Note: No New Mail… is a fragment from a longer piece. Eastlit supports Fragmentary Writing such as No New Mail…

by Bob D’Costa

One

The mail

   The first day when I opened my inbox – besides the discussions in LinkedIn from fellow writers and mail from my brother who lived abroad, and Shibashis tagging me in Facebook and so on – I found this mail from a new name – Damasque.

   Would like to meet you, the mail read.

   My first reaction was to stare at the mail.

   The second reaction, I ran my eyes over the words: Would… like… to… meet… you.

   DAMASQUE.

   Do I know her, I asked myself.

   You know, you receive so many junk mails you begin deleting them. Then when you click on spam you have a host of mails. They say

From                                                  Subject

Free T-shirt                                      Trial T-shirt offer

People’s Dating                                Dating Site Only for Adults

Zoosk                                                  Find Six New Sites on Zoosk

   But this one in my regular inbox, I mean this mail from Damasque, rang a bell – a bell far away – like a peal floating in the air and entering through the open window. While I was ransacking my brain, my cell phone rang. It was Aankhi. I pressed the green button, but didn’t say hello. A long pause.

   “Hello Ravi,” the soft voice from the other side sounded.

   “Ya, hi,” I said in my usual drawling voice.

   “Are you okay?” She sounded a trifle concerned.

   “Ya…”

   “You don’t sound so. Did you sleep alright?”

   “Ya, I did,” I said with a light laughter as if I was surprised at her question on the bare fact of staying awake.

   “Anyway, I’ve got two tickets for The Tomfoolery of the Not So Foolish. Tomorrow evening at Gyan Manch. I thought of telling you beforehand before any other engagement could catch you by the collar.” And I heard a soft laugh in Aankhi’s voice slipping out gracefully from her throat.

   Aankhi had studied in the same college with me two years ago but we were not classmates. She was in Mass Communication while I pursued English Honours. We didn’t know we had common friends such as Hemant and Ranee. When I went to the canteen on the second day along with Anshul and we were digging into puri and aloodam and constantly talking to Arunda, the canteen owner, a fair hand with a slender steel band clasping a steel-bodied watch in the size and shape of a fifty-paisa coin reached out from behind Anshul’s right shoulder. It held the half-torn puri and immobilized itself over the plate, freezing the fingers in semi hardness. What I can’t forget till this day are the slender fingers over the plate, and their first joints with four prominent marks. I wish I had taken a picture of that hand over the puri that day and saved it and used it as wallpaper for my cell phone. Of course I can make Aankhi enact that scene over a plate anywhere else (even in the canteen for that matter) but it will not be the first day’s natural act, you know; and somewhere at the back of my mind my conscience will make me feel restless.

   Anyway, Anshul’s first reaction was to grab at the wrist of the hand and simultaneously jerk his head sideways to look eye to eye at the intruder. When he did so, he smiled, loosened his grip and lifted the plate forward. Anshul introduced her as Aankhi, and very soon we were at a table in the canteen itself, sharing our snacks from two plates. Aankhi then bought three cups of chai.

   Since then Aankhi and I have become good friends – you may say inseparable. And the friendship had stretched till the third year and beyond. We’ve had our share of togetherness outside and in bed as well. I’m a creative writing instructor and she a freelance journalist. Do we love each other? Are we in a relationship? Is the friendship reaching towards the station called Love? I wondered at times. She too wondered and we discussed it on several occasions.

   “Ya, ok. I will be there.”

   After hanging up, I stared at the name. There’s something in the name Damasque that’s magnetic. It’s feminine, no doubt, but a certain aura of majesty envelopes it. Somewhat like a Lebanese woman – grace, good height and light copper skin; and of course striking features.

   No, I’m not sure if it’s a woman’s name. I don’t know whether behind the mask of the name a face of a woman or a man, or a gay for that matter, will show up. Staring at the name, the mail and sometimes wandering away into an imaginary timeline, I shut down my laptop. It was Saturday and I badly wanted to visit the coffee shop at Golpark.

   I hit the road in no time. At Ballygunge Phari crossing, the crowd was a bare minimum. The auto rickshaws cruised smoothly along, their yellow and green colour looking bright and washed against the March sunlight, especially with a slight dryness that was escaping and cool-dry breeze wafting. I decided to walk. I crossed the four-crossing and proceeded ahead. “I’ts gonna be a good day, baibay!” and I mentally patted my shoulder.

   Sometimes it’s nice to surrender yourself to your surroundings. The shopkeepers gradually pushing their grill gates open, the hawkers unwrapping their neatly folded goods – bedcovers, bed sheets and cushion covers – seemed to forecast a good and positive day for me. I proceeded ahead, crossing the book vendors having already put up their books on display and promising myself I would have to loiter around here very soon once again.

   I turned from the petrol station to the right, and there, the second shop with glass door was the coffee shop. I decided to cross the road and walk half the distance of the pavement ahead, on whose left side lay the lake, and return to have coffee. The walk would not take more than fifteen minutes.

