Finding Quiet

Waves are crashing against the rocks. A garish sun is glaring down; it means well, it’s  providing life, but its intensity is stifling. There’s nowhere else to go. The heat from  the promenade she’s sitting on is creeping forcefully through her thin white cotton salwar. She’s perfectly still because the smallest movement causes the sun to make itself felt. She doesn’t want to let it win. 

Her throat is still parched from before.  

She closes her eyes, and even as the incessant sun tries to disrupt her darkness, she focuses on the blankness behind her closed eyelids. I just like quiet.

Even as she slowly opens her eyes again, the dreaded sun rushes in, leaving no space for the quiet and peace. It reminds her of the email from four hours ago.  

Thanks for your interest in working for The Soho Spirit. Unfortunately, we do not  have vacancies at present. We will, however, keep your CV on file for review as  and when our requirements change.  

It had been a happy morning until then. A good hair day. Refreshing coffee. Her beloved sheer curtains slow-dancing with a gentle wind. 

Then three sentences — she wasn’t good enough. If she was the impressive kind, they would have hired her anyway. Then, realisation — she would have to continue at the dead-end job that numbed her. 

Her partner had moved out two weeks ago.

“It’s exhausting trying to maintain a relationship with you when you keep everything stuffed inside. I’m not here just for quiet company and sex. That’s important, but it’s not enough. You’re never emotionally vulnerable and open with me. I can’t be with a wall anymore. I’m tired. And I’m sorry. In a way, I’m always going to love you. But I’m tapping out.”

Still, she’d said nothing. He’d sighed, planted a soft kiss on her forehead, and then left, without turning back.

Now her meagre bank account mocked her. Alone, she wouldn’t be able to afford the rent for this beautiful home that they’d lovingly set up together. 

She realised that she had no one to talk to. She had pushed her only friend away after she had suggested that it wasn’t her partner who was at fault, but her. 

“I’ve known you for over ten years and I’ve never seen you cry. That’s not normal! Look, if he left because you weren’t opening up even with him, who do you even share your struggles with?” her friend had asked.

“I complain about my job at least five times a day,” she had said.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

She’d said nothing.

“Have you tried reaching out to him since he left?”

Again, she’d said nothing.

“If you don’t express your love, then what even is the point of life?”

“I think I just need some time alone,” she’d said. And ended the video call. She hadn’t replied to her friend’s messages since.

He had made her feel safe and loved. He had endless patience. But still, he had left. She was at fault. Her friend was right. 

At the heels of this epiphany was that childhood memory — the game that involved her being touched — pain. 

Her partner had shown her what it felt like to be touched with love and care. And now she had forever lost that. She was almost certain that she wasn’t worthy of that type of loving touch. She was polluted, ever since she was a child. So it made sense that love left. It was what she deserved.

She’d been thinking, for some months now, about the only way out. Now was the time to act.  

She picked up her dupatta and walked slowly to the switch board, turning off the fan.  She watched the blades slow down until they finally stood still. She dragged a chair under the fan and climbed up on it. She slowly tied the cloth around the base of the fan, untying and retying it, until the little flurry in her mind died down.  

She stared at the other end of the dupatta, running her hand along the fabric. The white  of the cloth presented a dramatic contrast to her dark skin. She stared at it for a few  moments, her eyes unfocused. 

I could try finding another job. But there’s nowhere else I want to work. And I can’t take another day at  this job. How will I ever find an affordable house in this city now? I don’t want to be alone again. I  know I’m going to die alone. He was perfect. And I even made him leave. He literally packed all  through the night and moved out the next afternoon. Is he living with a friend? What is he doing right now? 

She slowly slid her hands down her torso, imitating the way his hands had moved when they kissed. Her eyes refocused on the dupatta in her hand. 

If she was here she’d tell me to stop spiralling. But she’s not. Because I told her I needed a break from the friendship. I’m sure I was very unpleasant to talk to. All I did was complain about work. 

It’s true then. 

I’m an unlovable person.  

That thought rang in her mind with a brilliant clarity. She felt the full truth of those words settle in all around her. Yes. She was a deeply unlovable person. And without  people in her life to love her, what did anything else matter? What would happen even if she had gotten the job? There was no one to celebrate it with.  

She brought the dupatta up to her neck. Just a little bit tighter than bearable should be good.  Her breathing became laboured, air gushing in and out through her open mouth. Good.  

She stares blankly at her feet at the edge of the chair. Her eyes close. She recalls her dog’s face, imagining him happy at home with her family. “Bye Bean, I love you,” she whispers. I just like quiet. And with eyes still closed, she slowly slides down one foot and then quickly the other. 

She feels an intense shock. She’s struggling, trying to find her footing on the chair again.  Her legs are kicking at the air all around her and her body is flailing. 

Her hands come up to her neck, trying to undo the knot. Don’t fight it. Breathing has become harder. Her eyes close. 

