A Short Story by Pankhuri Sinha

 

Cigarette Smoking

 

After missing the opportunity to take my father to the hospital in time, I was proceeding straight to the cigarettes. It would not bring my father back, but would help me deal with the pain. Yes, I had a terrible desire for a cigarette, and if I was not going to take up smoking, I was going to smoke for a while. I had made up my mind, and was moving towards the cigarettes. No, I was moving towards Elizabeth Bowen’s cigarettes. The thing with Bowen was that she had been my father’s research topic. I would read her. I was not a student of English literature, still I would read her. But first, his dissertation! Even that seemed like a tough thing to do, to read his words! Perhaps, cigarettes would help. It was the suddenness of his death, that made it unbearable. It was unacceptable, when it had happened! But he was gone, and the book was there. I had to hold it and read. And if it seemed like a very difficult thing to do, I had to hold a cigarette between my fingers too! Bowen’s cigarette! Although, my cousin had said, that he might have not made it even after getting to the hospital, or might have given up on the way, I was inconsolable. And, I also had to say something about the way in which my elder brothers and sisters, took care of him, on those two fatal last days, I disagreed with them I tried my best for other medicines, but lets leave it now, he is gone! There is a void in my heart that hurts. An injection could have brought him back to life, and I had almost called the ambulance, but they scared me out of it, citing mistreatment! Reading his writings was one way of easing the pain, and Bowen was the one he had written most about.

Bowen had not just died of lung cancer at 73, she had lived making the statements she had wanted to make. Boldly speaking for female empowerment, liberty and privacy, she stood tall among the feminists. And yet, none of the problems had been solved! Single women were hounded, persecuted like a misfit in the society. Ironically, the critics had taken Bowen to task as well! Yet, her philosophy of love and so much more was so calming to read in today’s troubled times. How could I identify with the widow status? Did I often feel, the guy I was married to was as good as dead! And there were no ambassadors in this world, it seemed like, my Immigration troubles were so out of control! How could somebody loose their way back to their house, after filing for a divorce? I had to not sign on the divorce papers, it seemed like, but wow, freedom! I had reached the packet of cigarettes, they were leftovers from a very strange meeting! Did he have political recommendations? This guy? Totally worthless, otherwise! “I love leftovers.” I had said in class. Ages ago. Before leaving the town. Well, for all practical purposes, thats the only time I had left any town! Cause, the town had been taken away from me. Entry barred. I, who had always been a great traveller was told to not enter! Thats when the border had come up. Well, they have to be crossed, easy or hard. Wasn’t the D word, the great big no-no around the divorce, but why was it present from the day of the marriage? Like, had to be prevented! An impending accident! Looming over! Why?

No, wasn’t the D word, just British feminism! Why did feminism have to be British at all? Come on, you are a history student! So tell me, whats so Irish about Bowen then? “In a single sentence”, like Warren used to say. I never called him Warren, like Paul. And am now, going to email him soon, saying “Dear Dr. Elofson, would you please like to share your thoughts on the upcoming American Presidential elections for a piece I am writing”, indeed, the elections somewhere are always round the corner. But, this one is very special. A total fresher to politics, a hotel owner, is contesting a woman, in the most dictatorial and powerful democracy of the world. There are papers on Bowen’s Irishness! Of course, you can always find one more nationality argument. Can’t read. The cigarettes smell of fresh tobacco. Brexit was bad. Was it? Scattered thoughts! Can they be pulled together with a walk? I had seen tobacco leaves in road-side stalls, rolled for beedis. And khainis. But the smell, the aroma, the rising smoke of a cigarette!

Why is the road side such a mess? With or without the beedi stalls, the paan shops, and the fruit carts which suddenly disappear when the police gets active? Why is the footpath here such a mess? Wherever it exists, its always damaged, and why is speaking against it, such a taboo? But before you begin to think, this is calling upon Angels against national corruption, the footpath was the biggest mess when street killings took place in the Philippines of drug addicts. And the Filipino President got into a war of words with his American counterpart, although Barack Obama seems to have become a legend bigger than his office, outgrowing the white house!

