I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

  Kishan and Shreya stood in a large meadow, filled with thousands—no, millions of yellow roses. It was a sea of yellow, rippling like currents in an ocean, as the wind gently swayed the plants. Kishan held a flower in his hand and Shreya held one in hers.

  Kishan plucked a petal and gave it to her.

  Shreya plucked a petal and gave it to him.

  They shared the flowers, giving each other a petal, one after the other.

  When there were no more petals left, Kishan reached into his pocket and gave her a quarter. Shreya took the quarter in one hand, and pulled out another quarter from her purse with her other hand. She regarded the two coins with a hungry look in her eyes. Then she turned and ran away from him. Kishan stood alone, staring after her.

  “Manny,” Kishan said. “Name your price.”

  “Five pounds.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “That’s my price.”

  Kishan looked helplessly at the eagle, which met his eyes and held his gaze, as though hoping to persuade him to pay the price. “I don’t have five pounds—you know what I make working here. If I give you five pounds, I won’t be able to eat for a month.”

  “Then the bird stays.”

  Kishan looked at Shreya’s eager face. “You got the bird for free, Manny,” he said, and then reached into his pocket to pull out a pound note and the fifty pence Shreya had given him. “Take this… it’s all I got and it’s the best I can do. Take it and set the bird free.”

  Manny looked down at the coins in disbelief. “But this won’t even cover a feather,” he said, outraged. “I don’t care if the bird was free… this is insulting.”

  “They’re commemorative,” Shreya added, but Manny ignored her.

  “Manny,” Kishan reasoned. “Has the bird made you any money so far?”

  Manny paused and then shook his head gruffly. “Only your 5p.”

  “So I’ll bet he’s costing you more than he’s earned you, right?”

  Manny nodded shortly.

  “So what’s the problem?” Kishan said. “Take the pound and the fifty pence cut your losses.”

  Manny grumbled something gruffly, but pocketed the coins all the same. “Fine! Well go ahead you rotten thieves, stealing money from an old man like me, and…” the rest of his mutterings drowned to gibberish as he walked away from them.

  Kishan went up to the cage and unlatched the door; he swung it open and stepped back. The eagle seemed hesitant and unsure of what to do. Shreya put her entire hand into the cage and stroked its feathers. It nipped at her gently and then hopped onto the edge of the cage. Shreya kept petting it, hoping it would relax and follow her out of the cage.

  A few moments later, the eagle launched off from the cage and soared into the skies. Shreya and Kishan watched it take flight eagerly. Many others around the circus watched it with fascination, and even Manny spared it a glance. It flew gracefully around them, whistling a lovely tune with what sounded to Kishan like gratitude, before it disappeared into the distance.

  “Now that,” Kishan said, putting an arm around Shreya, “Was worth 50 pence.”

  There was an old, musty smell inside the shop. Kishan approached the clerk hesitantly. He tried not to look around at the odd cages stacked all around him on pedestals, shelves, cabinets, chests, or even just the floor. He cleared his throat softly.

  The clerk looked up. “Yes?”

  “Uh… I’m looking for something,” Kishan said.

  “And what is it that you’re looking for?” the clerk asked, with a slight sneer.

  “A best friend.”

  The clerk didn’t appear at all surprised by Kishan’s declaration. He merely nodded and came out from behind the counter to lead Kishan through the shop. Kishan allowed himself to look at the merchandise, at the people cooped up in the little cages, their expressions ranging anywhere from indifferent to hostile. He walked through them cautiously, determined to avoid their gazes for the most part, for he found it disturbing to glimpse their eyes.

  “And what is the price range you’re looking at?” the clerk asked.

  Kishan reached into his pocket and extracted two coins. He looked shamefully up at the clerk, whose derisive grin only grew wider. “I have… fifty cents.”

  “A fortune, no doubt,” the clerk said, harshly. “In that case, sir, I have only one item in this store that will suit your needs.” He took Kishan to the far end of the shop, where on the lowest shelf of an old, dusty cabinet, there lay a rusty, brittle-looking cage. Within it sat a young girl, with pretty, delicate features, and large, expressive eyes. She regarded Kishan apprehensively, but with fascination.

  He smiled kindly at her.

  She did not smile back.

  “Is she… nice?” Kishan asked, doubtfully.

  “You get what you pay for,” the clerk replied.

  “What are her qualities?”

  “That is for you to find out, sir.”

  Kishan knelt beside the cage and smiled at her again. This time, the girl within the cage managed a weak smile in reply. “What’s her name?” Kishan asked the clerk.

  “I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “What’s your name?” Kishan asked the girl.

  She looked up at the clerk and then back at Kishan before answering. “Shreya.”

  Kishan nodded. “It’s a very pretty name.”

  Silence fell, as they considered each other quietly. Then Kishan stood up and gave the two coins to the clerk. “I’ll take her,” he announced. “But please let her out of that cage at once. She’s not an animal or some kind of criminal.”

  “Oh?” the clerk said mockingly, as he unlocked her cage. “Then what is she?”