When her eyes open, she’s on the floor. The dupatta has come undone and is wreathed across her upper body, obscuring most of her vision. She imagines looking like a deceased body, covered in a white cloth, except that her body isn’t straight, but splattered on the floor like a cracked egg. Her eyes close again. 

The next time her eyes open, it’s because of a throbbing in her head. The left side of her body is hurting — face, ribs, leg. Her left hand is pricking because of the lack of blood  flow. She pulls the hand out from under her. The blood hurts as it fills back. She  focuses on every prick and then stares up at the fan. Why did you let me go? 

Water collects in her eyes, leaving a prickling sensation in her nose on the way. A tear forms in her right eye. Then another. She’s crying, and it’s becoming louder. Her mouth opens into a noiseless scream. She’s crying harder now. Snot is dribbling into her mouth. The sobs become louder, breaking forth from her in short bursts, sounding like cracks being made in armour. She cries until there are no more tears left. Her left hand isn’t smarting anymore. The throbbing has mellowed.

Slowly, she sits up, undoes the dupatta from around her neck, and uses it to wipe her face. She brings her fingers between her legs and tries to stroke herself, the fabric obstructing most of the sensation. I’m never going to feel his strong, gentle fingers again. She pushes into the cloth, stroking herself with sharp nails, mimicking what the old man had when she was a child. The dream her partner had shown her was over.

I need fresh air. 

The ocean wasn’t far and she went there often with him. She liked to watch the waves crashing against the rocks. So there she was, sitting on the promenade in the broiling heat. It was hot enough that no other thought enters her mind and she feels peaceful.

She looks away from the spot in the ocean she’d been staring at, where the sun was dancing on top of the waves. Her eyes are overwhelmed. She blinks through the yellow spots until they settle down.  

There’s not a lot of people around. A couple some distance off to the right. Kissing. There’s sweat trickling down the back of the woman’s neck. Her t-shirt has dark patches of sweat and it’s clinging closely onto her. His hand is stroking her back, making its way  from the sweat patch on the top to the one below and then back up again. She can’t see from here but she’s almost certain their faces are sweating too. Beads of sweat on the  brows, the upper lips. Sticky moisture from the ocean on their cheeks. And those faces breathing onto each other. Exchanging not just saliva but sweat and heat.  

How long have I been staring at them? 

She slowly turns her head back. She puts her legs down on the closest rock, gets on it,  and then makes her way to the next rock. Moving slowly, sitting and sliding and using all fours, she’s descending. With each move, she’s peeping at the ground visible below, from between the rocks, picturing her body in a different state of disfigurement to match each new gap. With just a few bruises, she’s at the beach.

She looks at the water in front of her, removes her slippers, and feels the burning sand under her feet. She takes a step. Then another. And another. She partially steps on a piece of broken glass. It’s the top half of an alcohol bottle. The lid is still on. She picks it up and smells. Not sure what that was. She wraps her hand around the lid and holds the half bottle in her hand like she would a bouquet of flowers.  

She’s walking along the ocean, looking at the water and listening to the familiar sound of its movements. The sun’s harsh power is receding. She’s  feeling quieter.

‘Madam, rock ke peeche aaoge?’ (Madam, will you come behind the rocks?) calls out a man. She stops and turns to look at him. He’s wearing a striped shirt, loose trousers held on with a belt, and black slippers. There’s oil in his hair. And a sleazy smile on his face.  

Eve teasing isn’t new in this city. She stays rooted for a few seconds. Then she starts to slowly walk over. There’s shock and excitement on his face. He draws himself out, standing fully visible. She points and leads them to a more secluded spot. There’s plastic, broken glass and muck under her feet. He’s following close behind. At least this makes sense. Proximity without connection. This was all she had known — her whole life — before him. And then he’d left. It was past midnight. Her fairy tale was over. This skinny man with the sleazy smile was her lot in life.

She turns around and pins him against a rock. Undoes his belt. The trousers fall to his feet. She removes his boxers and strokes him. She tightens her grip on the broken bottle in her other hand. She continues stroking until he’s hard. Then she sinks her knees down into the litter, licks her chapped lips, opens her mouth and takes him inside. She closes her eyes and settles into a rhythm. That coveted quiet again. His hand grabs onto the back of her head, roughly shoving himself in deeper. She tries not to gag, continues sucking on him, and finds the rhythm again. I just like quiet. Then she swallows.

The bottle is still in her hand. She stands up. Meets his astonishment with empty eyes. Brings the bottle to her right hand. Looks down at it. Stares at the jagged edges of the broken glass. After a few moments, she sinks it into the right side of her belly. It does the trick. The quietness comes with a force — hugs her, letting her know that this time it has finally decided to stay. This feels as peaceful as his hugs did.

The man pulls his pants back up and runs away.  

Blood is dripping from her side, creating red patterns on her white clothes. She starts walking toward the ocean, and takes slow, unsteady steps into the water. She’s focused only on the rhythm of its calming sounds. Finally, quiet.