Political commentaries aside, why don’t I just tell you the story? Not about the essential elements of Indianness, there isn’t one, I will argue to the end. But there are stories about fights over Indianness. And to an extent, about an Indian domination abroad, a sort of brand building that turns nations into lesser beings and things than they ought to be. A backpack carrying man, often follows me anywhere, not behind me, cause how would I see him then, but infront. This following, has an initiating day too, and I will describe it in a minute, my fingers are fluttering like butterflies, but just backpack carrying has become a very eerie and persistent thing around me. You see, a lot can be carried in these carry bags, entire nationalities, one could be coming for instance, from the Harry Hays building, in the town of Calgary, with the Canadian citizenship obtained! “Does this backpack look precious?” comes the haunting voice of the teacher, a Canadian American, the director of the graduate progamme. You see, I lost my Immigration status in the University and to the University. How much more ironical can life be?

And so, all of these carriers, arrived, at the time of the arrival of a big Immigration war, of which I had no clue. And have not left. Very recently, close to that little shopping complex in the neighbourhood, adjacent to the bank, two men exchanged backpacks in a manner so sinister, made me wonder if they were carrying gold biscuits or weapons of biological warfare. I wrote this after Ebola, but prior to watching the latest Dan Brown movie! This backpack exchange took place just before, I heard the name of the disease chickengunia, spreading in the national capital of India. I was infected with synovitis. Of course, the war is not over. But it can be very silently fought in the court rooms. No wars should be fought on the streets. And no wars should be set up in people’s lives, in their bedrooms, living rooms, dining spaces. But the war has begun. That’s when this story began, and the people in it didn’t even know, they were being enlisted in a war.

I will begin very simply, with the endless weekly invitations, that began to at once intimidate and interest me. And without going into too much detail, let me state, that I had not been wrong in accepting them. Its now, that things have soured, that I want to go back and send a ‘no thanks’, through the husband, or perhaps even more impolite, a question; ‘why?’ ‘whats the occasion?’ So, if Henrietta was inviting to a wine n cheese every Friday, Henry James Roosevelt began to arrive at the scene, simultaneously, raising alarm bells. This is where the story begins. Henrietta’s invitations were most genuine, although many times she didn’t know, what to do, on these Friday evenings, when the three of us gathered over wine, cheese, cherry tomatoes, raw broccoli, and what I now think was a dearth of grapes. I have used up all of my sugar. I always got the cheese, the gouda, and the goat cheese, and the marble and the cheddar, all had salt. If I had to go now, I would take a lot of globe grapes, the ones that have a tiny seed in their hearts, that you can munch on, and that leave a bitterish taste in your mouth, balancing just rightly with the sweet fruit. The ones, that are of the colour of my favourite wine coloured dress. There isn’t a dress in the market, that can even remotely match it! Yes, the same globe grapes that I definitely used to taste in the grocery store, before my purchase of the can of soda, that was totally imposed on me, that I had to buy, to deal with the ulcerous stress of visalessness. But back then, I didn’t mind all this talk in a Brazilian accent, about how terrible the place was, how lovely the beaches of Brazil, and what was never said was how rugged were the mountains of Afghanistan, where a war against terror was being fought, of course, it had many strange angles, and enemies too, but in which the lovely Brazilian lady’s boyfriend had volunteered. This lovely blonde haired Brazilian was my then husband’s boss, and while I somewhat enjoyed her accented rants, my husband was getting into some sort of a gender or nationality crisis, not to mention, the identity crisis, which is always there. And it is important to state here, that she was not a natural blonde, you could see the brown underneath the golden shine.

So, I probably had to send a polite ‘no, thanks’ in reply to the weekly invitations, if not for anything else, for the sake of tolerance level of my husband, who had had enough of accented English at work, and was conveying the invitation in an extremely Bihari Hindi to me. Or, now, I think, the right response would have been to pick up the phone and call her, to ask her for the reason, ‘why? Is something happening or is there an occasion?’ Why am I again invited?’ Instead, she had called me, one fine Thursday afternoon, with the girls only, sneaky programme, we were to cross the border into Canada! Well, we all crossed the border into Canada, all the time, but I was to do it, without the ‘him’, and into a men’s strip show! There were lots of strip clubs across the border, among the casinos. They were fragrant with the question of what was going to happen? They were even called mint and peppermint! If only, I had dressed better! That at least, should strengthen my resolve to go back, and back into the casinos even, re-make some latino friends, may be even join a Bible studies class, sing some carols around Christmas, and do what I am aching to do, bake lots of cakes, and take them to the welfare centres in the town!

