I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

  First I juggled, and did so skilfully. My dance routines were complicated but artfully executed. The animals responded to my commands loyally, never once failing to obey. I swallowed swords, breathed fire, stood on nails, walked high wires, climbed burning ropes, and even leapt from a ninety-foot platform into a tiny barrel of water. And yet, when at the end of my performance I took an expectant bow, there was no applause.

  The spectators sat silently, their expressions ranging from bored to indifferent. The other performers waited beside the stage, their arms crossed, tapping the floor impatiently with their feet. Had I not amused any of them? Had I not entertained? Flawlessly I had performed, borrowing only the best routines and the most daring acts. And yet I had failed to draw even a single cheer. I turned back to the audience to demand an explanation, only to find the stands suddenly empty. How could this be? They had been filled with thousands not a moment ago.

  I gazed out into the empty stadium, devoid of even a single living being, and I felt alone.

  Unsatisfied, I trudged off in disappointment.

  When I resumed climbing the stairs, my mood was sour. So far these stairs hadn’t led anywhere useful. They had teased and taunted, promising much but delivering little. I was beginning to feel very sceptical about the promise that they would lead me home.

  The next room seemed quite promising. As soon as I entered it, I recognised the wallpaper pattern, the poor but cosy furnishings, and the all too familiar layout. I was home. The stairs had indeed led me where they had promised. Eager to know what I would find here, I walked through the foyer into the main hall. The place was crowded, filled to capacity with people that I knew and loved. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed into faces I hadn’t seen in ages. I went up to each of them and opened my arms in greeting, but they did not respond. They spoke amongst themselves, laughed, danced, cried and celebrated each other’s presence, but they did not notice me. Was I invisible? Indeed not, for they could see me. They frowned when I interrupted them, recoiled when I touched them, and turned away if I addressed them. It was as if I was a stranger, or worse still, an enemy. Yet in reality I was neither. I was their friend, someone they loved, and someone whose company they had once cherished.

  I had never known such sadness before. To be around my loved ones and not be able to share in their love was a fate beyond mere cruelty. It resurfaced insecurities I had long kept supressed within myself, and these renewed fears now began to weaken me; they fed on my positivity, and thereby strengthened every negative thought I had ever possessed.

  I couldn’t bear to be in this room any longer. I returned hastily to the staircase. I didn’t know if this was the home I had been promised, but I wanted to believe that there was something better awaiting me, something more redeeming. So I decided to climb further, to try and reach a warmer place, a sort of salvation even. I wept uncontrollably though as I resumed climbing, for I felt as if I had reached the lowest depths of misery. Since first entering this stairway, I had failed to conquer weakness; then I had failed to lead; I had failed to win attention, and now I had failed to earn the affections of those I loved. What other misfortunes would these stairs bring?

  The stairs climbed higher and higher still.

  At one point I was certain I was being chased. Though the tenacious fog that hovered over the staircase concealed most of my sight but for half a dozen stairs, I was certain I had glimpsed something behind me, something sinister. At first I only heard its footsteps, echoing faintly but not distantly. But then its shadow fell over mine, and I turned to see its ghastly silhouette through the mist. I ran up the stairs in panic, and its footsteps followed, its own pace quickening. My lungs burned with effort, and my limbs ached for rest. And yet my fear was so great that I knew I couldn’t pause. It wasn’t long before my body collapsed, refusing to move another inch. I fell on the stairs and turned in anticipation of the attack.

  The creature’s shadow loomed over me, but it did not come near. Its hesitation took me by surprise. I waited long enough for my legs to recover, and then I resumed climbing. I didn’t push myself as hard this time, and was content to merely keep a brisk pace. Again the creature followed, matching my now more conservative speed. But it still didn’t attack. What was it, I wondered? It persevered relentlessly, almost loyally, yet never revealed itself. Over time I grew accustomed to its presence, and learned to disregard it, as I would my shadow.

  The next room I stumbled into was some kind of a control centre. There were all sorts of machinery and computers inside, with control panels, large screens, keypads, gauges, meters, and other equipment that I didn’t recognise. The most distinctive feature of this room wasn’t the machinery however, but the personnel. Dozens of gnomes were scattered in every station, busily taking readings, filing reports, and issuing orders. They ignored my presence and kept at their work. I ambled around the room, peering over their tiny shoulders to see what they were doing.

  In some of the screens I saw my family and friends. In others I saw people from my past, acquaintances, co-workers, and even enemies. Some screens showed movies I had seen; books I had read; articles I had glanced at; pictures I had viewed; conversations I had participated in or else had been privy to; music I had heard; ideas I had developed; emotions I had experienced or else had invoked; thoughts I’d had, ranging from sinister to inspiring; dreams I’d had; fantasies and wishes I had indulged in; the knowledge and the skills I had gathered in my lifetime. Some of this information appeared in printouts, which the gnomes filed in cabinets.

