I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

I hadn’t realised lately just how much I loved her. Yes, I loved her. Despite all the tension that seemed to incessantly plague us, and all the insults we threw at one another, I sincerely loved her. I remembered now that there was a reason I had married Meena, and a reason why I had pursued her with the kind of fervent desire I had never wasted upon Mona: it was because I’d always known that Meena was my other half, my partner, my (for lack of a better term) soulmate. Meena was the bird in the hand; Mona was the pair in the bush—no pun intended.

  I took my wife’s hand in mine and smiled. She turned her exquisite eyes upon me, surprised and touched by my simple gesture. “Sometimes,” I told her, “I forget how beautiful you are. Movie stars are glamorous and exciting, but they’re not exactly real, are they? They don’t love us the way we love them. Besides, they’ve got nothing compared to your beauty.”

  I leaned in and kissed her; she wore an expression akin to having been clubbed on the head. “Now, I think maybe we should go home.”

  Uncharacteristically mellow and tongue-tied, Meena nodded, and we made our way through the crowd back into reality. As we reached the car, I turned and cast one last, wistful glance at the distant auditorium. Her performance would begin shortly. Perhaps in another life, another existence, or merely just within a different reality, I would be in there with her. I might spend the evening with her, become her friend, and maybe even share the stage with her. But for now, within this reality, I knew I would never forget that one moment we had shared together; a moment where she’d smiled at me, held my hand, and shown me a life that could have been. It was her touch I would always cherish and remember: it had been the touch of reality.

  VIII

  Soul Mate

  My consciousness awoke suddenly, though I had no memories of having been asleep. I was in the middle of a school gymnasium during P.E. class. Dressed in those god awful red shorts, beneath that dull grey t-shirt, I felt like an awkward, out-of-shape teenager. I didn’t recognize any of my classmates, but I did recognize Coach Simmons, our teacher. Short, squat and unusually pink, he looked rather like a cartoon character. I tried to remember why I was here, back in school, back in a gym class. But I seemed to have no tangible memory of myself prior to this moment, only awareness of odd details like gym class and Coach Simmons.

  There were both boys and girls in today’s class, which was unusual, because I somehow remembered that Coach Simmons usually kept the sexes separate. The only times when he ever brought the entire class together was for dancing lessons. A shudder ran up my spine at the thought, because I hated dances. I couldn’t remembered what I hated most about them, the prospect of walking up to a person and asking them to spend a few minutes moving with me rhythmically, or the embarrassment of standing against the wall of the gymnasium, waiting to be asked. Either way, dances were nerve-wracking. Coach Simmons never made the process any easier either for he usually kept up a barrage of incessant taunts and jokes throughout the duration of each class. Today’s class would unfortunately be no different.

  “All right, princesses, gather around,” he called, aiming his first insult at the boys.

  We filed in around him, boys and girls alike, all nervous yet oddly excited. Though it was nice that the sexes had been brought together in one class, this union led to such moments of awkwardness and discomfort. The girls gathered together in tight packs, giggling and whispering amongst each other, while the boys grinned stupidly, each one wearing an expression similar to having walked headlong into a brick wall (which considering they were boys was a possibility).

  “Today’s dance class is going to be different,” Coach Simmons declared in that loud, robust voice of his, which despite its commanding authority still sounded squeaky. “We’re not just going to have you paired up to dance. No, today you’re going to find your soul mates.”

  An excited murmur ran through the class, but I was startled. Soul mates? How were we to find our soul mates within a class this small? And anyway, this was hardly the sort of atmosphere that would breed romance and soulful union. We were in a large, intimidating gymnasium, surrounded by basketballs and oddly-colored jerseys, with Coach Simmons barking orders at us in that squeaky voice of his. How could we possibly find our soul mates like this?

  “Now I don’t want any funny business,” Coach Simmons continued, wagging his fat finger at us. “We will pair you up according to our list. Each person will dance with three different people, and we will be watching how well you dance. The couples that dance best with each other will most likely be soul mates. But we will ultimately make that decision.”

  “Sorry sir,” a little mouse-haired boy said, raising his hand tentatively.

  “What is it, boy?” Coach Simmons barked.

  “Sir, does that mean we don’t get to choose our soul mates?” the boy asked, timidly.

  “That’s exactly what it means,” Coach Simmons said at once. “I’ll be choosing your partners, along with Miss Wilkins here.” A woman who looked rather comically like Coach Simmons in a blonde wig, nodded curtly at the mention of her name. “You will dance for five minutes with each partner, before we make the decision at the end of it. Ready?” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgement, nor did we provide him with one. He merely looked down at his list and then walked around us putting people together. I waited nervously for my turn.

  It was then that I caught sight of her in the corner, standing with a group of girls, yet looking detached from them. She was easily the prettiest girl in the class, and by far the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Tall and slender, with a coffee complexion, black, wavy hair, and the most expressive face I had ever seen, she was causing many heads to turn in her direction.

  I didn’t remember anything of who I was, or what my life had been before I’d woken up inside this gym class, but I was certain that I did not have the kind of luck needed to ensure that this beautiful girl would end up being my soul mate. It was too much to hope for.

