Friday, September 4, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Excerpt from Echoes
The moon was behind a gossamer veil as you laid me down on the ground. It was a windless night weighed down by murky moisture. The dark trees were clustered together daring brave souls to pass between their legs. I wasn’t afraid anymore…
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Two Pink Lines
*
It was the hottest day of that year, I recall, the weatherman had issued a list of advisory precautions to defend against heat strokes and dehydration. Stay indoors, carry water bottles, move slowly, and don’t stay out for too long under the sun. By even six in the morning, you could tell by the heat that the day was going to be a killer. As I quietly re-checked your luggage mentally checking off all the items packed, I wished it was just an ordinary Sunday.
You were in the bathroom showering and shaving. I quietly entered and saw your naked body through the opaque glass doors. There were scattered spots of foam on the sink from your shaving which you had forgotten to wipe clean. Ordinarily that forgetfulness would have incited an argument between us, but today I couldn’t, didn’t, and wouldn’t care. Fear lodged in my throat, but I had promised us I would not cry. I could not cry. I had shed enough tears leading up to this day. I had pleaded, implored, cursed, threatened, and even prayed. But to no avail. You always gently and consistently explained you were obliged to serve your duty and that you had to serve your country.
As the water trickled to a halt, I quickly left the bathroom and went downstairs to make breakfast. Today of all days I wasn’t going to send you out on an empty stomach. The rooms already seemed empty, vague, and unfamiliar. The house seemed distant, distrustful, and almost a stranger. Were you feeling the same, I wondered? Were you, too, feeling the air of foreboding encroaching upon our tiny abode? For Chris sake Anira, I’m a shrink, just a shrink! How much action do you think a shrink sees in the military? Come here, don’t be ridiculous! All I’ll be doing down there is listening to the soldiers’ talk about themselves, that’s all. I won’t most certainly be in the front line fighting the damn Talibans by making them pour out their innermost secrets to me!
“Mmm, what smells so wonderful? Is it possible that Anira is actually preparing breakfast?” you jokingly asked, as you walked into the kitchen. You grabbed my waist and swooped down your head for a kiss.
“Ha ha, funny, funny,” I retorted, as I tilted my head to meet your mouth. “You’re not the only one who can cook, Sam.”
“I know,” you chuckled.
You picked up the plate of toasts and the pot of brewing tea and sat at the table. A large man, you were quite agile in your mobility. As I whisked the eggs I quietly observed you engaged in the morning papers. Five years ago if you had told me I was going to be with a shaada man, least of all a soldier, I would have laughed in derision. Reared in a family of soldiers, I grew up detesting the rigid disciplinary lifestyle imposed upon my brothers and me by our father. Departing to America was a welcoming emancipation from my family. My rigidly Bangladeshi family. They didn’t approve of you. I wasn’t surprised. Amma’s silence at the end of the line when I announced my engagement told me all. I had fooled myself into believing they would relent knowing you too were descended from a military lineage. But Baba didn’t care to know about you. As far as he was concerned I had betrayed my roots, my culture, and my past by marrying a shaada, a foreigner, non-Bangladeshi. I didn’t even dare tell them you were fifteen years older than me and a divorcee. I never got that far.
“Eggs need much beating, darling?” you asked, with a mischievous grin.
“Huh? Oh, sorry, was just thinking.” I shook away my reverie and proceeded to fry the omelettes.
“Hmmm.”
“Here you go, darling. A feast of delight, if I may say so myself,” I gaily announced, placing the plate of omelettes on the table. “It’s Spanish Frittatas.”
“I’m impressed….mmmm…it even tastes good,” you said, and with a gusto dived into the food.
I didn’t want to ruin this ordinary breakfast, I swear I didn’t, but I couldn’t stop the words as they propelled through my mouth. “So, where are you stationed again?”
You looked up at me, your chewing momentarily paused. As a shrink, I knew, you always took the time to carefully use the correct and unthreatening words to convey your point across. So, I was ready for your glib response.
