Knock and Mate

Category: , , , , By The Last Leg


She looked out the window unwittingly, the way you do when you don’t intend to see anything. The lanes were buzzing, with activity and bees. Lights had taken effect. The usual. Bystanders, though visibly occupied with themselves, seemed just as concerned with the others. Men were walking along, gaze shifting nervously even as women folk met them in the eye.


A taxi drove in and eased to a halt at the end of the square. Somewhat 30, dressed adequately in a shirt and cotton pyjamas, wheat complexioned, thin and bow-legged, a young man stepped out. He reached for his pocket and from the bundle of notes tucked into, flung a 500 rupee note at the driver.


Just about then, she stopped looking. A lull in the air, the road down below wet in dew, window glasses dripping of breath, a lonely moon and stars scattered far and few in between. On nights exactly like the one today, Aparajita would run down to the square and amidst all the mindless chaos, listen to her footsteps as she walked. Not today, not after she could not hear them anymore.


The young man paced away towards a sapless wooden staircase, up and over to a door. Both sides of the door were put together just enough to suggest being shut. He knocked. Broken knocks. The kind that are not meant to be heard.


Given the weather outside, the night was unusually cold. Aparajita, now suiting herself for the night, wiped the mist off her mirror. She was very clean about herself, blades and scissors were always handy and she would bathe in fruit extracts every night. Her face bore an ignorant smile and her eyes, a hundred stories. Perfumes, especially on the neck, were a prerequisite. Her breasts, robust, pregnant with milk and weighed down, were tied neatly in a blouse. She made sure that newspapers were laid down, a cigar box was placed on the bed-side table, lights were dim, curtains closed and sheets were rolled out on the bed tidy.


Business was rewarding. Nights would begin with knocks on the door. Loud knocks, hesitant knocks, indifferent knocks, familiar knocks, authoritative knocks, desperate knocks. Dawn would break out with a weary thud.


His hands trembled nervously, brushing his pockets now and again, seemingly looking for something and then deciding against it. Ill at ease, he knocked. Curious knocks. The kind that want to know what awaits them.


Aparajita, wenched up for the night, lay immersed in the puff of a sofa. Lights were such that they did not say much about the room or the person who owned it. It had a bed, a steel cupboard, a plastic bed-side table and a sofa - all bought out of a cheap warehouse in the city. A segment of the western wall was covered in layers of cement, sealing the window that was, as if shutting out the world outside of it.


He knocked again. Telling knocks. The kind that are answered.


 

12 comments so far.

  1. Pree July 16, 2009 at 2:44 PM
    I like :)
  2. Unknown July 16, 2009 at 3:20 PM
    Beautiful piece of writing! Takes you in a different world altogether. Can't wait to read more of these :)
  3. Riddhi Parekh July 16, 2009 at 4:22 PM
    I have seen this story progress from one word to a line and now to this. I like the use of inanimate objects being used to describe the characters like doors and the knocks… From the time I read this I was dying to know what their story was and hoping the characters not be clichés from the classics. . I don’t know whether I am disappointed or just craving for more…. Hope this is not the end even so I love how it ends…..
  4. The Last Leg July 16, 2009 at 6:12 PM
    @ pree -

    I like too. Welcome to my trash can!

    @ Pooja -

    Holy Mother of God! You make me sound like I-don't-even-know-who.

    I so do not deserve such praise. Thanks, nonetheless!

    @ Riddhi Parekh -

    To say exactly what I feel like, I don't know whether I am disappointed with myself or just craving for more of your comments. I hope the story, whenever I have it ready, stands true to your hopes and wait. :-)
  5. noir July 17, 2009 at 9:59 AM
    I don't know how to put it ... it just maybe my shortcoming as a reader.

    I felt empty at the end of this. Not the gnawing feeling of numbness when u read a good piece of marvelous hopelessness but the "where is this going?" experience. Unfortunately for me the promise at the start was not realized till the end.

    Still I commend the morose and imagery of stony grief throughout the piece. Your choice of photograph continually astounds me.
  6. Anonymous July 17, 2009 at 10:34 AM
    Har ek baat pe kehte ho tum ke tu kya hain....

    Har ek baat pe kehte ho tum ke tu kya hain....

    Tum hi kaho ke yeh andaaz guftagu kya hain....
  7. The Last Leg July 17, 2009 at 10:58 AM
    @ noir -

    Thankyou! You pretty much speak my tongue, makes me feel like I know my work. I am still working on it, on the 'where is this going' bit. In fact, I have been working on this story for more than two years now.

    Sometimes, opening a little wooden door can be most difficult .

    When I make you read the end product, and this I know for certain, you would be proud.
  8. The Last Leg July 17, 2009 at 11:00 AM
    @ Anonymous -

    Anonymous suits you, baka!! Did you forget to sign in or were you just checking whether I figure out or not?

    :-)
  9. Piper July 22, 2009 at 6:35 PM
    Beautifully written. I was waiting for you to spoil it all along but you didn't :)
  10. The Last Leg July 23, 2009 at 11:17 AM
    @ Piper -

    Ha!

    I knew you would say something like this and yet, I do intend to spoil it for you. I have worked too long on this shit to just let it be, a closure is imperative.

    Glad you liked it, by the way!
  11. Piper July 23, 2009 at 10:28 PM
    Let it be, if you can. Real stories have no beginning and no end. This looks just right as it is.
  12. The Last Leg July 24, 2009 at 10:47 AM
    :-)

    TRUE!!

Something to say?