By Awrup Sanyal

THIS new house I have moved into, it isn’t much. The milieu is lower-middle class and remote. Remote from anything related to work. And it is ill reputed for its population of cockroaches. Those ancient creatures who precede us, anything that is us, human and now, and who will ultimately supersede us. They are everywhere, I mean everywhere, and even the grass looks red here.

   Though I must give this to the broker, he had forewarned me sufficiently.

   ‘There is only one problem saar, and I am telling you, though it is harmful for my business, you know, in business you can’t afford to be good, good is only when you make good, so I am telling you, so don’t tell me I did not tell you, later I want no jhaamela, I do straight business, this place is good, good para, the landlord is a nice man, the house is good, rooms are spacious, kitchen, attached bath (by this he meant one didn’t have to leave the house to go to the loo, which is usually the case around here), even a store room, you won’t get this good so cheap anywhere, but, but there is this aarshola problem, many of them, very many of them, you won’t get anything better than this, I am telling you, haan, Bhola is the best.’ The broker intoned.

   You see, I was adequately warned. But, midway through his monotonous monologue I was lost in other thoughts. Finally, bored with his greasy salesmanship, I remember thinking, but what could be so problematic about a few cockroaches, okay, perhaps more than a few more – a lot more?

   I took the house; it suited my budget. The day I was moving in the landlord visited me, a nice old man, caring: a bit too intimate for my comfort I thought, helpful and gregarious, extending his hospitality almost like an olive branch, as if in preparation of some ceremonial reconciliation.

   He whispered conspiratorially, ticklishly close, ‘Unpack your bags now while there is still light. I hope you have a nylon mosquito net? Well keep it made up all the time. When it gets dark you’ll be comfortable on the bed, inside the net. If you need help, call out, I sleep light. By the way, keep a torch handy. See you later.’

   With this he went out, or so I thought for he came back nodding his sweet old head and said, ‘There is one thing I forgot…sleep with your shoes on.’

   Now, this should have been a broad hint, but I ignored even this in my invincibility of youth. In Bangla there is an adage: keu dekhay sekhay, keu thekay sekhay. Some see and learn, some suffer and learn. I belong to the latter category, I guess.

   Disregarding the warnings I took it cool and by the time the day came to an end I had forgotten all about it. As the sun dipped over and behind the terraces of the adjoining buildings and the darkness came rushing in like shadows that did not pass but hung over like a stubborn umbrella of darkness, I was blinded by the pitch. I turned away from the window, groping, and slithered up to the light switch. I pressed one, nothing happened, pressed another, nothing happened, pressed all the remaining switches, I was still stranded in the dark. There was a power cut, which was a regular feature. The State Electricity Board blamed it on the pilfering of overhead wires and Calcutta Electricity Supply Corporation’s overdue bills which in turn meant fund shortage for maintenance work, so on and so forth. The buck was always passed on. I tried to figure out where I had smoked my last cigarette, hoping that would lead me to the matchbox, but to no avail. Precisely at that moment, I remember, I had this hideous pestiferous feeling around my ankles — the quintessential cockroach-legs-on-skin feeling and soon the feeling began to rise up, flanking me on all sides, isodiametrically, like a column. The roaches were crawling all over my body and soon they covered up my neck, face and hair. I felt like they were getting into my soul too. Like my whole body was turned inside out, raw and exposed.

   After a petrified pause I screamed, flailing my arms and stomping on the ground, possessed. Splats of exploding cockroach intestines and the deadening crunch as I reeled ripped the air. Splat-crunch, splat-crunch, it went. It was not the sound of my victory, but that of defeat.

   They rushed in from everywhere. I stumbled and ran into walls of darkness. They then launched an aerial attack. From every direction, in every possible formation and frequency they bombarded me, like kamikaze pilots. How long the battle ensued, I don’t know. They reminded me of Hitchcock’s Birds.

   That was my first encounter with the red-brigands. The whole night was spent outside. I had walked all the way to the city, and knocked at my friend’s at two in the morning. When I told my friend and her family (I must have looked all shaken up, the whole family had come out, awoken from sleep) of what I had encountered, they did not believe a single word. Though they did not say that on my face, the look on theirs was telling. For me it was no longer a question of disbelief, I had been through hell and back.

   I went back armed with all kinds of roach killing devices and poisons, unguents to be applied on myself and other surfaces, available on the grocer’s shelves. I was determined to banish them from that house of mine. Every time I used a poison, and I used them in stronger and stronger doses, they would disappear for a while then appear again. Initially, I did not notice, but once, after I had sprayed lethal pesticides and they returned, I noticed they were bigger in size, almost three times the usual size; they had developed two horn-like attachments, white in colour, beside the pair of feelers; the wings had undergone modification and now they operated differently.

   The wings, the red ones that we know of, would slide out 90 degrees to the left and right, the wingspan now a perfect 180 degrees, and from under these would emerge the new, modified, white wings which would flutter in a blur, these would slide out 45 degrees left and right, forming a fan of red and white wings. This new technology gave them further speed and manoeuvrability. They now ruled the air too. The horns were for what horns are – weapons of attack.

   During all this time – and this had gone on for months – two other things kept me equally occupied. One was the small patch of wilderness beyond my window, and two, the window beyond the wilderness. The wilderness was small but wanton, raucous, unkempt, unfettered. The late September rain had pampered it into luxurious growth. Creepers and climbers of all sorts had stretched out their green limbs, feeble but eloquent and eager to touch, growing like one huge organism. It was a haven for all kinds of birds: tuntuni, benebou, banns paati, other parrots, woodpeckers, cranes, phinge, kingfisher and the usual sparrows, crows and vultures and eagles and kokils and bulbuls. It seemed like all of Dr Ali’s birds would descend down on this patch of green. Their eloquent or sad or anxious monologues and their cacophonous or twittering or cawing diatribes, made me forget my woes. That, and the window.