   The atmosphere here was exhilarating. The breeze gently hitting the cool water of the lake and wafting out was responsible for my feeling of refreshment. Watching the greenery of the lake, I suddenly stopped short with a tap-tap on my stomach. I turned and looked down at the face of a child looking up with a light and entreating smile. Light brown eyes, sharp nose, sweet lips; hair falling just below the shoulders; and slim and pretty looking. A child with a lemon-coloured frock; a several-day old frock; a frock with stains and some dust and dirt. A pair of old footwear covered her tiny feet; and as afore said, a slight smile on her lips, yet certain sadness which came from far away.

   My first reaction was she was a road-side child and was looking for alms. I generally don’t dive my hand into my pocket and take out some money to give it to the proffered hand. But what I normally do is look around for a shop selling eatables and buy something and put it in the hand. Now when I looked around, all I could see was a chai trolley, mobile shop, on the pavement several metres behind me. The owner had his back to the railing of the lake. Bottles of biscuits and one brand of cake slices stood in front of the shelf; and an aluminium container was hissing out steam from a burning stove. I smiled at the girl and gestured her to wait. I turned and walked up the several metres to the chai man, bought a slice of cake and four biscuits. When I turned and looked, the girl had vanished. And there was no soul around, except a middle-aged couple with walking sneakers on, walking slowly on the path around the lake. And outside, the pavement was bare except the chai man and me. I shrugged my shoulders and gave back the eatables to the chai man. “Please give these to the little girl who was with me, if you happen to see her anytime.” He smiled. “By the way,” I asked him, “does she stay here?” and I pointed at the pavement.

   “No, I didn’t see her earlier anytime,” and he continued stirring the tea on the stove. I thanked him but before that I told him to give the eatables to any pavement child.

   I retraced my footsteps and stepped into the coffee shop. While the coffee was to arrive at my table I connected my cell phone to the Yahoo Mail. This is a usual feature with me when sitting for a while and chasing my thoughts, to quickly browse through my mail. I looked at the inbox. Mail from Damasque! I quickly opened it. By the time I came you were gone, Ravi! I need to meet you!

   “Came where? Who are you?” I asked these questions to the opened mail. To Damasque. To the silent mail.

   “Calm down, Ravi,” I told myself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Deep inhale; hold your breath. Deep exhale; hold your breath.” By the tenth count I was breathing normally. I tried recollecting my whereabouts a while ago. Yes, I was outside the pavement of the lakes, I was enjoying the scenery, I commented on the cool breeze, and then a poetic line peered into my mind. Then a tap-tap on my stomach, I looked down at the sweet face of a child. She had a faraway look.

   Faraway. Lebanon! Lebanese! Lebanese look! A child with a Lebanese look! Was she    Damasque! Is this Damasque? Lebanese features!

   Do I look normal? Does my face give away my thoughts? I looked around the café. A couple was sitting at the other corner of the door about three metres away from my table. The man at the counter to my extreme left was hitting the keyboard and occasionally lifting up his face to look at the screen of the computer. The two waiters were inside the kitchen. Otherwise the café was devoid of customers. I was still unconvinced, so I turned my cell phone to the silent mode, lifted it to the level of my face, and turning the back of the cell towards me, I clicked. I turned it and looked at my picture. Studied it. No marks of excitement did my face reveal.

   I put my hand up and looked at the man at the counter. He called one of the waiters. I requested him to lend me a pen and a piece of paper. I wrote in capital letters the name DAMASQUE. Unscramble as many words you can, Ravi, I instructed myself. DAME. MASQUE. MAD. MADE. DAM. ADAM. SAME. MEAD. SAD.

   Who is this Damasque? The question came up once again in my mind and reverberated in my skull. Is the name feminine? Masculine? Is she a woman with a mask trying to fake her character? Is she mad? Or does the name belong to a man who has worn a feminine name to ruin me? And, by the way, why me?

   Ruin me from what? I gradually began rewinding my life, stepping as back as possible. Friendship. I had a few good friends from school whose friendship existed till today. Then came college life where new friends were made. We did bunk classes, as is the culture among college students. But as far as my memory can stretch, I couldn’t recall any untoward incident involving either the college authorities or any friends. We never indulged in any kind of physical bashing though. All we did was go out for movies together, play football and listen to songs and attend rock shows wherever they performed especially in the Open Air Theatre which was later rechristened to Nazrul Manch. And when I was alone, I remained deeply immersed into composing poems and strumming the guitar and writing lyrics and playing and singing them, especially enjoying them with my cousin whenever he came down from Kurseong. There were parties though where we college friends sometimes drank beer, and other alcoholic beverages. Girls came by. We were friends.

   But no, no harm did I fling upon anyone.

   As far as relationship was concerned I’d been good friends. And I gave girls their share of respect. But when my first book of poems was published, it did make some relatives jealous, but I had taken their jealousy as my success. Besides, that had nothing to do with my harming anyone.

   Professional jealousy. I had an office-room of my own and an attached room used as a  classroom. The office-room was where I met my students’ parents and conducted creative writing classes in the classroom. My students were mostly high-school boys and girls and some were working men and ladies. Besides, some of my students’ parents too polished up their creative writing skills. Thus, in no way had I incited anybody’s wrath against me.