  True to my expectations, my first partner proved to be anything but suitable. He was a tall, gangly looking thing with a bad case of acne. He didn’t appear to be even remotely coordinated, and promptly tripped over himself three times before he took my hands. When the music began, he tried hopelessly to lead me around the dance floor, only to end up stepping on my feet three times before the first minute was up. It didn’t help that he was so tall that I was forced to stare into his chest as we tried to make conversation. By the time the music ended, I felt a mad desire to run from his side and hide behind Coach Simmons.

  “All right, change up!” Coach Simmons cried, and he and Miss Wilkins moved about the floor arranging everyone into new partners. I wasn’t sad to see my partner paired up with someone else, and I tried to catch her eye to warn her about what was to come.

  My next partner was a pretty, red-haired girl with green eyes and cute freckles. She seemed pleasant and confident, and when the music started we moved around rather fluently at first, until the tempo of the song picked up. Suddenly, in the middle of our interesting conversation, she began tripping over herself, causing me to stumble. Annoyed, I tried to focus on our feet so that I could keep out of her way and avoid further mistakes. It was then that I noticed her feet, strapped tightly into a pair of red heels: two feet… to be precise, two left feet. We’d stopped dancing by now; the music still played idly in the background, and I was dimly aware of the other couples swaying around the dance floor together.

  “You have two left feet,” I told her. “Literally! How is that possible?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Well… we can’t really dance if you’ve got two left feet.”

  “Why not? This isn’t about dancing.”

  “Yes it is!” I said, hotly. “It’s how well you dance together that determines whether you’re soul mates or not. So if you can’t dance, then clearly we’re not soul mates.”

  “Oh no, h
ow tragic…” she said, contemptuously.

  “Bite me.”

  “Back at ya.”

  It was a good thing the music ended when it did, for we looked about ready to lunge at each other’s throats. I was a little pleased to see that she was paired with the tall, gangly guy for the final dance: a match made in hell. I was so engrossed with observing how they would get along together, that I didn’t notice who Coach Simmons had led me to. When I turned to face my partner, I found myself gazing at the stunning, dark-haired girl I had ogled at before.

  “Hi,” I said, almost breathlessly, just when she herself mouthed “Hi” to me.

  I never dreamt I would be so lucky as to be paired with the prettiest girl in the class. I smiled at her and she smiled back. We stepped closer and held onto each other’s sides; her face remained impassive, and she merely regarded me with simple courtesy. The music started, and we began to move around. It was easy to hold onto her, for her sides weren’t soft and fragile like the others. However, slender and beautiful though she was, she felt heavier than the others, and unwieldy. She did not move lightly, but thankfully she didn’t fight my efforts either, and came willingly. She matched my smile with one of hers, and laughed when I did. We didn’t talk, for somehow it didn’t feel necessary. The few minutes I spent with her felt like a happy marriage, like a flawless union of two souls. I was rather disappointed when I heard Coach Simmons’ whistle announce the end of the dance. I let go of her reluctantly, and we stole glances at each other while Coach Simmons and Miss Wilkins conferred to choose our soul mates.

  Much to the satisfaction of my childish thirst for revenge, I saw that the tall, gangly guy I had first danced with, and the annoying red head I had subsequently been paired with, had been declared soul mates. They seemed happy together though and beamed at one another. I thought it was a miracle that they had managed to dance well enough together to be deemed soul mates. Perhaps their mutual deficiencies as dancers had enabled them to dance fluently? It didn’t make sense, but then who was I to question the larger, cosmic powers at work here?

  I was more concerned about my own soul mate. I watched impatiently as others in the class were put in pairs. There were squeals of delight and laugher from the decided pairs, and the “soul mates” broke into kisses and hugs, much to Coach Simmons disapproval, although I did notice Miss Wilkins give him a look that plainly suggested she felt left out. As I tried not to think about what any offspring of Coach Simmons and Miss Wilkins would look like, I was led to my partner, my soul mate and eternal companion. It was the pretty, dark-haired girl.

  I couldn’t believe my good fortune! We smiled happily at each other. I knew that she was my soul mate, and not just because of how well we’d danced together, or because Coach Simmons had said so, but because it felt right; it truly felt like she was my other half. I didn’t know my past, my identity or my purpose. I didn’t know what the future had in store for me… I only knew that having my soul mate by my side would ease my path towards salvation. I did wish she came in a more pocket-sized version though… antique mirrors are pretty, but they sure are difficult to dance with, let alone carry around through all of eternity.

  IX

  Hangman

  It is dawn. The field is empty, but won’t be for long. The people here are always starved for entertainment, and nothing entertains better than a hanging. They’ll be marching out of their homes soon, chatting merrily on their way to the gallows. I sometimes find a bit of mirth in the knowledge that I can so easily upset their plans, for there can be no hanging without me. The task of hanging a man isn’t difficult, nor does it have to be done properly—a man can be strung up repeatedly if need be, till life drains out of him. It will be anti-climactic, not to mention painful for the poor bastard hanging by a rope, but eventually he’ll die like he’s supposed to. So why then does the town have a designated hangman? Maybe it’s because no one else wants to do what I do; for who would want the stains of so many killings on their hands?