  Kishan helped Shreya out of the cage. He took her hand as she put weight on her feet gingerly, and supported her as she tried to walk. “She’s my best friend.”

  Shreya hadn’t been home in many years. She had left town when she was still a child, and time had made a mockery out of her plans to return here one day. But she’d finally made it back, and now she had a husband to share her memories and experiences with. They walked arm in arm through the streets that she no longer remembered vividly, yet hadn’t forgotten entirely. Everything had changed so dramatically in the twenty years she’d been away; the buildings were new or just larger than she remembered; the streets were paved and equipped with crosswalks and lampposts; there were cars and bikes and buses thundering past them; the population had swollen by at least five hundred percent, and she didn’t recognise anyone she came across. It was, she realised mournfully, as though she was in a different town.

  As they turned into a narrow lane, Shreya’s eyes fell upon a beggar on the side of the street. He lifted his head as they came near and stared overtly at her. She felt that she should turn away, but somehow found herself equally fascinated by him.

  When they walked past him, he held up his bowl and shook it pleadingly.

  “Do you have any money?” she asked her husband.

  He made an impatient noise with his tongue as he dropped her hand and reached into his pocket to extract his wallet. Shreya stared at the beggar, who now avoided her gaze entirely and stared solemnly at the pavement. Her husband gave her a couple of coins, which Shreya then offered to the beggar. He did not meet her eyes. He bowed his head, in gratitude and in shame, and held his arms aloft, with the bowl between his hands—the two coins were dropped into it.

  “Thank you, Miss,” he said. “God bless you.”

  “And you,” she replied.

  The couple left him and walked a few paces, when Shreya stopped and considered the building they were walking past. Time had changed it. The structure was the same, but it had been improved dramatically, and outfitted with modern designs and facilities. It was no longer the same establishment ei
ther: it was now a stylish, high-priced restaurant.

  “There used to be an ice cream parlour here,” she said.

  “Oh?” her husband said, feigning interest. He checked his watch when she wasn’t paying attention. “Honey, it’s late. We should be getting back.”

  “It must have been… almost thirty years since I was here,” she said.

  “Brings back memories?”

  Shreya nodded. “Funny thing is… I didn’t even eat any ice cream that day.”

  “What were you doing here then?”

  She smiled, remembering. “I was meeting a friend.”

  She then took his hand and they walked away. As they turned the corner, she cast one last glance at the beggar; he was smiling.

  They are on the shores of eternity, beside the immortal river. Shreya is lying on the boat, her arms folded across her chest. Kishan stands on the shore, looking down upon her.

  “For the boatman,” he says, and puts two coins on her eyes.

  He gives the boat a gentle nudge, and the current pulls it along. He watches the boat disappear into the distance. He hears footsteps behind him and notices Shreya standing there. He looks at her enquiringly, and she points to another boat bobbing along the edge of the river, right by his feet. He climbs in willingly and lies down.

  “Close your eyes,” she tells him.

  He obliges.

  “For the boatman,” she says, placing two coins over his eyes.

  A moment later the river pulls the boat away from the shore. He drifts downstream, leaving behind mortality, existence, friendship and division. He is glad the end is near. Too long have they both been alone, clinging to one another to find solace. But now, upon the immortal river, all would change. Somewhere along the way, the two boats and the two bodies within them would become one. Only the fifty cents would remain behind, as eternal payment.

  III

  At First Sight

  Her name is Emma. I have no memory of her, of our past or our present relationship, and yet I am undeniably in love with her. I gaze at her with a sort of mad desperation, as though our fates are inextricably entwined: as if we are one soul, one entity, split into two people. She smiles at me, and I notice that her soft features are warm and pleasant. We are coasting down a busy city street at night, weaving through hundreds of dazzling lights, moving with unnatural speed and precision. I know I’m driving, and can feel my hands on the steering wheel, but I have no control of the car, and have no sense of where we’re headed.

  I turn back to her, and gaze into her beautiful, enchanting face.

  “You seem distracted,” she informs me, “Is something on your mind?”

  I try to grip the steering wheel tighter and stare determinedly out the windshield again. “Not really,” I tell her, with what I hope seems like a nonchalant shrug.

  A silence falls, broken only by the soft pattering of rain, and the squeaks of the wiper blades. I can see her turn to me from time to time, for I too am stealing glances at her, and yet our eyes never meet. Are we both pondering the same thing, I wonder?

  “Storm’s picking up,” she says, peering out into the darkening skies.

  As I look up, the sky erupts into strange convulsions—the black, smoky clouds start churning wildly at an inconceivable pace. It looks as if a celestial pipe is continually pumping fresh clouds into the skies, causing a turbulent, almost violent storm. It’s mesmerising to behold, for coupled with the intermittent flashes of lightning, the storm creates an impressive, larger-than-life atmosphere. And in the distance, far beyond the roofs of the towering skyscrapers, I can see an enormous funnel cloud descend into the middle of the street.

  “We’ll have to leave this road,” I say to her, the words coming out of my mouth without my mind having formed a decision to utter them.

