Nov, 2021, 15:05
Time has secrets, Sheela understands. It’s been about an hour since she’s been walking around the city of London. She thinks she is in the area for books. She needs to get herself a copy of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. She has looked up second hand bookshops in London about a million times, never minutely stepping into one.
People on the street pass her, some with their backs toward her and some facing her. Everybody is walking. As her legs move, routinely guided by cell memory, she doesn’t know where she is headed too. Bookshop’s pass. Libraries pass. She walks on with rapt attention, each step towards a set direction, setting her focus straight. She glances up at the lights tied to the wires, they resemble party streamers. London during Christmas comes to mind. Her friend had once said, “London will be decked up like a bride during Christmas.”
Momentarily the thought of a festival transports her back home to India. She is reminded of India’s festivals, of marriages, of funerals, of protests, of rallies, of candle light marches, of the elections, and of everyday life in India. The equal treatment meted out to both death and life is often the most surprising thing about her country. For instance; during the festival of Lord Ganesh, a celebrated deity from the Indian subcontinent, the streets are decked up like brides, people from all walks of life, coming together for a wholesome celebration. As a part of the festivities, streets are lit up, decorated with diverse colors, bazaars or markets are laid out, exhibiting bangles of all sizes and colors, sarees from various parts of the country, regional sweets and other such delights.
Someone’s waiting for her, she thinks. But where, Sheela doesn’t know. She walks on some more. A massive billboard towards her left reading “Eat me” with a bucket of crispy golden chicken jutting out catches her attention. In response, her stomach growls. Sheela is hungry. She needs to pause, halt and look around, breathe for a bit. But where? Maybe a McDonalds, KFC or a Dominoes? She remembers being told that, that is remotely the cheapest takeaway available in London.
Somebody is waiting for her at the end of the road. She knows that fact now. She has memorized it. She can feel it. Will it be a coincidence when she crashes into that person, she wonders? Why will she crash? Why can’t she merely just brush her shoulders against that person’s?
Would she know that person? Could she have possibly met him/her? Or will the meeting take her by surprise? What will she say to the person, when they meet? Her greyish-blue eyes stare holes into the footpath.
Say, she meets this person, would the person care about what she deeply feels for? What does she care about though? Should he have to care about what she cares about? Would he be left wing? If he was a right wing, what would she then make of him? She had friends who were extremist in that order, she didn’t mind them, until they came into her business. What about her? Would that person mind her? What would he think of her appearance? Would he possibly be disappointed? Was her hair sitting well? It usually was ill-mannered even after a good round of ironing. Were her nails too long? Was her tummy jutting out? Did it make her dress look all haphazard? As she walked, she straightened herself, pushing her manic hair into a controlling civil band. If only it was okay for people to walk naked onto the streets, without a care in the world as to who thought what…
What would her mother say about this chance encounter? The sudden music from the near-by pub halts her thoughts, pushing them into another direction. As she walks on and on, there is a momentary time lapse, as if she has stepped onto a cloud, her eyes freeze onto a spot, somewhere in space. The London skies are tales in themselves. Her gaze follows the pattern the clouds have created.
15:20
“It looks like a bridge,” somebody whispers shocking her out of her reverie. She turns around, a tall man whose nose resembles a parrot’s stares down at her. As the nature of her walk becomes brisker, she asks this man, “Who are you?”
“I am just a man from the road. How about you?”
“You don’t know me?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know what I was thinking?”
“Your face…”
“My face! Oh! You can read faces?”
“No, but I can read palms!”
Sheela looks closely at the large man. Apart from his brutish features, he seems to be wearing a deep green frills shirt with tiny pink polka dots smeared across it. His mustache is funny and in a million ways wrong. His ears are elf-like and his pointy brown worn shoes have silver bells hanging of off them. As she scans the man, a scowl settles over his face.
“What are you looking at? Are you mocking me too?”
“No, no, I was just wondering what business are you in?”
“My business is not your concern young lady…Alright then, I am a clown. You’re laughing at me, are you not? Everybody laughs at me! I work on shifts in the Globe, from nine to five and from five to nine. It is a noble job.” A quizzical look appears on his face and like a puzzle solved, it settles. “Where are you headed?”
“Towards the end of the road…”
And as if on cue, he recites; “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, long I stood, and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth…”
She looks at him as if for the first time, eyes the size of cup saucers, a smile playing at the edges of her lips. “Frost,” she says, surprised by the sudden recital of Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken.
