A Man who was not there
Signs were there; it wasn’t dawn, not yet. The large window in the room has two thick, dark drapes to block light sneaking inside. Without any glowing electronics, only a muffled sound from the air conditioner soaked the room. Amil pushed countless attempts with various professionals to make this unit quiet. He is not entirely satisfied – hardly ever is! Yet, the space radiated an unfamiliar aura to feel welcome. He woke up without a single yawn or stretch as if he had been lying on the bed all along. To him, sleep has become a struggle only to get a shuteye, not a rejuvenation process. He became a slave to naps during the day, dozing uncontrollably on a sofa or under a tree in an open field. Other days, at this hour, he would have been on the street for the morning walk if his body had not screamed with this verdict: it was weighty, and most joints froze on a spring night — a surprise encounter or perhaps a whisper of a sinister episode, he thought. After a strenuous struggle, he got out of bed and finished his daily morning bathroom routine, only to move around the apartment as if he had checked in last night as an Airbnb guest and had yet to figure out where things were stored or placed. He desperately needed a splash of cold morning air on his face. Before heading to the balcony, he made a cup of tea, though unattentively – he was not used to any chores at this hour. The tea tasted like hot water from the stove.
When he looked at the breathtaking scenery around his building – he realized the quicksand conditions of his making in this painting-like gorgeous establishment. The stunning scenery held him in awe as he marveled at its magnificence, but amidst all this splendor, he longed deeply for something he couldn’t articulate. His brain was in a mosh pit of conflicts from the ideas he inherited but did not cultivate, the thoughts he let run riot but did not cherish, and the emotions that muddy his better self! Instead of a good dose of spring cleaning of these rent-free residents in the brain, he became a recluse. Sometimes, he liked to believe that his eccentricity made it possible to develop an uncanny ability to sense parts of the future, like predicting oncoming rain or storm! While trying to finish the lousy tea, he hoped for signs: Why did everything feel different this morning? What eerie conditions are making their way into his otherwise mundane life?
On a typical day, before leaving the apartment, he reads his favorite sentences from books he had marked. When the sparkles of the stars fade, and a faint smile of sunlight bleeds onto the sky, but darkness still floods the surroundings, he is on the street, walking towards the east to meet his morning, conversing silently with those lines! His pace is never urgent during this walk. A weight of gratitude from the gentle caress of the unspoiled morning breeze, the rustling of leaves, and the perfectly synchronized birdsong compel him to look around with a lovesick gaze at this blue planet. The privilege of living within the pristine landscape and the uniqueness of his existence guide his gait. About three weeks ago, when he reached the waypost of six decades of life, he pondered a knock on the door any day from the Magi – the inevitable notice that arrives to everyone. The one he desperately wants not to respond, hoping that would discourage the messenger and spare him without the verdict, the certainty of an inescapable diagnosis that he would not live through!
He finally leaves the apartment and begins his walk to the cafe. The bright sun and stale breeze removed the charm of the morning. He reaches the store after a little over half an hour’s brisk walk. On other days, it would have been in the final opening countdown. Employees expect him at that hour and are happy to let him enter through the back kitchen door before the store opens. To them, he brings humanness into their barren environment. They exchange nods, fist bumps, or flying kisses – spoken words don’t add waves over the daily noises of activities. Everyone welcomes this uncommon interaction in Amil’s foreign land. He passes through the kitchen quickly, walks to the front, finds a table by the window, takes out index cards, and scribbles a flurry of thoughts in Brownian motion in his cerebrospinal fluid. He could write more quickly with the predictive keyboard of a modern phone but would soon find himself browsing various apps on the phone instead.
Unsurprisingly, another patron was at Amil’s table by the window today. He may have skipped a day or two since he started his morning pilgrimage at the store, but he was always on time! They exchanged stares when he entered the store as if she was expecting him. The store owner noticed from the kitchen and rushed to greet him. Amil felt he spilled food like a toddler, and everyone was looking at him! Within moments, he must break his silence, which survived for 23 days without speaking to anyone, not even on the phone. A sense of loss pierced his heart. His last conversation was over the phone with one of his kids half away around the globe. Their geographic distance was less than how far apart they were in their psyche. To his family, son, and daughter, he was an inmate with language and expressions from a lost civilization. He has been trying to cross that ever-shifting, invisible, yet real terrane.