“Darling Anira…I told you already. I’ll be temporarily stationed in Kabul. Perhaps if and when needed and as determined by HQ, I might be posted in one of the hotter regions. But that depends on whether they require my service.” Chewing ensued. “For now, baby, I’ll be safely cocooned in Kabul, far way from any form of action.”
I nodded. I had nothing left to ask.
*
There were several families clustered in a line saying their last goodbyes to their departing partners. We were one of them. As you were greeted respectfully by your subordinates, I hugged and kissed some of the wives I had befriended since our marriage. I was the youngest among them. The only brown one. But together we shared a bond that transcended color, age, and geography. Together we shared the fear, the longing, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of having your beloved depart for an unfamiliar and enemy-laden terrain without knowing if they will ever return. I knew I had their support to get me through the nights and days I found myself alone in our home.
“Darling, it’s time,” you softly whispered, as you cradled me once more in your arms.
I buried my head against your chest. I wrapped my arms around you and held on tight, embarrassed by my tears. I couldn’t speak. I was scared of the words that would fall out of my mouth. I was scared of my fears. I was scared of the unimaginable.
“Oh darling…oh my baby…” you whispered softly, “take care of yourself. You know how much I love you…don’t worry honey…oh don’t worry about a thing…I’ve been on so many missions like these and I always never see any action…please don’t worry. Oh baby…my precious…I love you so much..”
I grabbed you tighter unwilling to let you go. You can’t, you mustn’t, you won’t leave me here alone, I shouted silently.
“Baby, I must go…I have to go…Oh Anira, I’ll be back…you’ll see…in six months I will return.”
“Sir, we are boarding,” announced a subordinate, hovering anxiously, embarrassed at having to interrupt us.
You nodded and the solider quietly walked away towards the plane.
“Anira…baby…I love you,” you said one last time, as you pulled away from my embrace. “Take good care of yourself….stay safe…and I’ll call you as soon as I find a phone.”
I nodded, still too scared to say anything. I clamped my mouth shut. You leaned towards me and kissed my forehead. Then you walked away.
As you neared your plane, and turned back once more to look at me, I ran. I ran, I ran with sudden propulsion and flung myself in your arms again.
“Come back….promise…come back to me…” I implored.
“Promise” he muttered.
*
The instructions read two minutes for the results to appear. Two minutes. I placed the thin strip down on the counter and sat on the edge of the tub. I buried my head in my hands. How could this be? How could we be so careless? I tried to decrease my throbbing beats, taking slow deep breaths; I tried to concentrate on something, anything. Two minutes. I checked my watch and saw I had a minute and ten seconds left.
I never skipped a month. Never. That alone should have been a harbinger. But I was too naive. Oh, what will I do now?
I stood up, sat down, stood up again, and paced the tiny bathroom. I glanced at the strip to make sure it was still on the counter. I wish I could speak to someone. I wish I could speak to you. But you were stationed at Tikrit now. You rang consistently but oftentimes for three minutes or less. You sounded quite well. A bit agitated at the escalating violence, the desolation of your surroundings, the deteriorating conditions of the soldiers who sought your help; but you put up a good façade for me. You told me small snippets of your life there, what you ate, who you saw, in general, informing and assuring me that you were safe. Those brief calls did not allay my fears. However, I duly came to accept its presence. It is rational; I told myself, it is perfectly normal to have those fears. You told me so yourself.
One minute. I sat down again but my legs started shaking. Uncontrollably. What shall I do? What if..? No, I can’t be. I’m not ready. We aren’t ready. We had spoken about children once, when you were courting me, and we were trying to figure each other out. I was still in grad school. You came to our school to give a series of lectures on the modern affects of post-traumatic stress on the soldiers’ minds. You were the sole thing I took away from those lectures.
Forty seconds. What will you say? Will you be happy? Are you ready?
Thirty seconds. Am I ready?
Twenty five seconds. I think I’m ready. We had talked about this, and negotiated based on your age, and both our careers, that we could have two children. I wanted two girls.
Twenty seconds. I knew you wanted a son. A son with whom to play baseball and basketball, and other typical American games fathers played with their sons. You wanted a son to carry on your family’s military legacy.