So, in the strip club, I sat feeling very shy, like a touch me not thing, barely nodding and hardly talking. But, I was alive to the place, the show, the music, the dancing lights, the people, the soft whispers, the shout outs, and above all, to my own shyness. Strange! By then, I was having my second extra-marital affair, as in I had slept with two men outside of my wedlock, out of my own free will. Well, the marriage had its tensions and issues. Both were American whites, I would never cheat on my husband with another Indian. And the first one, was a fling and not an affair. But the second one, was persistent, persevering and I think another story. This guy too was a body-builder and had almost followed the first one, totally dazed, as though ‘what just happened in my town?’ Although, he was from Pennsylvania, his mother had retired in Florida, he had been married in Kingston, Jamaica, the same marriage that had totally crumbled after he slept with me, or I slept with him, on his invitation. That too, he gave looking dazed. I think, we spent the few years, we spent seeing each other, being surprised and startled and dazed, by each other. I never told him much, about my marriage in my auntie’s house, my long friendship with my husband before then, my now very distant relations with him, his own-making or mine, well, I still have an unanswered question of his to answer, someday!

I don’t remember with what sound, but I do remember the precision with which a picture landed on our table, in the strip club. The oohs and the aahs, rose to a feverish pitch. The latino girls were actually dancing in their seats. There were little cubicals, in which the strippers could do amazing things, on not-so fat tips, but Henrietta said no one walks into them. At about midnight, we crossed the border back. Before dawn, we were in our beds. In our homes. Did Henrietta get to know of my affair around that time?

One fine day, she had specifically asked me to ride back from an event with her. I don’t remember if it was a charity event, or an evening outing or a winter excursion. In the name of these winter adventures, they had done some amazing youtubing, or riding the you-tubes, I think that is what those things meant to glide on the snow were called. Or perhaps, they were simply called snow-tubing. I had not liked the feeling of slipping away on snow in endless peels of laughter. What were they laughing about? What was he, her husband, laughing about? How could they all have led her into such a web of conspiracy? Of affairs that led no where? Of a life that seemed suspended in a desert of snow? She turned to look at him. He was standing happily in the group. How could her closest friend do this to her? He cared for her so much, that she thought she was going to turn into a vegetable. She thought she was never going to bear a child. How would she, he barely lay a finger on her. And when he did, which he did perhaps once a year, at all the wrong times his number one thought was to reach for the condoms! I think even my face had begun to show a bewildered look, during the act. And the lovers? The lovers, oh my god, there were two now! Yes, with gaps and pauses, there could be an overlap. Did she even mind their reaching for the condoms? Did she not? She was not a different person. She was an integral part of me. This woman who had had two extra marital affairs with citizens of the host country, and had found both were playing Immigration politics, was me. Lots of people had been pulled into such liaisons.

“I know, just the thing to do here! Guess what’s better than sex? Its called pure sin! There are two flavours of this ice cream!” Henrietta was beside herself looking at my shocked face. The husband was still in the distance. “so which one again?” “Chocolate mud bath”, I didn’t know if it was absentmindedness or total cluelessness or just an absolute lack of concern that rang loud in my voice.” Try the ‘maple crust cream pie’ next time”, Henrietta said, making her dig into the ice cream look deeper than it was. “You are coming next time, aren’t you? Oh! You must! And then, you have to also sit and pretend to skate in these things, its just like boating actually!” its then that she had practically lifted me into her SUV, and had carried me off! She was determined to be the escort, the host, the boss, the happy woman who is never sad, even as she is gradually loosing her mother to cancer in a far-away Brazilian homeland. Her chirpy giggles seemed to underline and highlight the lines on my face, her voice seemed so artificial at times. It was in the car that the giggles turned into an authoritative sound and overtaking the cars, Henrietta spoke of her fondness for space. What on earth could she mean?

After the visit to the strip-club, the body-building lover, who perhaps was leading me into an extremely dangerous affair, proposing sex and initiating it, each time I met him, invited me to a body-building show. I liked the body-building poses, and the competitions, there were many categories, not because people were scantily dressed, but because, by then, I had myself started lifting in a committed manner, shaping and re-designing my body like a sculptor working with plaster of Paris. It was a risky business, It always is. But a leading member of my community, perhaps, getting ahead in the race of acquiring American citizenship, had already advised me to not go to the gym, directly saying those very words, instead of warning against getting into serious gyming, jokingly! It really can be addictive. Wasn’t so for the people of my community!