  The cabinets, I discovered, were actually enormous vaults with drawers. I opened a few of these drawers and perused the files within. I came across information from my own past, things I myself had forgotten. I came across every conversation I had ever had with every person I had ever met. I found files detailing my prejudices, my dislikes, my weaknesses and errors. I came across an alarmingly large file that listed all the lies I had ever told. Another file listed my regrets and grievances. Others still detailed my accomplishments and my happiest memories. The files were endless, as were the cabinets. How did the gnomes keep track of all this, I wondered? More importantly though, how had they come by this information? Was their sole purpose to spy on me, and record every detail of my life, no matter how trivial?

  A dial on one of the stations showed a word that described my current mood: confusion. The other titles on the dial ranged from ecstasy, joy, wonder, pride, satisfaction, idle contentment, idle jealousy, doubt, anxiety, anger, sorrow, to devastation. Confusion sat in the dead centre of the dial, between idle contentment and idle jealousy.

  I moved forward to get a better look at the dial.

  Deciding to venture a guess, I tried to recall a joke from my past. I soon remembered one that I’d heard at a friend’s wedding and retold it within my head; the dial shook slightly, and then veered ever so slightly from “confusion” to about halfway towards “idle contentment.” I tried to stimulate a stronger reaction. I thought about the love of my life, a woman who had failed to reciprocate my feelings for her, and had instead announced her love for my brother. The dial swung sharply towards “idle jealousy,” and then oscillated between “doubt” and “anger” before settling finally on a mark halfway between idle jealousy and doubt.

  I was fascinated by this machine. How could it gauge my mood so accurately?

  Perhaps as fascinating was a screen adjacent to this machine, which depicted a picture of that very screen at this very station, in the middle of this very room, as seen through my eyes. I pivoted my head slightly, and the image on the screen moved accordingly to capture what my eyes were viewing. Remarkable! I was being spied upon from within. Though disconcerting, it was a realisation that posed more questions than concerns within my head. The gnome at this station, unperturbed to my presence like the others, wrote down details of anything and everything I perceived, including the resulting opinions, concerns and questions.
It was odd being documented like that, to have my every thought and feeling witnessed, measured and then recorded for an unknown purpose. I tapped the gnome on the shoulder to question him, but he waved me away irritably, without even turning around. I found it funny in a sense that he was too busy recording my life to spare me a moment’s consideration. It was like working for an employer and failing to acknowledge him when he came around for an inspection.

  I left the room and tried to return to the staircase, but it had disappeared! In its stead I found a corridor. It was narrow and dimly lit. Many doorways stood on either wall, with closed doors. I opened the first door: it led into a staircase that spiralled downwards. Was this the highest point on the stairway then? Perhaps this doorway would lead me back down. I went to the adjacent door and opened it. Inside was another staircase, only these climbed upwards. I opened yet another door and found yet another staircase, though this one climbed in both directions. Each door led out onto a stairway. Where did each stairway lead, and how many such stairways did they each lead to? How many stairways, how many doors, how many rooms and how many memories would I have to endure before I reached my promised home? And was there indeed a home for me to reach, or had that promise been a blatant lie?

  As I stood in that corridor, a door opened to my right and I saw myself come out of it. I gazed at him, my reflection, and he gazed back. We stood in silence for a moment, regarding each other as though we were strangers. And then he opened another door at random and disappeared through it. I stared after him, dumbstruck by what I had just seen…

  I thought back over everything I had seen since I’d climbed that first stair. Everything I had come across within this labyrinth had been familiar and relevant. I wondered if the stairway had been built around my life. Or rather, had the stairway been built into my life?

  No, I decided; the stairway had been built within my mind. All these stairways and all these doors… they were within my consciousness. I was lost within the labyrinths of my own mind. It explained why I had been promised that these stairs would take me home. These stairs were my home. I had explored my desires, my memories, my doubts, my insecurities and every other aspect of myself. I had been chased by my own fears, and confronted by my own demons.

  I stood poised in front of a random doorway, leading into a random stairway. My reflection was out there somewhere, wandering this labyrinth as I was. If I entered this doorway, I might be lost forever. But then, I realised I had always been lost.

  Knowing where I was had never meant I’d found my way. No, life (not unlike my mind) was a labyrinth of questions and answers. My purpose had never been to find my way through it, but to simply make the journey. I would have to walk as far as my time allowed, see as much as was there to see, and understand whatever I could. My existence was my purpose.

  I entered the stairway, without expecting it to lead me anywhere. In fact, I had no expectations. This puzzle was larger than me. These doors travelled further than just my mind. They extended beyond the mortal reaches of the world, past the obscure borders of the Universe, into the realms of existence itself. For the Universe is not altogether different from the mind. Shrouded in mystery, they are both comprised of infinite labyrinths, and though a traveller might roam them eternally, he will never succeed in opening every door, or learning every secret. But he won’t be alone; he will always be pursued by his eternally loyal shadow—reflection.

  VI

  An Apple Branch

  Max and Macs were born on the same apple tree. Their nests were built on different branches, and their families lived in symbiotic harmony for years. But then came a famine and a flood, and all the other members of their families slowly died out. Correspondingly, the apple tree bloomed less and less with every passing season, until all the apples it bore grew on just one branch. Max and Macs, both desperate and hungry, migrated to this branch at the same time.

