Short Story – Stop O Night…
© Anand Vishnu Prakash, YourStoryClub.com
I
The raindrops crashed hard against the window panes of the bus, creating a noise both violent and soothing. The bus was stalled at its habitual place at the bus station, but neither the driver, nor the conductor were within sight. Surveying through the mingled chatters of the numerous passengers, one could decipher speculations as to where the missing driver and conductor could be – from a plausible toilet call, to vulgar in-room activities. But my focus was not the old women criticising the transport system in a way one could possibly not call personal, neither was it the talks of the youngsters behind me, punctuating each of their sentence with a casual swear word, and even less was I concerned with the saliva flowing down the corner of a sleeping drunkard’s mouth. For some strange reasons, I was attracted to this middle aged lady decking up in the seat next to mine.
There was nothing awkward in seeing a lady so well dressed on a Sunday afternoon, retouching her make up in the bus; Sunday is THE day for Mauritian marriages. Yet, there seemed to be something special about her. Her long gloomy face seemed to be a misfit over the shimmering silvery motifs bordering her pink blouse and skirt. Her oversized clothes did not appear to be accepting her body as a worthy wearer, and from time to time, the oversized collar would slip left, revealing the tattered black strap of her bra. She would usually take note of it after everyone else had. Yet, she would not hurry into correcting this wardrobe glitch, as one would expect any honourable woman to do, but she would rather take all her time to pull the inner strap away, hiding it from view for a few minutes. And the same process would start over again. This little game kept the eyes of my adolescent neighbour riveted to the blouse of the lady, probably expecting some more show for his lustful eyes. But it was not this glitch that captured my attention.
Actually, I do not quite know what captured my attention in the first place. What I know, though, is that I was staring her (ogling at her, would an onlooker say). The driver and conductor had finally been released from their occupation and had realised the impatience of my fellow passengers. She removed a little wooden box from her handbag. The bus neighed a start, and dragged itself to the opening of the bus terminal. She was now reloading her brush for another layer of blush upon her face.
The driver swore at a car he had just dodged, amidst the indignation of his colleague and the giggle of the boys behind. She was still hiding her coarse greasy skin under that lighter-toned powder, but her forgotten neck foiled her cover. Another abrupt kick onto the brakes informed us that another accident had just been averted. This was confirmed almost immediately by another insult hurled at the poor dog by the speeding driver. But my eyes were still on her. This unexpected halt had disrupted her delicate process of lips painting, and the dark red lipstick had drifted out of its path to end its journey in the midst of her cheek. I could not stop the smile invoked by the association to Batman’s Joker. But I smiled too hard perhaps.
She turned fast to see if anyone had caught her misadventure, and her eyes met mine. We looked at each other expecting to disarm the gaze of the other through persistence. But none of us gave in. I do not know exactly how much time went by, but it could not have been more than a minute. Yet, this minute was enough for me to be marked by the weird indifference on that face deformed by a red extension to the thin lips – like a scar, which paradoxically suited her face quite well. And then there were her eyes. There was something in her eyes which I do, and will always find difficult to describe. A feeling of hollowness which could in no way be compared to anything I had ever encountered. Like a tunnel of which no issue could be seen. No small halo of light in the end. No lines demarking the path to go. It was the sort of tunnel which made one feel lost just by looking at it. The sort of tunnel no one would never want to take.
The bus entered a small tunnel, and the momentary dimming of the light incited both of us to steal our gazes away, and make as if nothing ever happened. Then there was light again. I took out my mobile, untangled my earphones, plugged it in, and selected one of the old Lata Mangeshkar songs. As I tried hard to limit my field of vision to my mobile screen, the velvety voice resounded in my ears –
Ruk jaa raat, Theher jaa re chandaa, Beete naa milan kii belaa… (Stop O Night, Wait O Moon, let n0t this moment of union pass away…)
Suddenly I knew what to call her, or what context to place her in. Waiting. It was the sort of tunnel where you keep waiting for light. And that light never comes. The song continued, as I turned to the woman –
Raat chaandnii kii nagrii mein, Armaanon kaa melaa… (In the nightly city of Moonlight is being held the gathering of desires…)
Hopes effaced, like the excess kohl she was trying to rub off from her eye. Nearly instantly, the story of a broken woman rolled into my mind. A woman who lost her husband an unfortunate night –
Ruk jaa raat, Theher jaa re chandaa… (Stop O Night, Wait O Moon…)
The next morning she was a widow, forsaken by her children, left to wear those pale clothes; she was now excluded from colourful events of life. Alone she would remain, shunned by near ones, by those she considered her close ones, crying tears of treachery, alone in dark corner. And then as a spotlight in utter darkness, came a wedding invitation, which started:
Aum
Shree Ganeshaya Namaha
Mr and Mrs…
She did not have to read more. She was finally invited to a colourful event. She took the rarely used phone receiver, opened her little black diary, wore her glasses on the tip of her nose and looked at the only number on the second page of it.
She dialed, and it rang. And it rang. And there was no answer.
She dialed again, and it rang again. And it rang. And someone answered, “Ma…? Tou korek?” (Mom…? Is everything okay?)
She asked whether he was free on that Sunday. “Non ma! Mo ena en rande-vou inportan sa zour la. Ale apre mo koz ar twa. Mo dan travay la!” (No mom! I have an important meeting on that day. I talk to you later! I’m at work!)
And the beep.
This was why she was in that bus. By the time the film finished playing in my mind, the song was on its second stanza:
Kal kaa dar naa, Kaal kii chintaa… (No fear of tomorrow, nor any worry about time…)
The woman was already on her way out, unnoticed by my imaginative mind. At the door of the bus, she glanced at me, refreshing that disturbing image of the unending tunnel of waiting that served her as eyes. And somewhere, in that glance directed specifically at me, I found a sense of closeness, of a bonding that had been created in that short journey.
I do not know where she went, who she is or what was her real story. What I know is that it is something I found worth telling, something I found I needed to tell, something she might read and know I am still haunted by her inexplicably empty eyes…
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