I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

  Emma pulled me close to her as she faced them and said, “This is my boyfriend. We have a kid together.” She was smiling, and her hand reached for mine, as if she really were my girlfriend. I felt my insides doing cartwheels at her statement, but my mind argued that she already had a boyfriend, and reasoned that she was simply trying to make me feel good. Perhaps I should have played along, but bitterness found me.

  “I’m not her boyfriend,” I said, laughing politely—I hated myself for every single word that I uttered. “She’s just kidding—she already has a boyfriend, and they don’t have a kid yet. But one day they will, because she loves him more than anything or anyone else.”

  Her friends broke into laughter and she joined in, as if they were all in on the joke.

  “I’m not gay,” I declared, as their giggles abated.

  “I want to know something,” I tell her, as we make our way through the station. “Is there any particular reason you never found me attractive?”

  She shrugs, determined not to meet my eyes. “Not really,” she says, evasively. I know I am making her uncomfortable, but I don’t care. “You’re not my type.”

  “Neither is Raymond.”

  “No, but I love him.”

  I ignore the stab. “But you found him attractive before you loved him.”

  “Of course.” The response is immediate, almost instinctive.

  “What was it that you found attractive about him?” I probe further.

  “I’m just… not attracted to you,” she says, skirting the question. “And don’t pretend that doesn’t mean you’re not attractive. You’re just not right for me—you’re too emotional and I’m not. You’re just not someone I could be in a relationship with.”

  I consider her words and then laugh, like I have never laughed before. Her words ring through my head, reminding me of how repulsive I am: how utterly worthless and without merit. I don’t blame her for rejecting me—I would have rejected myself, too.

  “I think your best friend is really cute, though,” she adds suddenly, and twists the knife she’s stuck in my chest. “I think your dad is pretty hot, your brothers are gorgeous, so are your uncles, your cousins, your grandfathers, your great-grandfathers, your sons, your grandsons, your neighbours, your bosses, your subordinates, your councilmen, your attorneys, your accountants, every man in your life, and every man in this world but you. They are all very, very attractive.”

  I keep laughing, even though the searing pain has paralysed my every thought and feeling. I continue laughing, until the laughs echo into the silence and turn into tears.

  I suddenly remember the conversation we’d shared by the lake.

  We were on the edge of a lake, throwing stones into the water. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, not turning to her, for I was nervous enough without having to look at her.

  “Hmm?” she said, casually.

  A duck swam leisurely before me, without a care in the world. How easy its life was, I thought: how utterly simple and without complication. What made its life simple? It needed the very same things I did to physically survive: food, water, and basic everyday health. It wanted a mate, as did I. But perhaps what separated us were our egos. He didn’t know what he was; only what he needed in order to remain, to exist. I on the other hand knew myself, my surroundings, my world, my past, my world’s past, and much more. I knew so much that I could even afford to imagine, and that imagination led me to think I was special; special only because I existed. But mere existence was not worthy of pride, or else this duck would be proud too. It was pride that made me fallible, that made my life complicated, and made that moment with Emma so tense.

  “You’re not saying anything,” she observed.

  I inhaled deeply. “I love you…” I said, and the words came out of me before I could stop them. “Emma,” I added, just so she knew I wasn’t talking to the duck.

  There was a long silence. Or perhaps it wasn’t that long at all, but felt long because I was left standing on the edge of a knife, wondering whether her reply would tip me over. In that moment, while I waited for her response, I felt like I was alone in the world, naked, vulnerable, and mortal. My fate was in her hands, and that was a feeling I didn’t particularly enjoy. I felt oddly embarrassed, as though I was placing too much value in a matter as trivial as love. There were more important things in life, surely. Yet I could think of nothing more significant at that moment. My ego had been risked, and her answer would determine the outcome.

  “Oh…” she said, breaking the silence.

  I turned to her. She was looking into the water, her expression a mixture of gratification and apprehension. For one fleeting instant, I thought the gratification was reflective of her similar feelings for me, until I noticed a frown appearing on her features, suggesting annoyance. I understood—she was happy that I loved her, because it gave her validation as a woman and a person. But it also annoyed her, because she didn’t love me back.

  We sat in silence, watching the duck swim around us.

  We ride the escalator in silence. The pride I’d felt after emasculating the taxi driver had evaporated upon seeing the look of disapproval on Emma’s face. I feel like myself again now: useless, worthless and insignificant. As we reach the ground floor, she instinctively reaches for my arm to steady her. I take her hand, but let it slip through my fingers. She trips at the edge of the last step and falls forward. I try to catch her but can’t, and she falls to the ground.

  “Emma, I’m so sorry,” I mutter hastily, as I pick her up.

  “No worries,” she says, getting to her feet and examining her arm.

  I notice a fresh, heart-shaped bruise on her forearm. “Cute, don’t you think?” she grins, looking up at me. “When I was a kid, I had a bruise the shape of a bell.”

  “So did I!” I reply, with a laugh. “And that’s not all; when I was younger I had some freckles on my arm that lined up like a question mark.”

  “Hey, I did too…” she says, amused and taken aback. “Are we just a couple of mutants then, with some kind of invisible, undetectable connection?”