His face now appears ancient and worn, so much so that he appears like he has been on a long treacherous journey. The age creases around his eyes are much more visible. As she examines him, his gaze seems focused onto a distant horizon. What must he be thinking, she thinks? She decides to make a guess. He must be thinking about his family. Who must be his family? Will they be as big as him? Does he have a son or a daughter? Could he possibly be married? She observes him again, he seems to be looking at the ground, following his footstep without a word.
“What is your name, Sir?”
“I am called Nicholas.” A certain fierceness appears on his face, as the cassette of memories play back and forth in his head. “What is the time, girl?”
“I don’t know! Sometime in the day. There is no in between here. Either it is day or night…”
“Then it is the night.” He does a momentary show of looking at his wrist, taps it and looks up. “Time is up. I am headed towards the right. Is someone at the end of the road?”
“Somebody is waiting for me.”
Briskly he takes a sharp right, waves maniacally and vanishes down the road.
Sheela lets out a deep breath, her cheeks appear flushed, her rabid dark strands are gathered around her forehead like a crowd of golden daffodils, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Wandering on as her mind takes her, she notices a deep brown arch stuck onto two tall pillars. She mulls at the possibility of the archaic blocks belonging to the time when Shakespeare roamed the streets of London. As all types of people pass from beneath it, she wonders, while on his way to court, would the Bard perhaps have halted just to feel the intricacies of the design. The elegant golden brown elongated horizontal Ss with beautiful flowers and leaves attached to them. It appears to be a free hand sketch. Her mind derails back in time to the days of her childhood. Her mother would accompany her to drawing and painting lessons every other day. Vivid pictures of a long wooden table, surrounded by students big and small, off-white sketch books lay open on the table as pencils moved vigorously across the surface of the page. Some students stared off into space and created sketches of bowls of apples and other fruits, some drew massive beaches with rocks, palm trees and many people.
The sudden cold breeze pauses her train of thought. She tightens her all white beautifully crocheted woolen pull over, hugging it closer to herself.
A mere glance towards her left, reveals the lush greenery of the London parks. There are tiny red cherries sprouting from bushes. Heart shaped leaves are scattered in all directions, some hanging from railings, some growing from random patches of land. Autumn is in a metamorphosis of sorts, shedding its skin bit by bit. Images of Indian streets, in their most vulnerable times suddenly cloud her imagination. Fleeting images of a tall off-white building, surrounded by grand gutters and tiny straw huts with men and women running about helming the insanity of life, invade the organized reality she is currently walking in. Cooped streets filled with women dressed in sarees of pink, purple, yellow, green, ochre, golden and maroon, perched cross-legged on the black cement roads of Jayanagar in Bangalore opposite huge cane baskets exhibiting fresh Indian marigolds, jasmines, roses, chrysanthemums, and other varieties. The brief vignette reminds Sheela of Sarojini Naidu’s The Bangle Sellers, a beautiful ode to the brides of India and their rich culture and heritage. Right on cue, she feels her lips move in tandem, “Bangle sellers are we who bear, our shining loads to the temple fair...who will buy these delicate, bright, rainbow-tinted circles of light? Lustrous tokens of radiant lives, for happy daughters and happy wives…”
15:42
“Ahem.” A throat clears motioning for her attention.
She looks toward her left, a tiny woman with thick eyelashes looks up at her. She is dressed in work casuals, a black jeggings and simple white full sleeved shirt. Her short hair cups her round face. Long silver coloured heart shaped dangling’s hang from her tiny ears. She taps at her phone to get Sheela’s attention.
“Oh, sorry. Yes?”
Looking confused, she asks, “I am lost… can you tell me where Primark is?”
“Yes, Yes, it is towards that side, walk on straight for five minutes without taking any turns and then turn towards the right, that’s it.”
“Thank You.”
A smile and a tiny wave and she too vanishes down the road.
Marching forth, her throat makes a deep grrrr, she is thirsty. Unscrewing her bottle, she chugs her water, choking on it for a brief second. Shoving it back into her black shoulder bag, she walks on. Her toes which are stuffed into pitch black sandals have become icicles. She wants to stop somewhere, sit and knead her feet to bring life back. But she needs to go. There is someone waiting for her at the end of the road.
Her thoughts drive her, inviting rigour and focus back. She now walks with a purpose to reach her destination as quickly as possible. A sudden panic storms her mental space. What if he left, she wonders? What then? Should she turn back? If only there was a sign! Her steps become quicker, much more aggressive; one long step, followed by another and another. For the bystanders, it might appear as if she is walking a walkathon.
Sheela looks up, suddenly feeling conscious of herself, her insecurities feed at her during these vulnerable times. Her eyes move to a towering black man. His hair is cropped short. His cerulean blue tee-shirt seems to be hanging over his biscuit-coloured corduroy jeans, which too is pulled up to his knees. A white paper like material is wrapped around his legs. The most peculiar thing about him is the long rod that he seems to be holding onto. As her eyes move back to his face, she notices an angry scowl on his lips. He is now looking at her too.
