Her Name is Wind
By Collins Peter
He visits her often mostly when my barrenness cripples his
thoughts and organs. I do not know which that body is, on whom he shreds every
last night’s silent, non-violent fury and covert hostility. Even though he
maintains the quality of his secret, his advancing age betrays him in the form
of empty, vigorously cut condom packet which ought to be thrown away during his
journey back to me. When he comes home at just ending busy hours of night,
there will be only two breathing beings at home but when he steps out to the
just beginning rush hours of culpable city, there comes myriad living things in
our home. I am never alone during day as time weaves different shades and throw
them through windows to all the corners of our rooms; utensils in kitchen
quarrelling at each other over how often they are being used and wail of dishes
which deliver from my hands. I fear nights when he lay beside me with his
unconscious twitches, occasional snoring and his long boring sleeping postures.
I sometimes barely touch his manhood, in the long miry nights, which I lost
from my valuable life possessions.
I know there is a third, alien smell roaming in our home.
Each day I purge our home to dispel that form of smell which gives birth to
hundreds of slithering serpents. I detest travelling in a metro during rush
hour or a bus because of virile odor, pleasure searching jostles. But now my
form long to stand inside a crowd for being pushed, pressed; even the stench of
males invoke a serious, passive, involuntary, less remorseful adulteress inside
me. This day, on a heat-cursed pavement at noon, I see two ugly, skinny dogs
engaging in a vehement copulation. Many eyes were covertly watching this act in
the blazing sun. The way male dominates the bitch starts to induce in me an
obnoxious movement of a fat lizard-like lust. A bus arrives with a quick reflex
of shame and voyeurs board it.
During my long sleepless waiting hours at night for him,
everything in our home transforms senile. I try to sleep but somewhere in the
middle of night I open my eyes and sit on our bed. I see our toilet full of
light and door half open. He cleanses off two sweat, two smell and two lusts. I
see water escaping into the hole of the toilet floor, carrying her sweat, her
smell and her lust. He opens the door completely, light falls on me and I
realize I am naked.
***
After granting me a good purge, I lay on our bed.
Completely devoid of remorse, I breathe the breaths of a quiet sleep. And there
is only one being which breathes in our home and that is me; a man who fears
the dead ones.
After visiting her, I drive my car along a deserted road
and my watch nearing midnight. She is my curator and I am her painter. During
our tours to galleries around the world we think about marriage. But we
singularly refuse the idea of marriage while engaging in mutual, irresistible
act of unison on a bed far away from my home.
When I lay quietly on our bed, familiar, spotless,
non-corrupted warmth begins to climb upon me. I retrieve myself from its hold
on me, in fear. This fear lacks rationality for my conscience. In other way, I
shroud that rationality behind this fear with my body’s wanton needs. The very
sprout of thoughts of that rationality will drown me into the depths of the sea
with a large millstone around my neck. My soul withers and blood starts to
rewind its course as to make me innocent as a warm womb-being when I think of
that rationality. Knowing someone demands deep learning in which I lost. Trying
to know her now is simply to fear my conscience.
***
He, my painter, informs me about the get-together at his
house. I decide to go. As I drive my car through that sun drenched road I see
two ugly dogs copulating in a distant mirage. I avert my eyes as my vehicle
passes that heinous act. Those dogs are now far from my sight as I advance more
to my painter.
I enter into his house with a dignified assertion and see
few other guests spread hither and thither; all immersing themselves into his
creations on the wall. I search for my painter and find him conversing with a
plump aristocrat, probably a buyer. He pulls me by holding my fat waist. He
introduces me to that buyer as his curator. After putting a gradual end to that
conversation, he takes me to his room. He kisses me with a sudden torrent of
lust. I admit and take that warmth into my body. But I feel a sense of absence
floating in that room with pain and envy. I detach myself from my painter’s
lips and looks at his eyes. I see him, through his eyes, fighting a nameless
war. As the door is not fully closed, I see a portrait in the next room.
Following my eyes, the painter also looks at the portrait kept on a teapot,
devoid of decorations. We see her looking at us. A look which can cast silent
shadow over a helpless, pitiful, unfaithful husband and his hedonistic curator,
her eyes were strong to make us perspire off all our acts of infidelity. Yet
that smile is innocent and spotless. She is a wind which is determined to make
me, my painter swirl and fall.
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Collins Justine Peter,
a graduate in English, works as a Copy Editor in New Delhi. He writes mostly
flash fictions which are mostly a search into characters' psychology.
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