  Though not strangers, Max and Macs had never really been acquainted in all the time they had lived in this tree. Faced now with a territorial dispute, they regarded one another with a sense of apprehension, unsure of how the other would act under these circumstances.

  Max spoke first. “Pardon me, but this is my branch.”

  Macs was quick to respond. “Indeed? Where is your nest?”

  “Up there,” Max replied unabashedly, gesturing to a branch several feet higher.

  “Then how can you claim ownership of this branch?”

  “I arrived here first, therefore it’s mine.”

  “On the contrary, I landed here the same time as you did.”

  Max hesitated, for he had no suitable rebuttal. They were both aware that since they had arrived on this branch at the same time, it would be difficult to decide who had the right to stay.

  “When did you first settle down on this tree?” Macs demanded.

  Max pondered the question. “When did you settle down on this tree?” he asked.

  Macs was too smart for that. “Long before you.”

  Max turned to a different strategy. “My great, great grandfather carried the seed of this apple tree and planted it here, so this tree should really belong to me.”

  “Well, it was my great, great grandfather who showed your great, great grandfather where to plant this tree, so really the tree belongs to me.”

  Max glared at his counterpart, but then decided to adopt a subtler approach. “Why don’t I draw a line in the middle of the branch? Then we can divide it into two halves. My half will be from the line to the tip of the branch. Yours will be from the line to the armpit of the tree. Neither one of us must then cross over to the other’s side. Agreed?”

  “But your half would contain all the apples on the branch,” Macs argued.

  “That is the tree’s choice; I am but the innocent benefactor.”

  “In that case, I would argue that by extension, along with my half of the branch, the rest of the tree also belongs to me,” declared Macs.

  “How do you figure that?” Max asked, outraged.

  “If everything on that side of the line is yours, then everything on this side of the line is mine. Therefore the rest of the tree, along with any and all apples that may grow upon it in the future belongs to me. Agreed?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then I am afraid the issue is still far from settled.”

  They sat in silence for a while, each lost in his own contemplation. The branch remained unclaimed, and the apples aged slowly, wondering if they would ever be eaten.

  “Can you fly?” Max asked, eventually.

  “Most certainly, I fly like a bird.”

  “Good one.”

  “It was there for the taking.”

  “I haven’t flown in years.”

  “How come?”

  “My wings were injured in an accident. I have lived on this tree for so long now that it is my entire world; I know nothing of, nor care for anything beyond its branches.”

  “Do you know that I am blind?” Macs said.

  “No! But then how do you fly and move about?”

  “Instinct. Wisdom. Imagination.”

  “You imagine the world you fly into?”

  “Quite literally.”

  “Well, isn’t that dangerous?”

  “No more than flying with full vision. The world is full of predators, and having sight will only enable me to suffer through an additional sensation of death. But by flying blind, I imagine a world devoid of danger, disease and death. In my world, there is no suffering.”

  “What happens if you fly into something and hurt yourself?”

  “Oh I don’t fly at all.”

  “You don’t? But you just said you fly with imagination.”

  “By never leaving this tree. Blind as I am, I sit in my nest and imagine the sensation of soaring through the clouds, ga
zing over a world that is lush green, with streaks of blue, ridges of golden brown, and deep pools of mesmerizing turquoise.”

  “Then both our fates are similar,” Max concluded.

  “Do you dream of flying, also?”

  “No, I prefer to walk with my eyes open. I have scoured every inch of this tree on foot, and learnt that to know this tree is to know this world. I do not need to fly.”

  “Perhaps, but we are both in need of this tree, and in particular of this one branch.”

  “It would seem so.”

  They fell silent.

  “Do you know there was once a farmer who tried to cut this tree down?”

  “Indeed! How was he stopped?”

  “The axe wouldn’t go through the trunk. Try as he did hew after hew, there was not even a scratch upon the tree. The axe eventually split into two, so he gave up and went home.”

  “Isn’t that remarkable! I guess the tree has predators, too.”

  “Certainly. I used to think the world was the largest predator in existence, but I was wrong. There are larger ones—the Universe, for instance. Even beyond that, existence. And there might be one larger still, though that is too large for me to know about.”

  “Existence is a predator?”

  “It feeds on itself. It devours all that exists, whether it be living things, mountains, lakes, seas, or memories and time. Everything gets ingested and eventually regurgitated into life.”

  “Rebirth?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But how do you know of this? You said you’ve never left this tree!”

  “Indeed I haven’t. But this tree is larger than this world, and it holds as many riddles as the entire Universe does. It is this tree that taught me all I know today.”

  “It seems silly suddenly to realise we were fighting over a mere branch.”

  “Do not call it a ‘mere’ branch, for nothing is mere and insignificant. Just as this tree is larger than this world, this branch is larger than the tree. The apples it holds might be portals into another existence. You and I might each be larger than an entire Universe!”