Ten seconds. The phone started ringing. I glanced at my watch and knew it had to be you. You usually called around this time. I neared towards the strip. I had to receive your phone call.
Five seconds. Two pink lines appeared on the strip, growing pinkish by the seconds.
I crushed the strip in my hands and hurried to pick up your call.
*
You had kept your promise. You came back to me.
The descending plane smoothly graced upon the landing strip. As it neared its hangar, the cluster of subdued families moved towards our designated waiting spot. I recognized some faces, we quietly exchanged looks. Words failed us at this time.
I quietly followed the wives outside towards the hangar, panting slightly, carrying my enlarging body. Amma walked beside me, gently holding my arm. She was so concerned about me now. I heard her, last night, plead to Baba imploring him to convince me to go back with them to Bangladesh. But I couldn’t, I wouldn’t now. A few of the wives smiled at my expanding abdomen and whispered helpful hints to me. I nodded without hearing them. I do that now. Words have ceased to be of use to me. I just use them to speak to you when we are alone.
The air was thick with grief and disbelief. As the coffins draped with stars and stripes flags were gently lowered from the plane, I smiled. I was the lucky one, I told myself. I was the fortunate one among the rest.
----------------------
Sunday, November 9, 2008
In a Brief Second
A lone crow's pitiful cry caught her attention. The first streaks of dawn were splashed across the horizon. A misty gray dipped in brazen bronze appeared behind the cloudless veil. In a few hours, he will be stirring and grudgingly waking for work. The weekends seem so short now that summer was in full swing. Yawning and stretching her arms, she hesitated between getting up for a quick run or prolonging the lazy contentment in bed. The health nut in her won and she quietly got out of bed.
The arousing sun by now faintly lighted the room. She silently foraged through her closet and extracted a pair of track pants and a comfy t-shirt of his. Once dressed, she walked over to his side of the bed and sat softly on the edge. He was flat on his back with one arm casually resting above his head on the pillow, the other arm resting in the empty spot that her body had vacated. Her heart swelled staring at him. As she bent to leave a soft kiss on his forehead, a whiff of his scent flooded her with delicious memories. Goosebumps erupted. Five years of togetherness hadn't diminished her cravings one bit. Five years of togetherness hadn't dissipated the fervour they generated together. They were intertwined together, their lives fated to leap and bound over each other. She longed to stay behind, cradling around his body once more, but his words of wonder at the sudden formation of a belly cajoled her to stick to her morning fitness. She knew he hated excess of any kind, especially excess of flesh. She, too, wanted to look fit and stunning for the upcoming events as well.
In ten minutes, she was outside her building, heading towards the park. As the morning light slowly torched the mirrored towers, the city seemed to stir herself awake. She already recognized many neighbours out for their morning runs as well. They nodded or grunted greetings as they passed each other. Early mornings were her favourite part of the day in New York. The absence of large crowds at that time imparted the sensation of the city truly belonging to her and only her.
As she neared the park, she changed the track on her ipod. She retrieved the wedding album selections and opened it. Now was the perfect time to sort out those songs. She had been neglecting this pivotal aspect of their wedding plans for many days now. Work always took precedence in this part of the world. This hour of solitude served as the perfect opportunity to sort out her music. The end of summer would soon be nearing and she did not have much time left before she had to send her final approval back to their families. She relished in the detailed work and attention that entailed planning such an elaborate series of events leading to their wedding.
The large iron gates guarding the park beckoned runners to enter into its verdant belly…
He moved in his sleep from one side to another. Instinctively, his arm rested on the vacuum left by her absence. He jerked his head towards the emptiness, adrenaline soaring through his body as he belatedly realized she must be on her morning run. Dropping his head once again on the pillows, he rolled on to his back staring at the ceiling. Don't go now, a little more he vainly pleaded as sleep swiftly evaporated. The bed clock read six thirteen. Light flooded the room. Annoyance piqued as she had forgotten to close the curtains before leaving. She was becoming quite preoccupied with the planning and more and more absent-minded, he thought.
