Dear Reader,
What was supposed to be a weekly affair has turned into rare correspondence. This shall unfortunately continue to be the case in the near future. Malnutrition, illness, and lungs full of regolith have forced me to retreat to familiar haunts for some time. I might hammer out a couple posts more on this battered laptop while I rest and recover; after that it could be a while before we hear from each other again. Threat of theft and the elements prevents me from carrying this laptop along on my travels, and typing out these notebook entries on a mobile phone is too bothersome and nerdspirited and humiliating to attempt; I hope you understand.
Hulloes and apologies,
Raunsil.
PS. You can read the first instalment here.
April 17, Midnight, Delhi Airport
Before his pyromania got out of hand and he set his sister’s braids alight, No-No Kid and I would jump off knee-pulverizing heights that’d make the flat of my feet ring out like overpumped basketballs bouncing off concrete. I was eight then. Half an hour back someone called out to me on the escalator, and I didn’t dare crane my neck back and respond until I was off it, safe on the upper floor.
When did this happen. In the airport’s faint din and sanitizing bright lights I may have begun seeing the consequences of this decision clearly.
I am writing at the food court. There isn’t much else to do. Tough decisions had to be made while stuffing my rucksack; I have left behind the copy of Rimbaud’s poetry I had wanted to bring along. I had even inscribed it beforehand: Immortal companion on our grand Himalayan adventure. All I have now to amuse myself is a ball-pen and this little notebook. I have to spend four more hours here.
I’m fighting off sleep and the smooth murmur all around is like a glass of warm milk before bedtime. I would’ve slept on the bus from Haldwani to Delhi if the seats weren’t upright and so curved they’d only fit the small of a fairy’s back. I had to watch the beautiful sunset over the Haldwani countryside against my will, had to watch the clouds turn from spun gold to cooling embers to streaks of stubborn graphite no god could scrub off that moonlit cobalt sky. Just this once I want someone obnoxious to walk by and strike up a slow painful conversation that incenses my soul, keeps me awake, distracts me from myself. The din is a vacuum, intent on drawing out all loud anxious babble within. Were I not so spent I’d have walked to someone’s table and struck up that conversation myself.
I like the view beyond the glass; giant fireflies landing, taking off, taxiing on that dark infinite tarmac. All of it is supposed to be repulsive and maddening—the ugly winged barrel that will soon fly me to Assam; the glare bouncing off the squeaky shiny floors; this vast building, glass hide stretched over steel bones, more botched taxidermy than sterile architecture—yet I welcome it all: it is respite from six hours of dry heat and mosquitoes and morose vistas of crumbling kiln chimneys sprouting out of great bare stretches of dark blue fields.
Three and a half hours more and the sky will lighten again.
April 17, Guwahati, Assam. Morning.
The operator at Zainab Travels has chosen this day to take all filler phrases literally. “Seat number”, he asks. “Give me two minutes,” I respond. “Okay,” he says and the call disconnects. I dial back and ask why he hanged up on me midway. “You said you needed a minute…”. “Seat number”, he asks again. “Hang on a minute,” I say and instantly realize my folly. “Again?” he exclaims in a thick Assamese accent, and hangs up once more.
I’m a bat in a cool cave. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn; the AC leaks and barely works but the roaring ceiling fan helps things along beautifully. I’ll sleep through the day; eight hours of uninterrupted sleep at last in this shady love hotel in the middle of nowhere. The nervous suspicious receptionist was offended I didn’t have a woman by my side.
I have no will to explore the city. The walk to the hotel was long and hot and blinding. The sky was clouded but white as burning quicklime; the landscape was bleached of all color except green. Trees, bushes, hills and vines glowed lime and jade and mint and emerald, as lush and lurid and riotous as poisonous rainforests. My drooping, sleep-starved eyes could barely take in that vulgar exuberance; set against that quicklime sky the colors began melting my brains.
The roads had none of that verdant freshness. They were dry and draped in a chalky haze. The city vanished after I crossed the highway—just a few scattered houses, some huts and a dirt track remained; the hotel was still far away. People were few on this stretch and I saw no smiling faces; the muggy heat had sapped all souls. The woman in the blood-red saree had looked on listless at the giant mutt barking at my crotch. Her eyes bore no malice, no contempt, no curiosity, no alarm, no concern, no hesitation. Perhaps it wasn’t even apathy. Sweating and sitting on her haunches outside her hut she quietly witnessed it all unfold. I stood still, umbrella in hand, thinking I’d at least try breaking the dog’s snout before it tore me apart. When after fifteen minutes it got tired the mutt slid back into its house through the little gap in the wall and resumed barking at me through the locked gate.
I walked past the dog, past the woman. She now stared at the pawprints on that empty stretch of dirt track.
April 17, Guwahati Interstate Bus Terminus, 08:30 p.m.
I’d never had prawns before. I can now confirm they have a crunch to them, I just wish I could taste them too. All my tongue got was the honey-chilli sauce they were drenched in, culprit behind all those tired appetizers rolled out in every wedding, jubilee, birthday—honey-chilli potatoes, honey-chilli mushrooms, honey-chilli paneer, honey-chilli chicken, and now, here in the north-east, honey-chilli prawns.
My lips burn. I ate more out of boredom than anything else. It is humid, the mosquitoes are feasting on my neck and forearms, and unlike the airport there’s no faint murmur here that’ll put me to sleep. Scooters, hatchbacks, tuktuks and e-rickshaws outside honk, honk, honk incessantly, keeping up the illusion of a busy lane in the heart of a dense city when there’s nothing three hundred meters beyond the flyover.
The operator had said the bus will leave by quarter past nine. People are beginning to cluster at the platform where it will arrive. I think I can identify my co-passengers now: three nuns, one Christian, the others Buddhist; a couple monks, Buddhist again; four families, one Arunachali, two from the south, one north Indian, father’s probably in the military; a few more soldiers and backpackers.
One of the backpackers is either too anxious or a bit too enthusiastic. I was buying a bottle of water when the bus arrived; from the corner of my eye I saw him bolting for the door and flying into the bus. After some commotion he alighted and walked back to the platform, embarrassed, now patiently watching the bus reverse and come to a halt.