  I have killed many men. I do not know the glory of shooting the enemy in the middle of a battlefield; I do not know the sport of hunting a trophy through a dense jungle, and I do not know the gallantry of challenging a rival that competes for my love. The men I have killed were defenceless, had their hands bound, and begged for mercy. It was not my choice that they die, nor was it my choice that I be the one to kill them. But as a hangman, it is my duty.

  I have learnt the faces of many dying men in my daily work. The face of a man that has looked death in the eye is different than any other; for it is when confronted with his mortality that a man’s features fully echo the nature of his soul. In those final moments before he meets death, he discards everything that had once separated him from God: pride, vanity, and even hope. Unburdened, he appears almost sage-like when I tie the noose around his neck. When I ask if I should cover the face, some refuse, but others are glad for the mask. There are some who like to die with their eyes open, so that they can see every last moment of life before it passes them by; but then there are others that choose to be blind when their lives end, for they fear they might otherwise glimpse some feature of life that stirs eternal regret within them.

  The ones that die with their faces uncovered are somehow easier to forget than the ones that die faceless. It is the latter that haunt me in my dreams, for they float around me like veiled servants, loyal in their intentions to remain beside me, yet not friends, for I do not recognise them. I try persistently to unveil them, to determine who they are beneath the hoods, but I am never allowed that luxury. It is the curse I suffer for having taken so many lives.

  I have been a hangman for nearly fifty years. It was not a duty I volunteered for or had been selected to perform; no, it was a mantle that had been passed down to me by my father, and his father before him. My father was eighteen when he performed his first hanging. He told me eighteen was too young an age to begin killing. I started when I was twelve.

  My first kill was the man who shot my father. His brother had been sentenced to the gallows, and my father had been the hangman—he was shot midway through the execution. I watched him die from amongst the crowd. The very next day I was ushered in to take over my father’s role. I stared his killer in the eyes and searched for a sign of contrition, for anything that would give me cause to hesitate. But he stared back coldly, taunting me with his eyes alone. He wanted to die. I did not disappoint him. But a part of me died along with him that morning.

  In the fifty years since, I have taken more lives than I care to count. There have been weeks where I’ve gone without killing, and yet there have been weeks where I’ve killed dozens each day. This job has cost me my life. The incessant killing weighs heavily on my soul, and it inhibits me from establishing any meaningful rapport with the living. I don’t have any friends, and my father was the last of the family I had. I live as a recluse, hiding out in my cabin on the outskirts of town. The noise of hoof beats in the distance always makes me anxious, for I know my visitor will summon me to duty. Why else would anyone visit me? My partner in life is the noose that earns me my living; without it, I would have no identity.

  I often consider leaving town. If I stay, I will likely remain a hangman for life. Sheriffs have come and gone, as have mayors, but my post seems to outlast entire governments. My life lies in pathetic shambles, and solitude seems to be my only comfort. I never married, though I partake in female companionship every so often. I normally sleep at the saloon after an execution and sometimes I get so drunk that I pass out in the street; but most of the time I sleep in a hooker’s bed, after having worked my frustrations out on her. I never feel better afterwards though, and that has nothing to do with my hangovers. The endless killings haunt me, and nothing seems to cure me of it, not women, not alcohol, and not even the people in town that congratulate me after every hanging for doing my job well. If anything, that makes it worse…

  There are times when I find
solace talking to the reverend. I’m not normally a church-goer, and I’ve never enjoyed attending a sermon. But I like the reverend. Maybe it’s because he is the only one in town that doesn’t treat me like a hero for killing defenceless men. Or maybe it’s because he is the only one that realises how helpless I actually am. He never speaks much during our meetings, not unless I ask him to; mostly he listens while I talk. There are times though when neither of us says a word, when we merely sit together and stare at the floor until the hour passes. Sometimes he reads to me from the bible, and that always lifts the fog over my thoughts. But as soon as I return to the gallows, I feel helpless again.

  I have three executions scheduled this morning. I don’t know how I’ll make it through them. I can see people filing out of their houses now. The sheriff will be bringing the three men over from the jail. It is a beautiful, cloudless day, though somewhat cold, for the winter air is bitter. But I do not complain. Air, any form of air, is a wonderful luxury.

  Just ask the three men who will soon find themselves deprived of it.

  Within a quarter of an hour, the gallows are surrounded by the townspeople. I climb the steps to the platform and the sheriff follows. I avoid looking at the prisoners, as is usually my custom. I don’t make eye contact with them until I tie the noose around their necks. The reverend nods to me and takes his place on the other side of the platform, holding the bible with both hands. I stare at my boots and inwardly ask forgiveness for what I am about to do.

  “Merry Christmas,” the sheriff says in a quiet voice, as he passes me.

  I frown at him, surprised. Is it really Christmas? I usually don’t follow the calendar but I do remain aware of important dates. I didn’t even know it was close to being Christmas though. It’s probably because I haven’t been into town in so long. I knew the weather was getting colder, and that the days were quite short, but I had expected it to be the first week of December at most.