  “We have time,” she replies, unfazed.

  The street is suddenly deserted, and the funnel cloud is now almost upon us.

  She reaches out for the steering wheel with her left hand, in a kind of sudden panic, and turns the car into a narrow gulley between two buildings. I can hear the wind howling wildly, and can feel the tornado sidling forward, approaching us.

  We are somehow out of the car, standing against the wall of the building. She’s bleeding from the leg, though I don’t know how. I try to treat her. I feel panic, worry, and a sense of heaviness that has nothing to do with anxiety for her well-being, but apprehension for the words I’m about to share. I push her up against the wall and grip her shoulders. “You have to get out of here,” I urge her. “You have to survive: you have a life to live. You have Raymond to live for.”

  Raymond? The name echoes into my mind from a past I cannot discern, and yet the name bears meaning, and stirs within me a deep sense of bitterness.

  “If we go, we go together,” she argues.

  I press myself tightly against her, to keep out the wind and any debris that might come our way. She holds me close, not with desperation or urgency, but with fondness. We stand in close embrace, as the tornado whips past us. I don’t hear the wind anymore, nor do I feel its powerful gusts. I only feel her touch, which is at once new and familiar.

  “I fell in love with you,” I whisper, and as she looks up I add, “At first sight.”

  The café was warm and cosy. It was snowing outside, and the windows were covered in frost. We were seated at the table closest to the hearth, and its healthy fire kept us comfortable. I was watching Emma greedily, appreciating her every feature.

  “It was an uneventful sort of weekend,” she said, taking a sip of the hot chocolate. “Except for this one fight Raymond and I had. We had the same argument we’ve had since we started dating, but this time I think things are going to turn out differently.”

  Inwardly, I reacted the same way I always did when I heard Raymond’s name: by cringing and pretending he didn’t exist. Outwardly, I feigned interest. “How’s that?”

  “Well,” she said, a smile slowly forming on her beautiful lips. “I think he’s starting to realise what I want out of the relationship: I think he’s starting to listen to me.”

  I felt a deep sense of foreboding, and knew I wouldn’t like what I was about to hear. “Well, that’s good,” I said, hoping the conversation would end there. But it didn’t.

  “I think,” she said, excitement bubbling within her, “He’s going to propose.”

  The café exploded around us: the roof was blown away, the tables, chairs, counters, and everything else rose in a cloud of smoke and dust, but somehow Emma and I sat at our table, sipping our drinks, unaffected. She leaned across the table, and I found myself naively hoping she was going to say something intimate and affectionate, maybe even something revelatory like “But I don’t love Raymond, I love you.”

  I leaned in too, blind hope building within me.

  “I think,” she said, a mischievous grin on her face, “We may just elope.”

  I sighed, in spite of myself, but fortunately managed to turn it into a kind of happy, breathy chuckle, so that she wouldn’t get suspicious. The café was gone. We were simply hovering in space, sitting at a table, sipping our drinks.

  And my heart had just been broken.

  The tornado is gone. We take a cab to the station. We step out and I turn to look inside the window to pay the driver, but he isn’t there. The driver’s side door is left open, and he is nowhere to be found. I look all around the busy parking lot, but I don’t even remember what he looks like. I turn to Emma, but she is already walking into the station.

  I follow her, but as I reach the front doors, a surly man shoves me back. He is the taxi driver. He accuses me of trying to cheat him out of payment.

  “But you left,” I insist, looking back at the empty cab. “You weren’t in there.”

  “I went to the washroom. You should have waited,�
�� he argues.

  People turn to us; Emma stands by the door, looking back with a mixture of pity and disapproval on her face. She’s expecting me to stand up for myself, to prove that I’m the kind of man she can be with. The driver’s rant echoes distantly in my ears as I turn away from Emma and face him. I yell—no, I roar at him. He steps back, surprised.

  “It’s not my fault you left the cab unattended,” I growl. “It’s not my fault you didn’t even tell us where you were going. I was ready to pay you—look, I even have the money in my hands. This is your fault and nobody else’s. You’re a coward and a cheat.”

  And then I strike him; the feel of fist against jaw is incredibly enthralling, as is the sight of him flying back twenty feet and crashing into the wall. The entire station erupts into delighted applause; people start cheering for me, whistling, and singing my praises. I turn expectantly to Emma; I find her standing by the door, her expression still disapproving. Shaking her head, she turns away and the door closes behind her.

  I took our drinks from the bartender and made my way back to her. She was suddenly surrounded by a group of gossiping, giggly girls. These were the friends she’d spoken about all these years, and I recognised them without having ever met them before. I couldn’t tell if they were pretty or not. In fact, I honestly didn’t even notice. They resembled the type of young, adolescent girls that I personally came across too often: tittering, uncoordinated and shy, while still being loud and caustic. And it didn’t seem like they had a collective I.Q that would reach double digits. But despite all of their shortcomings, I knew (without even looking at them) that I needed their approval and their validation, more than I needed anything else at that moment.