A Short Story - Deja Vu

She reminds me of molten chocolate. Not the kind that’s warmed in a saucepan, over the heat of an inanimate stove, but the kind that has soaked in the golden rays of the winter sun. Chocolate that is soft, buttery like her body, which undulates under the off-white sheets, as she sleeps on her side. Her mouth slightly parted and her dark, black hair framing an angelic face… Angelic when she wants to, or very devilish.

I get up, trying not to make any sound, the bed creaks under the shifting of my weight and she sighs as usual and turns around, I hesitate, her nakedness is inviting. I look at the watch and decide not to indulge in the temptation. I close the door behind me and move to the living room. It is 6 am and the night has faded away some hours ago, the inky blanket wiped away by the clean dawn, and then the slow violence of a yolk yellow sun, making an appearance behind the peepal trees. That liquid yellow, faded by the milky morning, seeps through the cracks in the door to the balcony. As I open the door, a cat opens his eyes and looks at me with utter contempt and then decides to ignore me as I bend to pick up the newspaper and then walk into the kitchen.

The kitchen is a mess; the tattered remains of yesterdays joyous celebrations of three years of being married. I put some milk into a small vessel and dodge the carcass of a day old cake and the half masts of three candles. Coffee by the teaspoon and then sugar from the gleaming tin. I smile as I remember the memories from the early days of marriage, when she used to curse me for smudging her gleaming tins, twenty two, two kilo tins, all stacked in neat rows above the ancient gas stove.

I walk back to the living room and as the coffee cools I smear toothpaste and brush and then rinse and wipe my face. She has as usual not forgotten to place a fresh towel in its rightful place. The coffee is now warm, just the way I like it. And sweet. The newspaper spews the usual venom. I finish the cup and return with another, in the process noticing the grey smear of newsprint ink along the nails of my right hand. I wipe them off on my shorts and get up, stretching. The last song of the day before plays in my head, I on impulse turn around and switch the tape on. There are cobwebs behind the rack, I look away and tell myself to remind me to dust and vacuum the place on the coming Sunday. Music pours out of the speakers and gently spreads its wings in the room, it is soothing, the beats of the drums and the accompanying flute cascading and whispering on the floor and then lifting itself in sweeps of glory. These musicians are amazing.

I open the taps and fill a bucket with hot water and as another fills, I soap my body and watch the suds drain away with each mug full of water. The showers are still not working and anyway I could never get the hang of using them.

It is seven, I must now hurry and finish off the breakfast, and I do manage a reasonable omlette, even if the edges turn a dark shade of burnt brown. I return to the bedroom and kiss her forehead and wake her up gently. She stretches like a cat and smiles a stale smile, inundated with some dream she was in the midst of. Wiping off the mists of sleep she hugs me, her body melting into mine and then I leave.

The scooter starts with a rumble and the seven thirty bus rushes past me, a usual depositing onto me a fine patina of dust. The first of the many such dust showers. The traffic is not yet heavy and by the time I reach my small office, it is eight. The newspaper can been seen half inside the office and half yet sticking out from under the shutter, like a tongue, at people passing by. The incense sticks let out their burden and I settle in to count the last evening’s collection. Ten rupee notes, five rupee coins and a few fifty rupee notes. Totaling to five hundred. Not bad considering that there was no electricity for almost half the day.

I wait for people to walk in; it has been almost two hours since I opened the office. I have checked my emails, answered a few of them, read all the news and chatted with a few strangers on various chat systems. As the minutes tick to another hour, I can feel the anticipation build up again and again, “what if…”, I wonder, “no one turns up”. That would mean that there would be no money at the end of the day. I shake the thought and concentrate on the newspaper, read another version of the same story I read at six in the morning. This time around I am not bothered about the ink on my nails. I look up to a noise and realize that it is only a neighbor shuffling along noisily. Then suddenly people enter to make their purchases. Money at last.

The day wears to an end and the day-end fades into the velvet softness of the night. She calls up as usual at eight to tell me what she has cooked and what she did during her day. I am distracted and do not pay much attention. She finally stops talking and I disconnect. It’s been twelve hours since I have been here and I am beginning to get cramps in my legs. I finally decide to go for a walk, abandoning the thought when I realize that some customers might not find me here and go away and I would lose them forever. I drink tea from the cup handed by the gruffy man from the corner tea stall, wondering how many days it has been since he washed his hands. I look at my hands and smile to myself.

The return journey is not eventful; it is full of dust and the fallen leaves of the day. They billow up behind me and chase me round the corner until, tired, they give up. I am willing to give up too, I am willing to fall into bed and doze off.

She opens the door sullen from the earlier conversation and serves dinner. The food is cold and needs a little salt, I am not in the mood to complain and eat it without comment. The door to the balcony is open and brings strains of an old melody, I hum along and she joins in. Laughing we get into bed and fall off. Letting go of another day. She slips along side and together we ride the waves until both turn away and sleep like strangers. Until the alarm clock taps me awake.

She reminds me of molten chocolate. Not the kind that’s heated in a saucepan, over the heat of an inanimate stove, but the kind that has soaked in the golden rays of the winter sun. Chocolate that is soft, buttery like her body, which undulates under the off white sheets, as she sleeps on her side. Her mouth slightly parted and her dark, black hair framing an angelic face… Angelic when she wants to, or very devilish.

Déjà vu?

(c) Sunil R Nair, June 2002

(First published in Si Senor Summer 2002)