Tonight, the sky that stares down from beyond the curtains resembles my mind. Every time I feel like this, the world resembles a large scaly boil to me. Oblivious to the blossoming of the flowers around me, oblivious to the comfort from the blowing of the wind, I sit here staring at my feet. I search in panic as I realise the path that lies behind does not bear my footprints. I look with disbelief at my worn heels and stare at the indifferent path my feet traversed so far and wonder why. I didn’t arouse so much as a shrug from that languid path that many had walked on. Though I stuck to the track and walked by the rulebook, my heels are still worn out. But never once did the path glance at me. Never did it smile at me. Neither did I. I could have walked down the path with sure steps and with confident sway of arms. And, I could have created a commotion to prise open its eyelids, if only to force a glance out of it. Perhaps then, I would not be sitting here looking at my feet under this gaping sky. Perhaps then, I would have smiled too. But now, how can I smile? What is there to smile about in the first place?
My eyes fall on my husband and children, asleep in the bed. I suddenly see their faces turn into my worn feet. Vertiginous fear nudges me over the edge. Sitting there squeezed between the pitch black of the dark that stubbornly stands guard outside the room and my dear ones who sleep peacefully on the whiteness of the rug, I am assailed by a dread. Between the darkness and them, who will I choose?
I wait for that purging teardrop to well up inside me. But the wait has been long. I have asked many the whereabouts of that elusive teardrop. But all of them seem to be after their own elusive teardrops. In those moments, I sit down to read my favourite poem, to save me from the fear that follows me doggedly, like life itself. Not that it helps. As I read word by word, the darkness slowly crowds upon me from behind and spills over onto the words I am reading. When the darkness resides next to you like an illicit tenant, neither the children nor the poem can offer any comfort.
As with many times before, I close the book without reading a line. Seated in this small patch of light, hemmed in on all sides by the darkness of this claustrophobic room, I ask myself, where am I? Like a rosary, I repeat this question to myself till the words dissolve into a note and that note resonates with only the meaning. I stop to prick up my ears and I hear the same note echoing from the breaths of my sleeping children. When I am overcome by such a feeling of utter loss, I stand there clutching the bars of the window. And a sudden realisation burns into me in the question, who shall I cry for?
I pick up the book again.
I read the poem aloud, a ritual that has lost its meaning over years of mindless repetition. It becomes as futile as hoping to ward off snakes in the darkness by clapping loudly. The darkness still seeps into me from behind and from outside the window, through the innumerable pores within me. I read the poem still louder. It does nothing to allay the seething darkness that is filling up at a constant rhythm. At a constant pitch. I see the floor, the walls languidly dissolving in it. I single-mindedly read the poem louder. My husband wakes up.
‘Hold me tight,’ I say, ‘I am receding further and further away’
He sleepily hugs me. I bury my face into his chest and tries to sleep, like a baby. But the burning darkness is really percolating into the rhythm of his heartbeats. I wake up with a start. The sky still stares down at me. Sweat breaks out all over me. My eyes dart frantically between the book and the sleeping faces. At the door to the balcony, the darkness still stands sentry, refusing to let me out. A morbid frustration besieges me, where am I to go, carrying this burden?
Looking at my worn heels and at the pale, indifferent, listless path behind me has left me feeling severely tired. I realise that it is my lot to have not sown any seed or planted any sapling by this path, but still be left to carry the burden of dead trunks and branches down this path. Deep in the balcony and beyond, the darkness stands still. If I sit here any longer, next to my dear ones, carrying this burden, it will soon be their burden too. This thought gnaws at me and I feel a mixture of anger, frustration, and vengeance boil within me. ‘Look here, I can let you feed on me. But I will never let you touch them,’ I say aloud.
Suddenly, the room starts shrinking around me and if I so much as think of moving, I will knock over the darkness and it will spill onto my sleeping children. That is why when I step out of the room, I do it ever so carefully and silently. Outside, my younger daughter’s doll lies lonesome in the cold, desolate, darkness. The doll’s closed eyes are like dark patches in the tiny gash of light that has sneaked out of the room with me. Below those eyes, from her lips, paint had worn off in patches. They seem strangely twisted. They seem to be clenched in fear, clenched to hold back a sob that is about to burst forth. I pick her off the floor, as if to lift her out of gloom. She opens her eyes. I smile at her. But she does not smile back. Instead, she stares right into my eyes, much the same as the sky above. Her eyes gather heat and turn into fiery embers seeking me out from whatever depths I hide. I cannot bear it for long so, step quickly inside, and drop her on the table.
I pick up the book again.
I scramble up to the window as if to save myself from those pale grey eyes. Outside, the sky still stands staring at me. I close the window hurriedly and sit down on the little stool at my feet. Behind me, those eyes I will never be able to shake off, in front of me a door that can possibly be opened. The darkness that was ready to spill over earlier starts to congeal inside me with a deafening scream. Sitting here, crushed against the oppressive darkness and looking at the whiteness of the door, I feel consumed by grim tiredness. Mortal fear swells up within me. Mustering all my strength, I hurl the book at the doll. She falls with a screech. On her eyes, that have suddenly shut and her twisted leg, my eyes linger for a while. The feverish pitch of my breath slowly sinks down like hot ash in the drizzle. And, I remain as desolate as ever.
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This story was published in the original Malayalam under the title 'Iruttinte Jaalakam' in the weekly magazine Kalakaumudi in the 90s.
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Manasi is a contemporary Malayalam writer. She has won various literary awards, including Kerala Sahitya Academy Award, instituted by the state apex body in literature. One of her stories has been made into a film that won the Kerala State film award for the best original story.
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Rithwik Bhattathiri writes both original and translated fiction in English. His works have appeared in literary magazines across the world.