I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

  He sighed. “I believe that attraction at first sight exists; so if two people are truly compatible, and the circumstances favour a suitable partnership, then love will duly develop over time. But no, I don’t think that you can just meet someone and instantly fall in love.”

  “Then you and I disagree.”

  “You think you can fall in love with someone like that?” he said, snapping his fingers.

  “I did once, long ago,” she confessed.

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “A very long time ago.”

  “Let’s just agree to disagree on the matter, shall we?”

  She nodded and Robert quickly veered the conversation away from love.

  What happened next seemed much like a dream to Robert. The train was now almost empty around them; they spoke for another half an hour and rode the empty carriage till the last stop on the line, where Robert led her to his parked car. They drove to a café two blocks away where Robert claimed they served the best Suada over ice in the country. Afterwards, they drove to a restaurant that turned out to be a mutual favourite.

  Over dinner they discussed anything and everything, from their families to their work, their ambitions, their childhood dreams and aspirations, and even went as far as to reveal each other’s innermost secrets. It didn’t seem to Robert that they were strangers, and what transpired between them was more akin to a pair of soul mates conversing than two complete strangers getting to know each other. Before they finished dessert, Emma’s foot was sliding up Robert’s leg and his hand was caressing her thigh. When they left the restaurant and headed to his car, they stopped underneath a tall lamppost as soft rain pattered around them. Robert pulled her close into his arms and they leaned into a perfect kiss, one that he was certain he would never forget. It was as though he had kissed her every day for years and years—such was the comfort and familiarity with which he cherished that moment.

  Within the hour they were in the nearest motel, under the sheets with the lights dimmed low. Neither spoke a word—it wasn’t necessary. It was eerie how well they seemed to know each other’s desires; Robert felt like he knew exactly what Emma wanted and she seemed to know what he needed. He couldn’t imagine two souls and two bodies merging more completely. When at last he paused to look into her eyes, he knew they were meant for one another.

  “This was a perfect night,” she remarked, when he kissed her neck.

  “Beyond perfect.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They had said what no two strangers would have ever said to one another in so short a time, but such was the connection that Robert and Emma shared. It was another hour before they were dressed and ready to leave. They held hands and shared many kisses on the way from their room to the lobby. They looked so comfortable with one another that an unsuspecting observer might have assumed they were a honeymooning couple.

  Robert went to the front desk and paid the bill. Emma stood by his car, her coat wrapped tightly around her as the wind picked up suddenly. He made his way back to her, smiling as he saw her playfully unwrap the coat and flash him (though she was fully clothed inside anyway). He kissed her and she put her arms around him. They felt comfortable, warm and close.

  “Let’s go,” he said at last, opening the passenger door and watching her step into the car.

  In an hour they were out of the city and heading towards the suburbs. The roads were empty, and apart from the odd little car, they didn’t come across any traffic until they reached the south side of the city. They didn’t say much to each other in car; they appeared to be lost in their own thoughts, and Robert for his part was reflecting back upon the evening and smiling whenever he remembered a special moment. He felt truly, blissfully content.

  Robert drove through a neighbourhood now, moving confidently through the maze of little streets and blocks of houses before stopping before a house well-guarded by a row of trees. He pulled into the drive and turned off the engine. He opened Emma’s door and helped her out; again, they said nothing to each other. She waited as he moved the car into the shed, locked it and came back out to her. Together they went into the house and turned on the light.

  Robert went to a sleeping figure on the sofa of the living room and gently roused it; a young woman stirred and stared at the couple. “Back so soon?” she murmured.

  “It’s been hours, Natalie,” he smiled.

  The woman rose to her feet and stretched. “The children went to bed around eight—poor darlings were so tired after re-enacting the battle of Waterloo all evening.”

  Robert and Emma smiled. “Go on and get some sleep; sorry to be so late.”

  “No problem at all, sir,” said Natalie, before picking up her pillow and blanket and moving out of the room. “Good night, sir, mum.”

  “Good night,” said Robert and Emma together. They went upstairs and made their way to one of the bedrooms. They peered in and saw two sleeping figures huddled in separate beds. Emma was about to step in, but Robert stopped her.

  “You’ll wake them,” he said. “We’ll see them in the morning.” She nodded.

  They closed the door behind them and went into the adjacent room, where another small figure lay huddled in an aptly proportionate bed. They closed the door behind them once more and went into the room at the far end of the landing. A much larger bed rested in the middle of this room, but no figure lay huddled upon it. They closed the door behind them and turned on a soft light. Robert disappeared into the changing room while Emma moved into the bathroom.

  In a few minutes, both were dressed in pyjamas and under the covers of the bed. Robert and Emma sighed with contentment as the comfy mattress soothed their weary limbs. “A perfect end to a perfect night,” said Robert, as he took two wedding rings off the bedside table, put one on his finger and then took Emma’s hand so that he could slip the other one onto hers.

  “Feel good to be Mrs. Duncan again?” he asked her.

  She smiled and nodded. “I missed Mrs. Emma Duncan terribly.”