But none of this is the story. Although, at every single turn, it seems, I had to call an attorney. Even when I had ignored the other times, including the huge accident when Henrietta’s dog bit me, (it was a cute little bitch actually, fluffy and golden and brown and white, who later had a very painful death resulting from prolonged cancer), I should have called an attorney when I received the letter from the town University and found my husband’s birthday as the acceptance day! That I not only failed to do so, but was pulled into fresh and incomprehensible University politics, and did not even call an attorney on either the day of leaving the country or of coming back, were political and social suicides. But is somebody making Gods out of attorneys? Not even that is the story.

The story is that, this letter of evidence has gone missing from my bedroom, in my own house, where I live with my parents. I don’t know how to file a report. Against whom? But wait, there has to be a duplicate. Right, the University must have a duplicate. I have written to them a million times. As in, a million emails have been sent since my discovery of the theft, (and I must have discovered it pretty soon because I was looking at them, often, they were star witnesses in my recently filed court cases against my husband), to the Department Secretary, the graduate programme administrator, as she is called. Her name is Tessa. Its an unforgettable name for me, because the lady who won the body building contest in the women’s section, was called Tessa too. Its an unforgettable show for me, not because its the only one I have attended, but because I am enamoured by these sculpted statue like bodies. The lady who won the body-building contest was the body-builder’s wife, wait, ex-wife! I had visited him in rooms where he had had to move in with his friends, and later in the apartment which he had rented. But they were still doing the show together. The applause was very loud for her. She had just had her baby. All of these shots from the past seem to be remnants of another life, slowly being retrieved in bits and pieces of emails and letters.

Thankfully, I did receive one email from Tessa, the graduate secretary. It simply said, she was sorry, I couldn’t find my acceptance letter, she will look into the records, although such things are hard to find among office papers. After which, she has elected to maintain silence. I received an alumni card, along with an invitation from the Indian State which had awarded me, for my writings right after the Immigration disaster. Its the same state, where the company my ex used to work for met with an Industrial accident, so big it claimed thousands of lives, and maimed many children for good. It was India’s Pearl Harbour. The company said, its Indian officials were not following the instructions. They did not meet the safety requirements. As a reversal of this historical catastrophe, I had lost my Immigration status, after dropping the visa sponsored by this company in favour of one offered by the University!

But, I am in my own country now. Why am I dealing with such a politics of duplicate faces? Why is it nice to see a face resembling that of a friend I just spoke to on facebook, in the sweet shop right after? Is this not the problematization of the normal, the order of things, the status quo, the privacy of someone? Was the stalking professor, Henry James Roosevelt, stalking me at the behest of Indian or other kind of politics? How could the Department cancel my study permit, having once offered it, after I had left the country, based on the wrongful complaint of a stalking Professor? What was his logic of arriving in the book store, even before classes started? “We recommend you buy your books from ‘Talking Leaves’”, the director had said in the Orientation, covering up and sounding so ridiculous, everybody had a question on their faces, they did not ask! The next day, Dr. McWright, the Professor of the British Empire, had cracked a joke, “Your connection with the book store, is like your connection with Burger King!” I also liked McDonalds Burgers! I had asked the stalking Professor, why had I received an A-, instead of an A, in the research seminar I did with him. Was that too, a problem? Why did the Graduate Programme Director, come out of her office, and stand in the corridor, each time, I walked into the Department? She had begun disturbing me, getting her student to talk to her, right where I was reading! I had gotten up and left. Was that a wrong signal to send? I now am wrestling for more than answers in this Indian court. Its called justice, but so much is compressed in that tiny word. If this is common knowledge, why are court procedures so problematic? Should we abandon, cause the terrain is so tough?

In her novel, the little girls, Bowen talks about building a museum for the future, preserving art and artists exactly as they are and not in a decimated form. Bowen fascinates so much, not only because my father wrote his dissertation on her, but because she beautifully described the ferociousness of her times. Why does measuring the violent nature of our times seem to be an ever-eluding project? I pick up the phone and call this and that recommended number in the ministries, trying to find out about the future procedures, that will tell me a little bit about my assassination and the assassin.