Instead of sleeping, his mind meandered over ordinary planes. His new plans for his small art management company flashed in his head. He had discovered a new talent that was on the periphery of making a brash statement in the art world. His new discovery could single-handedly reconstruct his company bringing in enough revenue to expand his business. As a failed painter, a deficiency he realized and accepted way before it became a handicap, he re-directed his love for art into a business that located, nurtured, and marketed new painters who would ordinarily never get a foot into the competitive and ruthless art world. As a person he found it quite gratifying to know he controlled the fates of the artists in his hands. He could make them or break them. It was no wonder that many of his new discoveries were females. He was quite well known in the art world, numerous articles cited him and some even ran profiles of him in their arts section.
His newest asset gave him immense satisfaction. She was unconventional and quite titillating. Her craft was seductive and surreal, provocative and primal, sultry and supreme. She was his new obsession. Cassandra Hudson rolled off his tongue in a brazen sexual manner. Her presence evoked long-repressed fantasies that he had forgotten. He felt rejuvenated, revitalized, and young around her. He could almost convince himself he was enamoured with her. But he wasn't a fool.
A distant siren ended his reveries. He checked the clock again, she was running late. Usually she would be back by now making breakfast before the mad dash to the showers. His eyes briefly rested on the framed picture of them. It was taken last Christmas, at a noted art critic's soiree, where he was galvanizing the art world with his latest profile in a prestigious art magazine. He was ensconced between them both. She had one arm tightly coiled around his side. Cassandra was wrapped around his other side. Both of them smiling for the camera. He was looking at something, or was it someone, away from the camera's prying eyes.
His mind tiptoed around the wedding preparations. She insisted that it took place in their country. He found this a comic notion considering they hadn't lived there long enough to claim possession. A country that was mistakenly identified as being their own by ill-fated births. A distant and detached land that faintly hinted of ownership. But he gave in to her. He usually did. He found it easier to go along with her instead of arguing his ground. Less resistance and more distractions for her. More distractions for him too.
She should be back by now. Maybe he should put the coffee pot on the stove…
She was heavily panting, her breaths caught between her throat, sweat clinging to her hot skin. She picked up her pace as she sighted the park's exit. She knew she was running behind time. Dread of a bulging belly drove her to exceed her usual number of laps. He must be up by now, definitely already in the kitchenette, brewing the coffee pot, settling down with the papers, waiting for her. She smiled at the image of him waiting for her.
As she finally emerged from the park, she stopped before the traffic signal. Traffic was already snaking along the road leading towards midtown. She strained to see the clock embedded in the colossal building dwarfing the park. She squinted as the sun's blare prevented her from seeing. As the green light flickered faintly, she sprinted across the street. A scorching burst of bright light knocked her sideways and she felt herself suspended in mid-air. She instinctively shielded her eyes from the intense glare. But the glare transformed into a pain that she never imagined. Garbled screams echoed in the background. An immense terrible pressure descended upon her. Her legs buckled under her and the ground rushed to embrace her. Her eyes pricked with annoyance as the distant cacophony inched closer and closer. A series of fading images rushed through her mind…images of him…of them…of him and her…of him and the other one…of them together…of him alone…of her alone…. Stop buzzing, move out of my way, I need to run home…I must select the songs…he's waiting for me…what is that song buzzing in my ears….
He heard the bell from the shower. He was waiting for her to open the door. When the bell kept on ringing, he emerged from a premature shower, annoyance blazed on his face. Where was she? Why was she so late? She was going to make him late now. She should have been here by now. He wrapped a towel around his lower torso and marched to the door. He called out her name. No answer. He looked around the room for signs of her return. Her trainers weren't tossed aside on the floor. There was no new coffee pot brewing. Her dirty clothes weren't thrown carelessly thrown on the bedroom floor.. She was late and now he would be late too, he muttered to himself, so inconsiderate of her to put him in this spot. He opened the door. Two policemen. Strange he thought.
"Mr. Imran Rahman?" asked one of them.
He nodded.
"Do you know a Ms. Areena Kha-der?"
He nodded, noting the enunciation of her last name. Quader, you half-witted American townies.