  “Perhaps,” I smile. “But if that’s the case, I’m not complaining.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  I kiss her hand. “I can’t think of anyone better I’d like to have a connection with.” I am then surprised (and offended) when she bursts out laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, holding a hand up to her mouth to try and stop the giggles trying to burst through her. “It was just one of those moments, you know? It just got kind of corny there, like something out of a movie.” She smiles. “I’m sorry.”

  She is so different from me that I wonder how we might have ever found common ground if she had loved me, which she however never did, does not, and never will.

  She’d wanted me at her wedding, so I attended. It was a beautiful ceremony. She looked stunning. I was glad she didn’t elope, because she would have missed out on the happiest day of her life, and the worst of mine. At the reception, she came to find me.

  “Mrs. Raymond Darren,” I said, and the words nearly choked me, though I did manage a weak smile to mask the inner pain. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  She smiled back, her face flushed with joy and excitement. “I can’t believe I’m married! I was afraid this day would get screwed up, but it didn’t. It was perfect.”

  “Perfect,” I repeated, with the same smile, but a hollow voice.

  She took my hand and squeezed it; she was happy I was here, and I thought this would be our moment, the moment when she would say how much it meant to have me here on this important day. I thought she would tell me that she loved me, and that she always would, even though she was married to someone else. I wanted her to know I loved her too, more than she would ever realise. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and made he
r look (if possible) even more beautiful than she already did. She wiped the tears and looked up into my eyes. “I’m so grateful to God for bringing Raymond into my life.”

  I felt like a drain hole had been unplugged in my chest, and that everything of value within my heart was emptying rapidly, while I sat powerlessly, unable to stop it.

  “So am I,” I lied.

  Overcome with emotion, she pulled me into a hug, and then disappeared into the crowd. I stood there alone, watching the woman I loved dance, laugh, cry, and celebrate her marriage to another man. I didn’t think I had ever felt worse in my life.

  It was then that I saw Raymond standing to the side of the dance floor, talking to his brother. I had never gotten along with him, and never understood what Emma saw in him. I wanted to believe that he was a decent man, and that he would never, not under any circumstance, take her for granted. I wanted to believe he loved her as much as I did, or even more than that. But above all, I wanted to believe that he would make her happy, in every sense of the word. For Emma, amazing as she was, deserved nothing less than utter, unequivocal bliss.

  Raymond laughed at some joke his brother had made, and the expression lit his features flatteringly. There was innocence in his laughter, a sincerity that touched his eyes; it made him appear honest and straightforward. In that one short moment, I found myself relating to him, even (dare I admit it?) liking him. Because I realised he and I weren’t that different. As people we were polar opposites—we were nothing alike, had nothing in common (except love for the same woman, and a mutual dislike for each other), and lived contrasting lives. But we could so easily have led each other’s lives. I could have been born as him and he as me. It was chance, or God’s sleight of hand that had placed us in our respective lives. And underneath all the circumstances that separated us, we were basically the same person. The world was one single, living soul, and we were its broken fragments, scattered into fate and circumstance.

  He scratched his forehead as I watched, and that pulled the unbuttoned cuffs on his shirt down the length of his arm, revealing a heart-shaped bruise on his forearm. I frowned, scrutinising it. It looked familiar. In fact I had seen a similar bruise elsewhere, on almost the same spot. I noticed that his brother, standing next to him, also had the exact same bruise on his arm. I moved through the crowd, studying everyone’s arms. I grabbed people’s arms randomly to check for tattoos; they regarded me nervously, as if I was crazy, but I didn’t care. Every one of them had the exact same bruise, on the exact same spot. How could that be possible?

  As I stood in the middle of the reception hall, my eyes met Emma’s.

  “I love you,” she mouthed, and her eyes twinkled with desire.

  I thought she was looking at me, but she wasn’t. I turned around and found every man in the hall mouthing back to her, “I love you too.”

  We stand on the platform, waiting for the train that will part us forever. We take this moment to say our farewells, and to prepare us for a lifetime apart.

  “Well, this is it,” I say to her, my voice brittle with emotion. “Tell Raymond that he better take good care of you, all right? Because I’ll be watching…”

  She nods and smiles. “He’s a good man, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “You two have that in common.”

  I laugh mirthlessly. I look at her longingly, the woman of my dreams, the girl that stole my heart and refused to give me hers. I realise that I still love her, as much as I ever did, and I know this love will never diminish. “You deserve happiness,” I tell her, sincerely.

  She seems to recognise the earnestness, for her answering smile is warm and appreciative. “We both do,” she replies. “Why not attempt to find mutual bliss?”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “You mean together?”

  She nods and flashes me another irresistible smile. “We can pretend, can’t we? Just for today, just for now…” she says, and takes my hand in hers. “Tell me, my dear, did you fall in love with me as soon as we met?” she asks.

  I smile and gaze down to notice a heart-shaped bruise on my right arm. I had seen it before, this exact same bruise, only it had been on a different arm. No, I realise, with an inward smile, actually it had been the same arm. I had thought it was different, but I’d been proven wrong now. It is this same arm that balances the entire world on its hand.