16:10
Her heart as if in a response to stimuli moment beats faster in anticipation. She tears her gaze away from the angry looking man and walks forth. After a few steps, assuming she is lost in the crowd, she turns her head towards the right and left, eyes following in pursuit, making a show of doing neck exercises. She seems to be checking if the man has followed her. To her surprise, it is no more just the man, but a dog tied to a band, tied to his wrist. The dog looks sad, eyes droopy, as if it hasn’t eaten or slept in days. Her eyes move toward his master. The man meets her eyes and smiles. Her pace quickens even more so, the man appears to be calling after her.
“Madam! Madam! Madam!”
Matching her step now, he says, “Madam, I have come to hand over this… this note, it slipped from your book on the previous footpath.”
A stray note is thrusted into her palm. Unfolding it, she reads the contents out loud; “I am a part of all that I have met…How dull it is to pause… to rest unburnished.”
The note was signed off with a peculiar K. She thought of a multitude name with K. Who is this? What does this mean? I never had such a note?
Sheela looks up at the man and his silent dog in question. As if in response, a tight long smile pulls up. The man’s expression resembles none she has seen before.
“Is something of the matter, Madam?”
As she walks on, a realization dawns onto her. The confusion settles, lost in the mist of the dark evening. She turns around towards the man and his dog, “It was him, wasn’t it?”
A genuine expression of sheer perplexity crosses his face. “Who? What are you going on about?”
“The man at the end of the road? Didn’t he send you with this,” pointing to the tiny piece of torn paper.
“Man, end of the road? Which man? I know nobody…”
“Tell me what the note means? He has sent you. I know it for sure.”
“Nonsense. Come Pozzo…,” gesturing to his now wide-awake dog.
“Or is it you? Are you two the same?” she says in a hushed voice as if talking to herself. A pool of sweat forms across her temples. She scans the man, taking a good look at him. The man appears to be somewhere in his late 30’s. A plain golden band stubbornly wrapped around his ring finger, indicates that he is a married man. His dog which now sits erect, eyes round as a football, growls at her.
“Lady are you okay? Who is he? What are you saying? I know nobody!”
“Where are you from?”
Hesitantly, he says, “Just from around the corner Ma’am.”
Showing very little sign of heading in a different direction from her, she probes further. It is as if she has taken over the jeweler’s seat, a torch in one hand and an instrument to separate the precious stones in another.
“And Pozzo? An obedient dog, no?”
“Just from around the corner, found a stray a couple years ago and we adopted him…”
“Hmmm…”
“What does the note say Madam?”
“Nothing specific, just some nonsensical lines…”
“Let me see?” Pulling out the now crumpled note from the back pocket of her jeans, she hands it over to him.
His long black fingers try and iron out the creases, the contents of the note are read again, “I am a part of all that I have met…How dull it is to pause… to rest unburnished.”
“Read it again…” she repeats with a sudden urgency.
“I am a part of all that I have met…How dull it is to pause… to rest unburnished.” As he reads out the line scribbled in an impeccable scrawl across the page, his pronunciation of each word is distinct, unheard off.
“to rest unburnished…to rest unburnished…” she repeats, attempting to familiarize herself with the line.
“Read the lines again, with much more clarity, please sir…”
“I am a part of all that I have met… How dull it is to pause to rest unburnished…”
“How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! Ulysses,” she states.
“I knew I had heard these lines somewhere,” reminiscing when she last read them.
“Uh…”
“These are lines from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses, I know them because I had studied this poem back in college. But why do I have this in my bag?”
“Tell me did you really see this fly out of my bag?”
“Not your bag, your book… while you were walking, real fast, it fell out.” A puzzled look appears across his face.
“Oh.”
“You were holding your book in your hand like this…” he motions towards himself, imitating the way she held onto her copy. “And it flew out like this…” His actions would probably appear comical if she was not in such a serious situation.
“Madam, where are you headed?”
“At the end of the road…”
“What is at the end of the road?”
Hesitantly she reveals, “A man awaits me there…”
“The same man that you confused me with?
“Yes, the same one.”
“Be careful lady. London is not for the fantastical. I am heading the other way now. Ciao!” Mimicking a man with a hat, he lifts the imaginary hat of his head, tilting it sideways, clicks his tongue, pulling his obedient dog by the collar, waves one last time before heading his way.