  He slipped his arm around her, “So what’s the verdict on tonight?”

  “Perfection,” she laughed. “Except for when you said you hadn’t been in love before—don’t think I’ve forgotten about that. And what was that bit about an ear-infection?”

  He laughed. “Were you worried?”

  She nodded. “About leaving the kids for so long, yes. I missed them.”

  “You’re right. We’ll just make this a monthly thing.”

  “Yes, I think that would be good.” Robert kissed her good night and turned off the bedside light. Emma rolled over and slipped her arm around his. “Robert?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked, with a hopeful smile.

  He sighed. “When I met you, I didn’t even believe in love at all.” And then he paused to reflect on his own words. “It’s not like it’s there to see in black and white. It’s not there, you know? It seemed too bloody far-fetched so I didn’t believe in it until I fell in love with you.”

  Her face fell slightly and she looked down. “So what did you feel when you met me?”

  “I can’t say for sure, Emma. The day I first met you was years ago, and I don’t remember whether I fell in love with you at once or not. I knew I was completely enamoured by you, by your beauty, your grace, and your intelligence, which shone through your presence without you even uttering a single word to prove it. That was as close as I’d ever come to love.”

  “But it wasn’t love at first sight?” she said, disappointed.

  He shook his head. “Maybe, but I just… I don’t know, Emma. I just know that I love you now more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. But I don’t know what I thought when I met you.” He lifted her chin to meet her eyes, “I doubt this w
ill be much of a consolation to you, but for your information, I did fall in love with you all over again today.”

  She smiled bashfully. “At first sight?”

  “At first sight.” They leaned forward and kissed. “Good night, Emma.”

  “Good night, Robert.” She snuggled up close in his arms. “Robert?” she said.

  “Yes dear?”

  “Next time, you be the American.”

  IV

  Reality’s Dream

  He stood on the beach, lost in every sense of the word. Across the sand, a mere twenty or thirty yards from him, sat a bottle of cold, frothy beer. Perspiring underneath the afternoon sun, his limbs screamed for rest—what had he been doing, he wondered? He had no memory of anything before this moment, or besides this moment. He remembered nothing of himself or his past, save for this beach and that bottle of beer. Thirst invited him forward.

  A towering wall rose from the earth, parting him from the beer. He began scaling it with the nimble grace of an athlete. He reached the top with relative ease and then dropped down to the sand on the other side. He took a step towards the beer again, but once more a wall rose from the ground and fenced him behind it. This time the wall was lined with thick, metal spikes that would make climbing it impossible. He looked helplessly at its formidable height.

  It was then that he noticed a blueprint by the foot of the wall. He laid it open on the sand—it showed two walls, him in between, and the bottle of beer just a mere ten feet away. The instructions at the foot of the diagrams were clear: he would have to build a structure that would first enable him to reach a height greater than that of the wall; then he would have to build a second structure that could cross the breadth of the wall; and lastly, he would have to build a third structure that would enable him to climb down to the beer and retrieve it.

  “Well that’s just stupid,” he said aloud, scratching his head. He had no tools on him, or any kind of materials to work with. He was stuck on a beach, between two walls that he couldn’t climb over. How on earth was he to build even one structure, let alone three?

  He picked up the blueprint again: there were some instructions written on the bottom left hand corner: Only creative and distinctive designs can be used. Imagination is key.

  He read and re-read the instructions to himself, until it made sense. So he was to design a structure that was distinctive, and he had to use imagination to achieve it? It sounded deceptively simple, he realised. He imagined a stack of a hundred two by fours, two buckets of nails and a sturdy hammer. The materials appeared by his side the moment he thought of them.

  He didn’t know how, but he felt quite familiar with the idea of construction, as though he had devoted a lifetime to it. Even though he was in the middle of a bizarre and unsettling situation, he found comfort in hard work. He even felt confident about the task ahead of him. He began building a vertical structure using the tools and materials that he’d imagined. Before long he had built a wooden structure just taller than the wall parting him from the beer.

  But even as he put the last few nails into the tower, the entire structure fell out from underneath him. He landed on the beach and found that all the two by fours, the nails and even the hammer had disappeared. In their stead he found a pink slip: it was a citation explaining why the structure had been torn down: Structure lacked original, creative thought.

  He crumpled up the piece of paper angrily, wondering why he couldn’t have been told that before he had built the entire thing. He paced back and forth below the wall now, wondering what other structure he could devise that would be creative and original. He couldn’t imagine a simpler or more effective structure than a tower of two-by-fours, but since that apparently showed a lack of creativity, he would need something similar in shape and size, yet distinctive enough to show originality. Perhaps it was because he was fantasizing about sitting in a pub with a mug of beer in his hand and a bowl of pretzels before him, but it suddenly occurred to him that he could build an entire tower out of pretzel sticks.