"We have some bad news…"
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Courtship
My mother drew my attention to the fact that I had been staring at her photograph for an uncomfortably long time. “Toss her aside,” she commanded, already expecting the inevitable refusal,” she’s dark and mannish.” She stretched out her hand to take the photograph. “What a shame, though,” she began, “she had such high qualifications.”
My mother’s criteria for high qualifications involve an illustrious lineage, preferably going back to two generations, a foreign education, added bonus if completed in an English university in business or economics, and finally dainty fair features. Bearing in mind, the daintiness and fairness take center stage above the rest.
I let out a deep sigh and leaned back into the chair. The aroma of frying samosas and dal puris drifted from the kitchen. Afternoon tea was quite the event in my family. Strictly for members only, if outsiders had to be included they could not under any circumstances show up empty-handed. Otherwise Nana would not think twice about hurling a verbal avalanche of ill-breeding and immoral manners. Inevitably, the rare occasions when guests partook in this afternoon tradition, boxes of deliciously nauseating mishtis were the delicacies du jour.
However, on this particular afternoon, all the elder men of the family were conspicuously absent except for me. It was a badly contrived opportunity for the women of the family to induce me to skim through the bevy of fair and dainty prospects they had picked for me. I settled into the chair, stretching my legs under the table. It was going to be a long tea for sure. My right leg still bothered me. I used to feel nervous twitches that ricocheted upwards to the thigh. An old high-school football injury that never fully disappeared.
“Akaash, you’re not a young man any more. You need to make a choice eventually,” drawled Amma, in fluent English while arranging the table for the pending food.
“Neither am I old and decrepit,” I answered.
“All your friends have married. And look even a few of them are having kids already,” continued Amma, “While you are running across the globe like an untamed horse.”
”I’d rather wait than rush into anything. Anyhow meeting them won’t guarantee a sure deal, ma.” I wimply offered my sole rationale, “and how can I possibly know which one is the right one?”
“Uff! Wait… a new defense for a lazy generation! During my time we had no luxury. And it’s a ridiculous luxury, if you ask me. Your father came to see me one week and by the second week I was already settling into my in-laws house. We did not wait. We did not date. It was fated. And look at us now, we’ve been married for almost 40 years!
Several more pictures of girls laid on the table. Some of them were attached to resumes. Not resumes indicating work experiences, mind you, but rather their familial background and connections.
“All the good ones are taken at a young age. Only the defective ones stay behind,” muttered Amma, grimacing at the pile, “imagine being unmarried at 25. What a shame that would bring to the family.”
“And we most definitely don’t want to be stuck with the defective ones” I said, my sarcasm lost to her ears.
I sifted though the pile randomly scanning the pictures. So many girls are still wiling to market themselves through this channel. What happens to them when they don’t get picked? Do they continue on their quest making the rounds every time news of a fresh bachelor reaches them? How many years will they continue? Who ends up picking them? Do they have a choice to choose and dismiss suitors they don’t like similar to the way they are cast aside?
She caught between my fingers, her dark eyes peeped out between the crevices. Her strained smile and unfeminine posture challenged me. Daring me.
“If one is good looking than she has nothing to offer. If another is okay looking, she has not enough to offer, “ echoed Ammu’s words.
She was standing next to a grandfather clock. Possibly a family heirloom? She was most definitely bigger than the clock. The pose seemed staged now, as if she and the photographer had endlessly discussed which locations would most enhance her chances. The more I looked I noticed besides the grandfather clock the picture was devoid of any other objects indicating its setting. For all I could discern the setting could have been hastily staged at a studio in order to convey a homely ambience. And her smile now did not seem strained anymore. Nor phony. But almost mocking. Mocking me.
“Your Dipti khala is of no help. She talks nonsense about all these beautiful girls she has found for you and then she sends over this lot!” grumbled Amma.
Her eyes were twinkling now. Merry amusement blatantly shone right through. She was deliberately undermining herself to be dismissed! It would explain why her arms were locked in such a defensive pose. Which girl with a mind to seduce suitors would pose in such a manner? Only one who wanted to repel all suitors. I almost laughed out loud at her bravado and ingenuity. What spirit!