   The window. Now, obviously, there must have been a house beyond the wilderness, I mean the one to which the window belonged, but it could not be seen. It was totally obscured by trees and the overgrowth. Somehow, through a clearing this window could be seen. It looked quaint. No matter how early I woke up, the window would be open. A blue and white floral curtain adorned this window. I thought at times I saw someone moving away, or standing behind the curtain looking out, but I could never be sure. I even tried to peek hidden behind my own curtains but I did not see much. All I did see was a posse of cats entering and leaving through the window. Looking at the cats I had the feeling it was some ancient ritual going on for centuries. At night the house would look spotted with numerous pairs of disembodied gleaming eyes. Enough to send a chill through my bones. The window remained an enigma but gradually I paid less attention to it.

   Till one day, as I was strumming my guitar and singing to join the avian concert, I saw a distinct movement, human and feline across the window. I saw this out of my peripheral vision, but I displayed no reaction. Soon I saw a young woman, pale as if from lack of sunshine, at the window. As I slowly glanced up she looked back straight at me for a moment and then disappeared into the darkness beyond.

   She was beautiful in an unusual way, in a Neanderthal way. Her eyes sparkled all the way up to my soul, even through the dominance of the green. Then slowly, across the flora and the fauna, amidst the avian chatter, was born our language: of curtains drawn, half-drawn and un-drawn, of gestures and mimes, of smiles and osculation, of eyes and spies; a whole new language born out of silence and by distance

   No wonder then, in this man-forsaken, cockroach-infested neighbourhood, I stuck on. I lived on the wishful wings of love. Mr Marquez would have called this love in the time of cockroaches. Every morning I greeted her, ‘adaab’, mogul style, and her smile made my day. Days in fact. The silent courtship, though poignant, had its limitations, so I decided to arrange a meeting or at least get her phone number, if there was one. Shortly, I mimed across my request. This asking for contact, for consummation of voices and hands, created an adverse effect. She stopped coming to the window. For two days she did not put in an appearance. I cursed myself for my rashness and greed.

   Two days later my wait came to an end. I tried a no-holds-barred antic session: pinched my ears, stuck out my tongue to imply my faux pas, fell on my knees and made an impassioned plea, in groping gestures, palms enjoined in forgiveness, for grace, for love. Finally, I even pantomimed tears, heartbreak, decay and death. Throughout my prolonged session of acrobatic and artistic performance, she stood there transfixed, framed by the floral curtain, expressionless for moments together. Her poise finally fixed me too, my expectation stretching painfully over the glued time. Then, she smiled, a blooming of a flower smile, a super show of a radiant smile, and it opened up the skies as if a thousand birds were in flight: a cylindrical divergence of a flight.

   That day she transmitted her phone number digitally, using her digits I mean. And I became a phone addict. I located the solitary PCO (Public Call Office) in the locality and spent most of my time there. I became a permanent fixture spending obscene amounts of time and money on the phone calls. I lost all sense of decency, showing reluctance to vacate even when someone had an emergency. The PCO’s other customers complained to the owner. Though he did not want to lose such a high revenue customer, he did ask me, in an eager to please voice, to allow – mark the word ‘allow’ – the urgent calls.

   There she was, once again, as always, succumbing to the aerated promises of a man, succumbing to the proclamation of love. I asked for the number and she gave it in blind faith. And there we were, entangled in the electronic vibes of our voices. It was two months of phone love and we didn’t even ask for each other’s names; my antidote for surviving in a polity infested with vile creatures.

   One day I called her up, and as usual I was expecting her electronic breath but it didn’t come, so I ‘sweetheart’ed and ‘darling’ed my encomiums when, from the other end, came the metamorphosed voice of my love, a manly voice of my love’s father. He did not waste much time in showering me with his ‘swine’ and ‘bastard’ and ‘you roach’ appellations.

   Back home, through my window, across the green, inside the clearing, the window without the house was yet white, but shut, and thereafter it remained so. Days went by. Neither did the window open nor could I access her over the phone. Either it was her father, or some other male member with their expletive-ridden diatribe or it would keep on ringing and ringing till it got tired by itself, so to speak, and stopped. After a long gap her father picked it up one day and pleaded – I could hear the tears in his voice – please leave us alone, she is sick please, please, please. That was it. In all we were marooned on both sides of the window.

   I tried more than once to go to that house but I never could find the way. I mean the window was there all right, but the house... I mean it should have been there but it wasn’t or it was there and I couldn’t figure out the way. Whatever it was the house was out of reach. I kept dialling up, hoping she would pick it up some day, or some opportunity would present itself when no one else was home. It was not to be.

   I cocooned myself in my room, on the bed, under the net, for something to happen. But nothing happened. The vision remained unchanged: the window was white and it was shut, it was shut and it was white. I stayed put. In hindsight, I admire my patience; I could have been a great wildlife photographer.

   Towards the end of the third month, as I sat camped and cramped on my bed, as had been my routine all this time, writing, reading and waiting, one day the window opened, a pair of hands pushing them out. The curtain was half drawn (like a flag at half mast), the inside was dark and I could not make out anything from anything, only the curtain swayed before the show. As the curtain was drawn aside and a man’s face occupied the frame — her father? He thrust his hands out of the grill and they lay there limp, as if wanting to form a gesture but unable to do so. He lifted his face and looked towards me, a sad hollow look. A fleeting moment and then he lowered his eyes and pressed his forehead on a square on the grill. He stood there motionless but moved by some limitless emotion.

   I lit a cigarette, closed the window one last time, and the darkness came rustling in, from the edges of the frosted glass window panes, like a shadow that did not pass over, but hung stubborn, like an umbrella over my soul.