  He imagined himself a stack of pretzel sticks as large as the two-by-fours, along with vats of steaming hot cheese, and a moment later they appeared by his side. Eager and thirsty, he set about building his tower. He placed the pretzel sticks in a criss-cross pattern, such that each pretzel was perpendicular to the next, but with a slight overlap in relation to the pretzel beneath it. He then used cheese to mesh the pretzel sticks together and hold them in place. Soon he had a towering structure built. With a bit of apprehension, he sealed the last pretzel in place. Then he waited… Fortunately though, this time the structure didn’t collapse. He stood atop it proudly. He could now see the beer sitting beneath him, just beyond the wall, unharmed by either the sun or the warm, beach air—it still looked icy cold. He grew thirstier just gazing at it.

  Now atop the stack of pretzel sticks, he wondered how he could create a second distinctive, imaginative structure that would lead him across this wall. He thought of crackers, for that would certainly match his theme of food, and compliment the pretzel sticks nicely. Soon he had built a bridge of sorts out of enormous crackers and cheese. But when he put the last cracker in place, the entire structure vanished beneath him, and he was pulled behind the wall and dropped onto the warm sand in between the two walls. Not only had the crackers been torn down, but the pretzels were gone too! Another pink slip of paper floated down by his side:

  Food items already used in first structure. Each structure must be distinctive.

  “Well why did you have to tear the pretzels down too, then?” he demanded aloud, crumpling up this second piece of paper and tossing it aside. “Now I’m back to square one…” He was tempted to try the pretzel sticks one more time, but he didn’t think he could bear to see another citation, so he tried something completely different: monkeys.

  The idea was highly impractical and a poor choice of construction, but he figured it was in keeping with the theme of “original thought,” for who else would have thought to build a tower of monkeys? But once he’d begun, he regretted having used live monkeys. After what felt like an eternity, he had finally organised them into a suitable formation and began climbing them. The monkeys were quite animated, however, and kept bickering with each other. He urged them to be quiet but they were hardly obedient, and made faces at him or ignored his presence entirely. He had just about reached the top, when their fighting worsened, and before he could think of a way to pacify them, they broke out of their positions and the entire structure collapsed. He fell amid a sea of raining monkeys, but when he hit the ground, he was alone. The structure had disappeared. He waited for the citation. Sure enough, the pink slip floated over his head.

  Using monkeys was a pretty idiotic idea…

  “Great, lip service,” he muttered, throwing the paper aside. “That’s all I need.”

  He tried to focus yet again and think of a better, more original structure than before. He stared at the wall in frustration—just beyond it was the beer, cold and refreshing… The task before him shouldn’t have been that difficult, really. How hard was it to build some kind of a tower using original, creative materials? But the more he thought about it, the more he was inclined to believe he had been given a hopeless task. He felt that his ideas would almost always be shot down, purely because he was expected to fail. If so, then what was the point of trying?

  Much to his surprise, a yellow slip of paper floated down to him. He read it:

  Don’t be yellow, you dirty fellow.

  He ripped the paper to shreds and buried it in the sand. Sand… Sand, of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Within minutes, he imagined a tower made of sand. He even designed a sturdy sand-ladder to take him to the top of the tower. But when he reached the top, almost predictably, the tower collapsed and disappeared. He was left lying face down on the beach. “What was wrong with using sand?” he cried aloud into the silence.
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br />   The pink slip found him a moment later:

  Must not use existing materials: you’re on a beach, remember?

  He stared at the note in outrage. “But where does it say so on the blueprint?” he demanded, as he pulled out the sheet from his back pocket.

  Yet another pink slip drifted down; he caught it briskly and read it:

  Read the fine print. Dunce.

  Many attempts later, he was ready to give up. He wasn’t sure how long he had spent on that beach, or how many structures he eventually tried, but he felt defeated. He had used tires, coconut shells, Legos, books (which, the pink slip informed him had been a disrespectful use of knowledge) and eventually even tried large onion rings with a three foot diameter, at which point the pink slip suggested he was a little food-obsessed. So he now resigned himself to what seemed an inevitable defeat and surrendered aloud.

  A green slip floated down to his side. Hands trembling, he read it:

  You know, you could have just imagined drinking the beer…

  Even as he read the words, the walls before and behind him disappeared, and he found himself staring at the bottle of ice cold beer. He walked forward slowly, as if in a trance. He touched the bottle tentatively, for he was afraid it would disappear. But it was real, and it was still cold. Grinning in spite of himself, he picked up the beer and raised it to his lips.

  He awoke with a start.

  It was late in the afternoon. The warm sun was beating down on his face; he had fallen asleep on his lawn chair, with a cold beer (now warm) in his hand. He sat up and brushed his eyes. He’d been laying the patio in his backyard and had paused for a break, which he realised as he glanced down at his watch, had lasted almost two hours now. Admonishing himself for his tardiness he got up and stretched lazily. He thought back over his dream as he resumed work. It had been the residue of an argument he’d had with his son, earlier in the day. His son had insisted that they had different personalities, that while he was someone who enjoyed the practical, logical side of life, such as building, planning and working within a rigid, structured environment, that his son was eccentric, and thrived on creating a space that defied all logic, purely for the sake of being different. His son was imaginative, while he was not.