“Just wait till she comes, I’ll give her an earful. I’ll throw the photos on her face!”
This girl certainly had guts. Undoubtedly, this was her only way to not acquiesce to an undesired circumstance. Undoubtedly, a character worth meeting. Am I the only one to see through her farce? I could not wait to hear her reasons behind this absurd façade.
“What about this one?”
“Which one? WHICH ONE? Did you like someone?” questioned Amma, excitement surging through her.
“This one in my hand,” I held up her picture.
“Oh, that one.” Her voice was suddenly subdued. “You like her? Isn’t she un-girly? Look at her shoulders, she seems broader than you. No, no, there’s a better one for you, Akaash, I was just admiring her a moment ago.”
“No, ammu, I want to meet this one,” I quietly stated.
My mother looked stricken temporarily, but she recovered quickly enough. “I think she is too old. 28 or 29. Maybe older. You know how they lie about their ages here. You need someone younger. 25 at least.”
“No, this one looks just right. Anyway, being 35 requires choosing someone closer to my age rather than a decade younger. Moreover, in my situation I should not be one to demand a lot”
“Akaash,” began Amma, “ What situation are you taking about? Girls should be glad to have someone like you choose them. Don’t be quick to dismiss yourself. See some more pictures. Your khalas are bringing more.”
“But amma….didn’t…”
“Beta, don’t rush! You said you wanted to take it slow. Same logic applies here. See more pictures and then decide.”
My mother swiftly grabbed the picture from my hand. Before I could protest, my khalas entered the room and she began to make a huge scene greeting them. Ruefully, I accepted a losing battle. I knew when I was dismissed. But it wasn’t my mother who had dismissed me. It was this unknown woman in the picture. This woman had answered my question. Few of them do have the choice to reject as well. All they have to do is look unappealing to the mothers of the prospective grooms. Once the mothers are repelled, they are emancipated from unwarranted suitors. I would have enjoyed meeting her. Even for just coffee. What must she make of all of this? I pulled my legs closer to my body. Waveringly I pulled myself up with the crane to greet my khalas. My right leg hung limply as I hugged them. An old high school injury that never fully healed.
It wasn’t enough that I was here waiting for him. I could not think of any excuse suitable enough to break it off. Lying was never my shinning talents. I always found it perplexing to keep tabs on the numerous lies that sprout to validate the original sin. The skies had darkened considerably since I arrived at the café. The small café perched above the street gave an unwelcome view of the front road clogged with stilted traffic. It smelled of rain on asphalt – a salty and pungent stench that enveloped the grime of the city. Someone’s watch beeped the hour mark. It just turned six. He was running late. I had waited almost fifteen minutes for him. I hated the fact that when people in this city say they’ll be there at 6, it generally means they’ll leave their house for the destination around 6. Why is it so hard for Bangladeshis to be punctual?
A small white Toyota rolled to a stop in front of the café. My pulse leaped and sweat balloons erupted underneath my arms. A Man emerged out of the car and strolled into the adjacent library. Is that him? I don’t usually do this. Allow myself to be set up on a blind date, albeit a blind date with the expected potential to evolve into something serious and committed. I did have a choice to say no. But I opted to exercise a tentative eagerness and boldness in agreeing to meet the stranger. A potential stranger might I add. The Man made his way upstairs where the small café was located. I looked up at him expectantly; however, he shied away from my glance and headed into one of the back rooms. So, it isn’t him after all.
Should have at least seen his picture. Who sets themselves for a blind date in Dhaka of all places. Must be crazy. Asking for trouble.
When you are of a certain age in Dhaka, you fall prey of your family’s concerns about your aging single status. When you are at a certain age in Dhaka, you fall victim of your family’s abjection of your divorcee status.
Another car rolls up. This time one of those sleek Mercedes that are glimpsed frequently on sunken roads and streets. A young couple emerges heading towards the nearby ice creamery hand in hand.
I sighed. So much for strained nerves. Relax; he’ll come, he phoned didn’t he?
