This piece is part of a collection of short stories that I hope to self-publish in summer 2014. Thank you very much to my beta-readers D & S for doing such a fantastic job.
I am at peace as I press my face hard against the cold glass that is the window into their home. I have been here for over an hour, my breath misting over the pane as I devour the picture of family bliss in front of me. Their involvement in the hustle and bustle of family life is so complete that they have still not noticed me. Soon they will chase me away, shouting obscenities, the mother fearful and the father full of rage. Little do they know that I am not the monster I once was. I am a weary, broken man. I breathe in their everyday happiness because mine was lost to me long ago. The way it ended changed me forever.
Mumbai, as it is now called, has always been my hometown and why would I leave? You are here. By day I look for you. I have been looking for you for so long that I have lost track of time. It is my fifty-sixth year, I think, yet my bones crack and ache like I am a hundred years old. I walk the streets of the city, a haggard, foul-smelling man, wearing my shame like a comfortable old coat. Self-important businessmen stride past me in dark, tailored suits, an army of men with tiny mobile phones pressed to their ears, moving fast and rendering me invisible. I am grateful for my invisibility. I revel in it. I disappear into the cracks and crevices of the bustling city, mingling with the dust from the stinking streets, merging with the spicy vapours that rise from Mumbai’s kitchens and restaurants and street corners.
I wish at these moments of invisibility that I could reappear as if by magic beside you or disappear altogether. Not even the oblivion of sleep soothes me. Until I find you my only joy is my nightly escapades to the families of this city, watching them love and argue and comfort each other. Sometimes I pretend that I am their grandfather, out on some errand to bring sweets home for the children, jelabi perhaps, or some mango lassi. These moments of make-believe are a balm for my soul. I dive deep into their worlds for as long as I can each night, sustained by their lives, rooting for them and hurting for them. And my alienation is complete.
Tonight was like every other night since I lost you. As darkness fell, I made my way through the city’s streets in the sticky air, drawn to a white-washed mansion that I have never visited before. It was framed by glittering white lights as if from a fairy-tale and as I approached I was overwhelmed by the pungent smell of pink rose bushes. I crept across the courtyard, partially camouflaged by the grime and dust that have become my natural attire. It was the best and worst decision I have ever made.
As I watch through the glass, a young woman with flour in her hair is kneading dough for roti. There is a baby sleeping in a basket, wrapped in a deep orange swaddling blanket despite the heat. A thick-set man is sitting at the table, his shirt buttons popping across his belly, his dirty bare feet in contrast to the sterile extravagance of the floor tiles. Every now and then, he looks up from his newspaper to speak to the woman at the stove. Then an older woman enters the kitchen and my stomach lurches as if I were on a ramshackle fairground ride.
You are taller than the average Indian woman. Your shoulders are set back proudly and your sari is pulled tightly across your body in haughty dismissal of accepted styles for older women. I know it is you before you turn around. The hair on the back of my neck rises in anticipation and my chest constricts as I see you in profile. As you turn towards me my head empties for a brief moment, before an explosion of unwarranted thoughts fills its cavity and all I can think of is I wish I was someone else entirely. Someone without my history. Someone cleaner, fitter, richer, deserving of you. My legs are shaking now and I flail as my feet become tangled in the fairy-lights, falling against the pane of glass with a dull thud. For a moment I think I have been lucky. Then all hell breaks loose.
‘Ye kya hai? Maa, Jaya, stay inside with the baby!’ shouts the man as he grabs a flour-covered rolling pin from the kitchen worktop and dashes out of the room.
I stagger up clumsily, held captive by the image of you for a long moment before moving back into the shadows on feet that do not want to do my bidding. I can not risk you recognising me. My legs feel as if they are dipped in tar as I urge them forward, passing landscaped gardens and a swimming pool. My head is reeling from the sight of you but still I plough on, making it onto the gravel drive before the man even reaches outside. I can hear him behind me now, slow and heavy as he fights against his weight and the humidity, cursing as he is slowed by the gravel on his bare feet. Laughter bubbles up from inside me like from a dormant volcano, uncontrollable and unwelcome, as my joy at finding you threatens to send every other emotion into the stratosphere.
I must get away. Experience has taught me that the millionaires are the most vengeful if I am caught. Like gods in their palaces, with iron-wrought fences, sleeping guards and noisy dogs to keep them safe, they rise up in squawking outrage at their pillaged sanctity. Fat, manicured men, with great wealth and beautiful families, belonging to the ranks of the privileged few in a city where the streets teem with the godforsaken. This one continues his cries of vengeance as he chases after me, his breath heaving, driven on by his anger and hatred of me.
They catch me. The guards, woken by their master’s shouts, unleash their snarling dogs and fear begins to fill my belly at last, like a serpent slowly unfurling and stretching deep within me. I scream when a large dog, its fur ravaged, sinks decaying teeth into my bare leg. I am surrounded by men panting as heavily as I am, as their eyes fill with glee and self-righteous anger. Vice-like they grip my forearms, paying no heed to the dogs still snapping at my legs. There is an outbuilding with dimmed lights a few hundred yards away and it is there we make our way, my leg bleeding and bruises springing up on my arms as if I were an ageing piece of fruit.
This is how it works. There will be no police: for that I am relieved. The beating I am about to receive will render me unrecognisable, even from your eyes. I will become the outlet for their collective rage and my tormentors will guard me selfishly, unleashing their fury until I am finally free to go. They will nurse their bloodied knuckles with satisfaction and retell the story of this night a thousand times, earning praise from their listeners for the justice they have delivered. When the surge of power and pride has left their slackening bodies, it may be replaced by seeds of shame, but only in the best of men. Either way, I will return to this house as soon as I am able.
Like countless times before, I give myself over to reverie as they do their worst, but this time my ageing memories of you are mixed with the one I just made. I let myself see your soft body through the vibrant blue of your sari. I breathe a sigh of relief that you are alive and well, even as their blows rain down on me. They have found their rhythm now, these men. It does no good to fight back and I take the punishment gladly, not for the crime I have committed, but as penance for that ill-fated night long ago. My blood tastes salty on my lips as they take it in turns to pummel me. The men are grunting from their exertion now and the film of sweat covering their master’s forehead has reached his effeminate eyebrows. A rib cracks as easily as glass and I curl up into a ball on the cold stone floor, screwing my eyes shut while I wait for the flurry of punches to stop. I hear what I think is a belt-clasp being unfastened and brace myself for the impact, when suddenly the room is filled with stillness.
I hear the rustle of silk and am too afraid to open my eyes.
‘Ajay, take the men and go inside. You are finished here,’ you say softly. ‘We will speak of this later. Now leave us be.’
There is a brief pause and then leaden footsteps scuff the floor as they move away from me. The door shuts and I know we are alone.
Find Part 2 of The Voyeur here:
Find Part 3 of The Voyeur here: