Rhapsody on A Rainy Day
Pradyumna Khan
On waking up in a miserably dingy
bed I could not perceive whether or not the dawn has arrived. I tried to turn
my head towards where I threw my wrist watch on the left side but I couldn’t.
Something was restraining me. It seemed that my ears were blocked by something.
When I shed my trance, I realized that it was the headset which was blocking my
ears and its wire, attached to the laptop, was restraining me from swinging my
head. Last night I fell asleep putting the headset on while watching a movie on
the laptop. I removed the stuff from the ears and the sound of moan of the
sloth ceiling fan made its way there. It was cold. I was shivering. I searched
for the bed sheet which I found piled and crumpled beneath my back. My feet,
instead of my head, were resting on the pillow. It was an inextricably messed
up position I was lying. “If it is so cold why hell did I put the fan on?” I
was confused. I could find the wristwatch in the bed. That instead a copy of
Eliot by Manju Jain, a diary, some pen, the T.V remote, a matchbox, and some
newspapers touched my searching hand. The cellphone was not also there. I
remembered I put it on charge in the dining hall because the plug point in the
bedroom had been defunct for a couple of months. There was nothing I could
watch the time. The glasses on the upper halves of the windows seemed to be
very feebly illuminated and I guessed thereby that the night might just be
over. It had been a long time since I haven’t woken up at dawn. “Let’s have a
stroll”, I thought and shoved myself off from the bed. As I tried to switch the
fan off it was off automatically; the power was gone. Yawning, I took the watch
from the shelf and expected to find a 5 o’clock like time in the morning. With
a shudder I saw a defying, steady 8.00 a.m. “What the ...” I was stunned. Why
was it so dark then? My trance was gone at once. I opened the front door and
saw a deceptive, dull sky instead of a bright blue one and it was raining
unbelievably in the first week of November.
There was nobody on the street. The
stone chips in front of the door had turned into black from grey with the touch
of the raindrops. A gust of wet wind brushed my face and the bare parts of my
body. I realised that it rained all through the night and the raindrops painted
the floor of my dusty corridor into a dull mosaic.
It was a drab, pale morning. A depressing
mist was rolling down from the ether and was pervading, as if, the entire house
itself, slowly engulfing it. The sky seemed to be over-burdened with dark cloud
and was coming closer every moment to sit heavy on my blank mind and make it
more claustrophobic. Every nook and corner of the austere interior occupied an
indifferent and unperturbed countenance. Here and there were hanging shabby
towels and some hastily thrown over, worn and dirty outfits. With the morning
sun having not risen, they were dripping with darkness. Patches of darkness
seemed to have taken shelter in all the corners of the clumsy house. A stale
smell hit my nose as I entered the littered kitchen. The maid had left her job about
a week ago and the sink was full with a pile of unwashed utensils. The gas oven
was wearing an oily skin. The tapestry of cobwebs from the ceiling hung loose
like the locks of an insane virago and the floor of the dining hall flooded
with water, leaking from the basin. Perhaps it was since two and a half weeks
that the house had not been cleaned. I stared at them all and a sigh arose from
the depth of my breast. It called to my mind the precarious lane of the “Kinu
Goala” of Tagore – dirty, squalid, drab and monotonous. A resembling ash pit is
here too, in front of the house, emitting pungent smell of the littered wastes.
The clerk named Haripada much
resembles me, though he was unmarried. But he was fortunate enough to have the
image of the quintessential lady in her heart to revere, to cherish and to pine
for, or to wait an eternal wait for her. He used to hold her image like the Holy
Grail that saved him from falling. But I am profane. I am corrupt. I have seen
the deceptive sides of things. I have a wife and a daughter and my parents to
love and care for and I do that solemnly. But somehow this professional, suave
world has robbed me of my vitality. Now I just admit. I just take things for
granted. I just let things happen. Now, I just patiently wait for some new
hazards to come out of nowhere and shatter me.
There is something uncanny about
this house. It seems to be mysteriously sterile and dumb. It is not even
nostalgic. It cannot make me reminisce of any good memory. When I look at the
T.V or the shelves or the refrigerator, they do not speak to me. Even the empty
spaces are so pitifully prosaic. When I shut my eyes, I cannot see my wife
strolling there or suddenly embracing me from behind. I cannot hear her sweet frolics
or even her fiery invectives if I try to eavesdrop, even in my dream. The house
is utilitarian, but unlike the old one, it is awfully boring.
I know this cold day will end. But
the night, which will follow this, will be colder. It will slowly inject
senility into my veins and nausea will pervade my creative faculty. Once again
shall I be intoxicated. Once again the kitchen sink will be replete of
staleness. Once again shall I sleep with my earplugs on.
Dawn will surely come. And even
if the sun disperses the mist, the day will remain drab. This rhapsody then
will be my only refuge.
