Heydays
Short story by Ramzauva Chhakchhuak: ‘People in the neighborhood didn’t even care if Bala was looking straight at them. It was as if he didn’t exist.’
From his distance, the electric yellow flowers in the mustard field were conspicuous. The hot, cloudless day made its colors more resplendent. Bala fancied a dip in the waters nearby and wondered why he hadn’t gone in already. The tributary disappeared magically and appeared again as he walked. The mud path led him to a meadow. Over it, horses with rich manes that looked like ones straight out of travel shows were grazing. “Such horses here?” Bala muttered under his breath. “In this region? What on earth?” He walked past the animals, admiring them. A bridge led to some thickets. He wanted to stay longer and watch the animals, but his legs led him on.
The bridge was made of bamboo slats, held together by jute ropes and nails. This rested on some wooden poles that were thrust deep in the shallow river bed.
Some people ahead waved at him. Bala saw their blurred shapes. They seemed to recognise him—but Bala couldn’t figure out who they were. He crossed the flimsy structure with great trepidation and walked at a sloth's pace, cautious about each step. There was nothing to hold on to. At the end, he heaved a sigh of relief and rested for a few seconds. Then he walked straight into the wall of flora. It hid the white sandbank from view, and beyond it, the clearer waters.
Bala didn't quite remember it for sure, but it seemed as if he had been walking for hours in the humid weather. Now, finally, he was glad to be near the water. He slipped out of his t-shirt and threw it nearby, kicked his flip-flops then hurriedly walked while unbuckling his belt and pulling down his pants. He left all of these on the sand.
His feet felt cool as they touched the slush. Within a second, he was knee deep. The water then reached his hips. He felt slightly dizzy.
He heard a sudden sound. Something like a plane’s rotating blades. He looked up in confusion but there was nothing. Then he felt the water reach his thighs, then waist, and wet his underwear.
He blinked several times and saw a fan at the end of his bed.
Bala was filled with rage. He lay there, disgusted for wetting himself yet again in his sleep. This was the third time in a little over two weeks. He tried to remember and feel every little detail of what he had just seen. As he stared at the ceiling above, he wondered who the figures had been.
Everywhere he went in Majuli, the tributaries of the Brahmaputra were never too far away. He felt like he had swum everywhere without touching the water. The place stayed with him. So much so he went back again and again.
It had been ages since he had thought of that place. Majuli. He wasn’t even sure if what he ‘saw’ was the reality or some embellishment from the trip concocted by an idle brain. Bala had spent a week there covering the elections. He stayed in a fishing hamlet. It came back to him little by little. Decades had passed. He had forgotten most of what he had done that week at Majuli other than speaking to people for his stories and traveling on the river island's atrocious roads.
He never touched the water during that entire trip. He did not know how to swim, something he would always regret.
Everywhere he went in Majuli, the tributaries of the Brahmaputra were never too far away. He felt like he had swum everywhere without touching the water. The place stayed with him. So much so he went back again and again. That morning, he tried remembering what he had done on these other trips, but in vain.
The hot air from the fan continued to blow on Bala’s heels. He recalled another incident: As a child, he had ventured into a river near his village. He kept on going in till the water reached up to his neck. Then, some of the sand underneath his feet gave way, and all he could remember was sinking in the blurry waters, violently flapping his arms and kicking his feet. He was gone just for a few seconds but it seemed like an eternity. He was saved by a villager who was passing by. He jumped in and dragged Bala to the banks. He never forgot this lesson, and never went near a water body again.
“Now it’s really time to get up,” Bala said to himself. The sulfur odour was on his clothes and bed. He was uncomfortable.
Bala stayed all alone in his ancestral house on the outskirts of Bengaluru thousands of miles away from Majuli. A longing arose deep within him to go back there. The house he was in right now never felt like home. He had been away most of his life. Now back, he had neither kith nor kin.
He slowly sat on his bed and looked around the room. He could not find his stick anywhere nearby. It had probably fallen underneath his bed, like it did most of the time. He had to teach himself how to keep it in its proper place. Bending down, retrieving it, and getting up would be a tedious, 20-minute exercise, which he wasn’t looking forward to it first thing in the morning. He pushed himself to the edge of the bed while on his behind, dangled both legs down slowly, and reached for the wooden floor. He held on to a nearby shelf for support and transferred some of the weight from his body to his hands, and then finally, to his feet. He remained in that position for a while before he felt strong enough to take steps.
Bala went straight to the bathroom, took out his soiled cotton pajamas and t-shirt, and threw them into a bucket of water and detergent. He slowly washed himself up while sitting on a plastic stool, poured water from an ancient-looking brass mug and bucket. They made clanging sounds when moved.
All of this roughly took around an hour.