As a woman of an aging age, I am expected to accept subserviently to opinions and feedback of my disastrous first marriage and my bleak future. As a woman with an independent and secured income, I have the prerogative to not pay heed to other people. But cultural traits are inherently installed, and I find myself oscillating from projecting unaffected nonchalance to deep empathy at my misfortunes.
But age and marriage or lackof or far worse the termination of one can lead to severe complications in the prototype of an ideal Bengali woman. What should a woman of an age far advanced when she is considered eligible, with one messed up marriage under her belt, do to convey her desirability? How can she portray naiveté and docility while harnessing her sexual past? Sex is always an integral part of a female’s eligibility. Is she or isn’t she? How many did she have? Who is she with right now?
The older you get the far less complicated you attempt to make you life, the more complicated life makes of you.
So now I’m on a blind date, waiting for a stranger who hopefully shows up in the next fifteen minutes or I’ll be out of the door. I should have left 20 minutes ago. Should have said I had an urgent engagement and could not wait longer. But I stayed back and now that lie doesn’t seem plausible anymore. I can hear him question why did I wait for so long already if I had a pressing meeting? Do I come off as desperate?
Is that him? Gorgeous…sweating again.
The man sat at a corner table near to the exit. He brought along a book, Coetzee, I managed to glimpse, which he unconsciously proceeded to read. The waiter hovered around till the man quietly muttered his order. I stared trying not to stare hoping to catch his eye.
Sole woman in the café. Should know it’s me. Should smile at him. Catch his eye. Should I? Smile at him. Stop staring. See you stare.
My body answering a primal call began a string of actions. I found myself unconsciously twirling locks of hair, lips slightly pouting, and my back arched prominently thrusting beckoning breasts.
He stared!
Look away! Look outside! I glanced at the traffic, pretended absentmindedly to check my watch. Should convince him that I am waiting for him. Is he the Man?
I sensed his eyes looking over me. Appreciatively? My body warmed to his reprisal. I dared not look at him now. Would sever this deliberate unconscious flirtation. My cheeks were flushing, heat escaping through my pores. I desperately needed a drink.
I spied another glance at him while ordering. Crisp white shirt worn underneath an aging jacket. The jacket had plaid elbow patches like the ones I often saw my father wore. A pair of glasses perched on his nose, professorial like. Definitely reading glasses. Graying hair peppered with white streaks. Bushy grey eyebrows framed light eyes that were staring back at my scrutinizing face.
Look away!
I reddened. Warmth effused my cheeks. I felt temporarily caught with my pants down. I hurriedly sifted through my bag looking for my mobile. No calls. Should I text him? Is that him?
He got up and I hesitated before looking to see if he was walking towards me. What courage it must take him to approach! Unexpectantly, he headed towards the back rooms and disappeared. My face fell and exhaustion at my silliness swept in. Must leave now.
As coincidences are apt to occur, just then my mobile beeped. I checked to see a message from the tardy stranger trumpeting his imminent arrival. Worth it? Kept me waiting close to an hour. I did wait though. Didn’t have to. Just did.
The enticing stranger had re-entered the room while I questioned my resolve. He reclaimed his seat but instead of resuming his place in the book was now lecherously smiling at me. Again, warm embarrassment pulsed through me. I looked at him in defiance, but his staring crippled my resolve.
It’s challenging at times to be a woman in this city. Chauvinism seeps through the social stratum like an intoxicating elixir. Incidences, trivial as this, ascertain and evoke the familiar uncertainties of settling here as a single woman. The sensation of worthlessness never truly effaces.
I ready to leave. The man continues to leer, but I refuse to acknowledge anymore.
He smiles as I cross his table. In my attempt to hurry away, I nearly collide with a Man slowly limping up the stairs heavily supported by his crane. His crane makes a loud clacking noise that draws me away from my mortification. I looked at him. He looked at me and smiled. A kind-knowing smile.
“You must be Ridi! I’m Akaash. I apologize for the tardiness. Quite uncharacteristic I assure you! Traffic congestion, you know how it is here. Are you about to leave? Please stay for a bit. Or we can go elsewhere if you prefer,” tumbled forth from this beautiful stranger.
