.” My rehearsed speech was forgotten. I was back to begging.
“I can come with you, I’ll help you leave him so we can be together. It doesn’t matter where we live, as long as we are together.” I had convinced myself that if I offered to go back with her she would accept that our love was real.
She sighed, bit her lips, looked down and said “I was afraid this would happen.”
She didn’t let me in. I could see her clothes strewn accross the bed next to a big black suitcase. I wanted desperately to steal it and hide her passport. She saw me staring inside.
“Why don’t you go back to your room and I’ll visit later in th evening. We’ll talk then, when you are calmer.” Her voice was cold, but her words gave me hope.
That was the last time I saw her.
Like an obedient schoolboy, I went back to my room and waited for her, with as much patience as I could muster. My nerves threatened to give in, but at least there was hope.
Later in the evening, a knock sounded at my door. I gladly rushed to open it, thinking it must be her. But when I threw it open, three big men from another country stood there.
They pushed themselves in, before I could close the door. They threw me on my mattress roughly, beating my back and head with their fists. I took their blows as calmly as possible. I coul barely breathe with my face against the mattress.
“Leave her alone, do you understand?” They repeated this in accented voices throughout the assault.
I refused, screaming: “Never, she’s mine!”
They pinned me down, roughly pulled down my pants and raped me with what felt like a stick. My screams must have pierced through the walls. They stopped. I sobbed out my agreement.
“OK, OK!” I cried out. “I’ll forget her, I promise.” They left me in that position, after some more threats and racist slurs.
I stayed there for a long while, in the same position I now lay in. My backside was bloody. My mind and body felt broken. My heart felt like it had stopped beating. I remained in my room for a few days, recovering from the ordeal.
When hunger and memories of my rape became too much to bear, I dragged myself to the dealer neighbour, who we had scored marijuana from, back when we were together.
This time I asked him for the best drug, the one that took away all pain. So began my second romance, the one that soothed the memories of her betrayel.
The one that seemed to have come to an end now, with all my money gone. I stayed there all night sweating out the heroin, revisiting my trauma over and over again until I could not take it anymore.
I must have passed out at some point. The sound of thunder and people passing by woke me up around midday. Once again, I mustered the strength and courage to leave my room and walk down to the dhaba. This time, I went to borrow money from my friend, or get a job to earn enough for my next fix.
When I arrived there, the manager called out my usual order but I declined. I sat down at my usual corner table, ignoring everyone, till Dost emerged from the kitchen at the back. When he saw me, he came straight to my table.
“What happened? You look terrible! Even worse than usual.” Dost said, jokingly.
But he did not smile this time. I looked back at him through hollow eyes and asked, simply “I need money…I…I lost my wallet and I need money, for things.”
I wished I could lie better. Dost didn’t respond for a long moment. He pulled out a bidi and puffed on it to fill the awkward silence.
“Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but I’ve seen enough men in your position to know that nothing good will come out of it, if you remain here in this condition.” Dost looked at me sagaciously. His eyes went over my scrawny body and matted hair.
“Here’s what I can do for you. I can book your train ticket back home if you promise to clean up and quit your bad habits.” He said with finality.
Memories of my mountain town and family home flooded my mind, like sunlight entering through cracks in a broken house. I began to cry. I couldn’t utter a word.
Dost looked shocked. He squatted besides me and placed his hand on my arm. He remained quiet till I gathered myself enough to stop weeping like an errant child.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He said gently. His smile was back on his face.
“But if I leave, how will I repay you?” I asked him.
“You have already repayed me by agreeing! Besides, won’t you show me around your beautiful town when I visit? You can pay for me then.” His dark eyes were kind. They reminded me of my father’s eyes.
I held his hand. Too overcome with emotions to respond, I merely nodded my agreement. Dost pulled me up and we walked together towards the travel agent’s office.
A brilliant ray of light broke through the grey clouds and lit the glistening road ahead.
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