He wiped himself dry while seated. Then picked out a kurta and a pant from the number of clothes that hung from a gunny rope in the bathroom. Out into the bedroom again, Bala removed the bedsheet and the blue tarpaulin underneath it. He used the latter as protection for his thick mattress in such situations. He had had bladder problems his whole life, but never uncontrollable like this.
Bala walked back slowly to the bathroom to put the bedsheet and his clothes in the soapy water. The tarpaulin was mildly rinsed with tap water and dried on the small balcony outside the bathroom. “One task completed, another to go,” he quipped.
The maid he hired a year back had stopped coming after the lockdown. She was the chatty kind. He wasn’t. While he was glad for the silence now, he wished she would be back soon. Food had become a big problem since she left. Before she was hired, he had some arrangement at a small eatery nearby to send him three meals a day. In his heydays, Bala could cook up a storm. It would often be the highlight of parties and boozy gatherings with friends and colleagues. But it was all was too much of a hassle now. His hands hurt from just cutting vegetables and moving things around. Standing in one position for longer than a few minutes would lead to severe back pains afterward.
There were times the maid would go absent without notice. He didn’t say a word for fear she would not come back. The eatery would be his saving grace then; now, even that had been shut.
He did not remember when he had a proper meal in the last two weeks, since the lockdown. Bala had somehow arranged for his neighbors to get him groceries and gave them some extra cash for the effort, but they were irregular and could not be relied on. Sometimes they would just buy potatoes, onions and no vegetables. “Everything was already over by the time we went,” they would tell him. But he could not complain and just thanked them, no matter how annoyed he was.
There were days when all he had to eat was just some slices of bread and fruit jam. Sometimes, he’d prepare some watery dal, rice, and tomato chutney. Although a lot of work, this simple meal was pure joy.
His present situation did not bring about much of a difference in his social life. He was always confined to the four walls of his house. Sometimes, former colleagues and acquaintances would pay him a visit but these too had become too few and far between under the present circumstances. He did not particularly mind the solitary life and would usually spend his time watching classic movies on his old, bulky desktop, listen to music in his age-old stereo system or re-read some of his favorite books.
He didn’t read any new books or the news. He no longer wrote.
It surprised Bala how much he craved human company until he was completely deprived of it. He thought he was all but bereft of such feelings. He loathed the fact he now waited on phone calls from his friends eagerly. One of his closest friends, a mentee many years his junior, called him in the middle of the lockdown and he spoke to him for two hours. Bala realised he sounded like one of those whiny grandfathers he had once vowed never to become. This friend promised to visit him with some sumptuous food, once the restrictions were lifted.
Bala felt hollow after the call ended. Sometimes, when he had exhausted all activities, he would just sit on his worn-out sofa inside his metal grilled verandah, look outside, and think about his life. There was a garbage pile-up nearby, close to the front gate of the compound, and any exposure to the outside air brought with it the stench of the growing trash. Bala grimaced in disgust.
At times Bala’s mind wandered into the territory of marriage. How he should have just got it done with to save himself the plight he was in right now. But would it have been worth all the monumental hassle it came with? He didn’t have an answer.
It surprised Bala how much he craved human company until he was completely deprived of it. He thought he was all but bereft of such feelings. He loathed the fact he now waited on phone calls from his friends eagerly.
He had had a few flings back in the day. One of them turned out quite serious. She was a colleague from a rival newspaper. Jessica. That Protestant girl. She was nice. They met at an assignment. Her curly shoulder-length hair made her stand out from the rest. He made the first move and she reciprocated. But things soon fizzled out. Then he got posted to another city and they lost touch.
Bala thought about the figures in his dream again. Some fragments came back. One of them had long hair and kept turning back and calling him. It was Jessica! He had taken her on one of his trips to Majuli. She went into the water. But she couldn’t swim either. He froze with fear near the banks as she struggled. They didn’t see each other anymore after that trip. He should’ve learned how to swim.
That foul odour from the garbage pile cut in again. The mound was growing bigger. A man came near the filth carrying an old bucket, and added to the growing pile. People in the neighborhood didn’t even care if Bala was looking straight at them. It was as if he didn’t exist. He had tried shouting at a few, but his frail voice would barely go out.
Bala’s stomach began to growl with hunger. His mind diverted to food. He needed to eat soon lest gastric strike. He prepared some black tea and had the last piece of bread that was left. With his fruit jam.
***
Ramzauva Chhakchhuak is a writer and journalist from Shillong who is based in Bengaluru. His work has appeared in Himal Southasian, NatGeo Traveller, Native Skin, The Hindu, Deccan Herald, and The New Indian Express. A short story he wrote was selected for an anthology to be published by Helter Skelter this year. He is currently working on a book of short stories. You can find him on Twitter: @ramzauva and Instagram: @ramxauva.