  “Did you hear me?” she asks, and I lift my gaze to meet hers. “I asked if you fell in love with me the moment we met,” she repeats the words, sounding a little worried now.

  An old memory, one of my earliest, surfaces:

  Parted from an all-forgiving womb, I rested in a crib, my new home, and examined my new limbs. It was a fat, shiny arm with a pudgy hand, little chubby fingers, and a curious birthmark: a heart-shaped mark on the forearm, a kind of bruise. I examined the arm at length, turning it around for my eyes to scan it, while I giggled in amusement. And then, as if to test my level of control over it, I moved it into my mouth. I giggled again, but happily this time, for I knew this hand was mine, and would remain mine, no matter how many years passed, and no matter how many avatars it took. For me, there was only one arm, and it was mine.

  I was in love…

  I smile at her. “Yes, of course,” I answer. “At first sight.”

  IV

  Reality’s Dream

  It’s daytime… Or is it simply night, lit up by a passing swarm or fireflies? I must be going crazy, for I can’t see the sun anywhere. I can’t really pivot my head either, so I can’t check to see if it’s merely hiding somewhere behind me. Oh well, I’ll figure it out sooner or later. Night or day, this is a beautiful setting. Clear blue skies, and an even clearer, bluer sea.

  The urge to sneeze rushes onto me suddenly and I indulge it without much thought. The sneeze erupts into a snowstorm, and the golden beach around me turns white with snow. Then I inhale, and all the snow evaporates into my nostrils. The world returns to its former setting.

  There is a madness that befalls dreamers, an all-consuming dearth of reason and relevance that consumes the dreamer in its convoluted reality. Gazing out into this apocalyptic sea, a helpless invalid, I cannot help but wonder if the madness has found me.

  A farmer strolls by, leading a cow behind him.

  “A drink, please?” I ask of him.

  “It is not my decision,” he informs me. “Ask the cow.”

  The cow’s large, beautiful eyes pivot to find mine, and her expression is enquiring.

  She takes pity on my predicament and offers me the only aid she can. The taste of fresh milk from a cow is delicious. But this milk tastes even sweeter, because the cow has parted with it willingly. Her milk lends me the strength and the clarity of thought I have been lacking.

  As the farmer and the cow, two anomalies in this bizarre landscape, disappear into the distance, I am allowed an opportunity to reflect upon my condition. I attempt to realise my situation, and recognise any possible solutions. But there are no solutions. That fact becomes obvious after just a moment’s contemplation. I am in the middle of a large, bizarre dream.

  The effects of the milk are short-lived. A fog settles over my thoughts as I watch the hypnotic movement of the tide. I feel confused, dispirited, and helpless.

  She is a young girl, no more than four years of age. Chasing a butterfly, she stumbles upon me quite by accident. “Are you playing a game?” she asks.

  For a moment, I wonder if I actually am in the middle of some kind of a game. But somehow, through the fog, I find a clear answer. “No, this isn’t a game.”

  “Are you hungry?” she reaches into the pockets of her skirt and extracts a piece of chocolate. “Open wide,” she says, and I willingly oblige. The chocolate has much the same effect as the milk, and once again, I am allowed a moment of lucidity.

  There is a pattern to be discerned a
mid this chaotic existence: a rhythm to the sea, a symmetry to the landscape, and a purpose to this eccentricity. I am the solution.

  The dream, if it was a dream, vanishes as seamlessly as it appeared.

  There is no chocolate in my mouth, and there was no girl.

  The reason collapses, and the world reverts to chaos.

  One fact that has survived this world, despite the absence of logic, is the truth that dreams are hopelessly fickle. Like a butterfly that flutters teasingly outside the arc of a lepidopterist’s net, dreams ever dwell on the edge of reason, just beyond the dreamer’s understanding. They exist in the dreamer’s sensory field, and yet, since they hover beyond the scope of logic, they do not exist—or rather, they could not exist. The dreamer is therefore left questioning existence itself, dismantling its very structure in an effort to unearth an answer.

  My current existence is worth dismantling, for it is at much real as it is devoid of logic. I stand buried under a tree, with only my head above the surface, while the sea eats away at the world around me. I try to remember when the earth imprisoned me here. It must have happened recently, for I still bear memories of walking, of running wildly, climbing trees, swimming through streams, and soaring off high cliffs. I had been alive, my limbs roaring with youthful vigour and reckless passion. The world had been my playground— there had been no fences anywhere, no rules, and no boundaries. And then suddenly I’d fallen… or had the earth risen? Either way, I’d crashed into a reality so harsh and so true that it stripped me of hope. For how could hope survive where dreams couldn’t? How could one paint a rainbow, when no colours remained? I became a caged bird, imprisoned in a dreamless world.

  Yet now I sit in the middle of a bizarre dream.

  My nose itches.

  Do I still have arms and legs beneath the earth? My mind calls out to my limbs, asking them to answer if they’re still there. I have been here so long that I cannot remember if I had been buried or if I had been decapitated and my head left here. Instinctively, I believe my hand can break through the soil and alleviate this itch—I even expect it to happen. But the earth remains unbroken, and the itch only grows stronger.