16: 45, the same day
Sheela trudges on the path she chose for herself, taking one committed step after another. Tiredness rolls of her, as she pulls herself past roads and the people it carries. Her mind is settled momentarily in a distant horizon, playing one cassette after another. Each cassette revealing a layer of herself.
“Nothing to be done,” she asserts. She is watching people closely now, one lady dressed tip top in a tight-fitting brown leather skirt, a white fluffy blouse and a black overcoat, walks past her. Her eyes resemble tiny slits, big blue fiery orbs rest inside them. She is a beautiful girl, Sheela thinks. As she passes further, everybody’s eyes are on her. Where is she headed, Sheela wonders? Maybe she is on a modelling assignment and is on the road for a shoot… or maybe she is a fashion design student, but where is her long bag of material… not a designer then.
As Sheela’s mind builds possibilities for the girl, a tap on her shoulder brings her back to the present. A tall lady stands facing her. The lady is wearing a plain brown blouse and a long maroon printed skirt. A bandana seems to be wrapped around her head. She is wearing a long smile. The lady is shouldering a long cloth sachet of about 15-20 roses. She pulls one out and hands it to Sheela.
Assuming it is a rose handing day or something similar, Sheela takes it. Palming the rose. In a matter of seconds, droplets of blood pool out of her palm. The thorn has struck. How true people are about roses and thorns.
16:55
“Change…Give me some change…” Her voice sounds alien, her tongue rounds up at end of every word. The first thought that comes to Sheela’s mind is that, she is not from here.
Numbly, Sheela opens her bag, revealing the various things she carries, a water bottle, a book, two notebooks, ear phones, a sanitizer, comb, pens and pencils, rubber band and a wallet.
She pulls out her wallet. There is no money, not a dime. She unzips one of the partitions, to her relief there is some change. She palms the entire thing bunch of coins and dumps it in the bohemian lady’s palm.
“No, not this…”
“I only have this, sorry…”
“No, no, I saw five pounds… there, there…”
“No, I don’t have anything. Sorry.”
“No. No. Give me five pounds.”
“I don’t have anything sorry. I am getting late. I have to go. Sorry.”
17:09
To Sheela’s absolute surprise, the lady does not budge. Not letting her go as well, the lady pulls her into a tight hug and then kisses her cheek. Startled at the gesture, she tries creating some space in between them. It all seems scary to her.
“You have card, I saw, withdraw and give me money.”
“No, I am late, I have to go… sorry.”
“NO. Respect. Food.”
“Please, I have to go.”
“Respect. Food. Noooo.” Her No’s sound threatening, as if, if Sheela tried to make a move, she would be most certainly axed to death.
She is pulled along by the lady on the road, both of them speed walking. It appears as if Sheela is the lady’s prisoner. Whenever Sheela stops to head into another direction, the Lady doesn’t allow it.
They walk on and on, Sheela not quite coming to terms with what is happening. Several thousand people pass her, not realizing what is happening. She wonders would she do the same if another person on the road was attacked in a manner like this.
Should she scream? Maybe she should push her away? Maybe if she just pulled her hand out, hard from her grasp? Should she just run and not look back. What about the man at the end of the road? Where is he? Won’t he save her? Won’t someone come and do something? Her mind is a ball of chaos, question after question, dilemma after dilemma firing away at the back of her head. She starts to mutter prayers to the almighty for her safety. Something, anything to save herself.
17:38, the same day, opposite Tottenham Court Station
Sheela stops suddenly, stamping her feet on the pavement, the ladies hand tightens. Now her hand is rough and her expressions clouded with anger. Sheela is scared, scared for herself, her life, her little game of the man at the end of road. What will happen now? Will this lady kidnap her? What will this lady do to her? She doesn’t have any money, anyway… will she kill her then?
A woman smoking her ciggi, walks past them. Nobody seems to be paying attention. Where are the police, when you need them?
One street passes and then another, finally Sheela asks, “Where are you taking me?”
“Money… Food.”
“Please I don’t have anything. I am running late. I am to go somewhere.”
“To him, I know. “
“Please, I am in a hurry.”
“Respect. Food.”
“How do you know him?”
“I know him. Money and I tell you address.”
“I don’t have any money.” Sheela is trying to struggle out of her grasp. The lady holds on firmly.
“I don’t have any money! Where are you taking me?”
17:43.
“At the end of the road…” saying this, the lady pushes the tall rose almost into her nose. Sheela is at once confused at the gesture. Clarity only dawns much later. It is too late by then. The world is spinning around her. In her woozy state, she notes the sky releasing its burden, a bunch of crocodile tears pour out from above, the Tottenham station seems to be shaking. Everything is shaking.
“Where…” are her last words.
***
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