The one who seeks faces

( This is a story originally written by me in Malayalam and translated to English by my friend, whom I respect from the bottom of my heart. So, this story is for u, my friend..)

Is the city in a deep slumber? Or, like me, is it chasing the sleep that is eluding it? How can this city sleep when its heart is still aching and the embers of anguish, tribulations, and miseries of the day continue to burn? How can a city where the women who sell their body to feed their children are being used, abused, and exploited are forced to coexist with those heartless pimps, cruel thugs and corrupt cops who maltreat, manipulate and harm them sleep peacefully? It is better not to think or remember too much; ignorance is bliss! Even after living here for years, this city was always a stranger to me. I have always felt like an outsider and an intruder.

The city was always a boring and monotonous sight during the day. Humans and vehicles scurrying like ants. No one sees the faces of others. No one remembers the faces of others. The only thing one sees are hands—hands that accept, hands that give, hand that work, hands that rise and fall to the cadence of inquilab zindabads and other slogans, hands that maim and mutilate, hands that have blood on it, hands that are cut off from the body, the list goes on… I was never able to like this city that shelter myriad of faceless human beings.

There was a time when the blood was hot with revolutionary ideas, and mind was brimming with the zest, zeal, and passion to change the world; to make it better—a better place for the impoverished and helpless. It was the time when I could empathize with the oppressed and abused. It was the time when I used to hero worship revolutionaries like Che Guevara. It was a time when the things happened around me affected me. It was a time when nightmares used make my nights miserable, often startling me to wakefulness.

Sleep never was my companion. Once awake, the heaviness of the heart usually succeeded in keeping sleep at bay. I used to twist and turn restlessly in bed trying to remember the dreams that woke me up. The fact that the bloodthirsty soldiers and cruel oppressors of my dreams were faceless life forms always used to cause a lot of mental trauma. Why in the world those clod-blooded and heartless animals need a face? Soldiers don’t need a face; they only need gun wielding hands and booted legs. Similarly, the people of this metropolis also don’t need faces…

My office was my sanctum. I was always more at home in the office than at home. In the morning, there is a kind of suffocation and restlessness till I reach the office. I always tried to reach the office as fast as I could—the haste one exhibits while swallowing a bitter pill. Once inside the cabin, I never ventured out of my comfort zone; not even for lunch.

In the evening, from the office, it was always straight to the library. I used to stay there till it closed. It is a magical experience to walk between the bookshelves. While walking between the bookshelves touching the books I often felt the books had faces—faces that spoke the truth. Once you take the books from the confines of the bookshelves and browse through the pages, they will start speaking enthusiastically like good old friends. Time used to fly once I entered the library. I never felt the compulsion to leave the library. It was the impatient gestures and subtle suggestions of the librarian that always made me aware it was time to say goodbye for that day.

Once out of the library, it is a brisk walk to the room, never stopping to look around. I was afraid to look around, as there will always be some disturbing sight that will disrupt the mental peace. A slight disturbance to the mind was all that needed to make the night miserable, to keep me awake and worried. I always used to wonder why I am so sensitive, sentimental, and emotional. The bitter experiences of life, the wounds of time, and the supercilious attitude of society have failed to change me. They have failed miserably in making me tough, callous, and indifferent. Now, even after all these years, about fifty eventful ones, a change is almost impossible. No, I don’t want to change. I am what I am and trying to change it will be foolhardiness—something similar to people undergoing plastic surgery to hide their age.

Suddenly, I remembered her. I saw her when I was getting into the office—quite unexpectedly and unanticipated. While climbing the dimly lit stairs, I saw her—a tired and frail human form; leaning on the wall for support. Initially, I thought it was some projection on the wall, which I had not noticed earlier. But that was not surprising as I never noticed anything on the way to my cabin. She asked me something; or was my mind playing tricks.

"Yes?" My voice was staid and businesslike.
"I would like to see the thasildar…could you help me?"

Even though, her voice was very feeble, it still had enough traces of intimacy to sent shockwaves to the depths of my mind. It had enough power to reopen the old memories that I had locked up in the darkest and deepest corners of my mind.

"Sumangala…"

When I stood dumfounded unable continue, I saw shock on her face and disbelief in her eyes. Years vanished in an instant and I was transported back to my college days. It was our last day in college. All were busy bidding farewells with promises to meet again—promises that are rarely kept. When I told her everything, she looked at me sympathetically. I told her how much I loved her and how I felt without her. I told her all the things that I had kept inside me all these years without telling her. Once started, I couldn’t stop; it was like a downpour. In the end, when I looked at her with eagerness, all I saw was sympathy and sadness.

"I love you; I love you a lot. But more that I won’t say anything; I shouldn’t say anything." She told me.
That day I was adamant—for the very first time. "You should at least show the generosity to tell me the reason."
"No, I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have any valid reason. I don’t have the freedom to take a decision." She told me.

I didn’t ask anything further. When I walked back, I tried to imagine that I heard her sobbing. The dreams that I had kept with me all these years with the purity of the driven snow were shattered. But I didn’t feel any anger or frustration. My mind was too numb to feel anything. Later, I felt some kind of relief—as the weight of the dreams was lifted making my heart lighter. Sometimes I am like that; when I aspire for something, I just wish that somebody dissuaded me from that.

After that fateful day in college, I didn’t see her until today. I never tried to find her or see her. But seeing her and that too quite unexpectedly disturbed me. Her thoughts kept me awake for a long time—until the wee hours of the morning. When the morning alarm woke me up, I felt very tired. I made black tea and covered the top of the mug with my face—an unsuccessful attempt to enjoy the warmth to drive away the tiredness. After finishing the tea, I got ready and started for the office.

But when I reached there, it was already late. The attendance register had been sent to the office superintend. While contemplating whether to face the wrath of the superintend or to take half-day leave, I saw her again. She was coming from the thasildar’s room. She smiled and expressed her gratitude for the previous day’s favor. Thasildar had agreed to her request and the revenue recovery was put on hold for the time being. I just nodded and she went out.

I followed her till the office gate and asked,

"How are you? Is everything fine?"The lifeless smile, she had forced on her pale face earlier, with much difficulty disappeared.
Then she said, very slowly and in a very frail voice,

"I… I couldn’t forget you…I cannot forget you even now…"

I felt a wave of dizziness hitting me with great force. With much difficulty, I kept my ground and asked… "Husband?"
"I have everyone…but I couldn’t forget you… I didn’t know that I couldn’t forget you…and I don’t think that I will ever be able to forget you, however hard I try… I am unable to love or enjoy my current life. I am unable to laugh. Life has become a monotonous routine. I didn’t know that I loved you so much…I know it is too late and I know nothing can be corrected…But I don’t have anybody to tell my sorrows. I don’t know how and when I will be able to get rid of this burden…"

Did a canary start singing in my mind’s garden? Or was it a cuckoo signaling the onset of the spring? I looked at her with joy in my heart and great expectations. I never saw the love for me in her eyes. I couldn’t find any tender emotions. The only thing I saw was the despondency and hopelessness of her predicament.

When she walked away, wiping tears with the corners of her old cotton saree, I felt like I have become very old, very fast…