I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

  It is when this realisation dawned upon me that the details of my memory began to warp and erode. Quite suddenly, the stairwell disappeared, and we found ourselves in a hallway. Though I was aware of the abrupt change in location, I neither commented nor paused to reflect upon it, for I was made aware of a new task: she and I were both looking for a place where she could take a bath. I don’t know what happened to our trek through the stairway, or why she wasn’t in her make-up room, re-united with her assistants, managers and hairdressers. All I knew was that we were wandering down this hallway now, looking for a washroom.

  This wasn’t real… it couldn’t be… logical questions began to encircle my head at this point: why would anyone want to take a bath in a washroom, where there was neither a bathtub nor any other facilities conducive to bathing? If she was late for her performance, how could she afford to wander through hallways with a stranger looking for a washroom to bathe in? Where were her assistants and managers? Why was she alone in a stairwell with a stranger, looking for a washroom? The entire situation was ridiculous, yet my consciousness seemed oddly immune to this absurdity, and was instead keen on winning her approval. I was clear about the task at hand: to find a washroom and fulfill her request, thereby earning her trust and gratitude.

  Once again we made our way through thronging crowds and eventually found a washroom in a narrow corridor. “Here you go,” I said, panting slightly as we reached the doors.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling gratefully at me as she disappeared into the room.

  I waited outside. Instead of pondering the bizarre circumstances that had led me to this hallway, I took the time to reflect upon how much she meant to me already, even though we’d only known each other for a few minutes. In fact, I already found myself missing her terribly. Barely had this thought registered though that the door opened and she walked out.

  Her expression was a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, and she seemed to be fighting back a smirk when she said, “How am I supposed to take a bath in a washroom?”

  As I frowned to consider the validity of her question, she burst out laughing.

  I watched her laugh greedily, studying the pleasing effect it had on her already beautiful features. It was the sincerity of the emotion, I realised, which made her laugh so attractive. People laugh for a variety of reasons, all of which are driven by an effort to communicate. For instance, when told a joke, people laugh to communicate the fact that they enjoyed the joke, and not always because they truly found it funny. People laugh to break tension, to relax, to pose like they’re having a good time, and for a host of other similarly vain reasons. But few laugh in spite of themselves, in spite of any conscious, planned thought. Her laugh lingered strongest in her eyes, and radiated to her other features, enhancing her entire appearance.

  “Now what?” she asked, shrugging and looking defeated.

  I knew that this was my opportunity to come to her rescue and make sure she remembered me for a long time to come. “I have an idea,” I told her confidently, and led her down the hall. But here my memory turns patchy once more.

  For as far as I can remember, we next found ourselves in a hotel room that had been stripped of almost all furniture and decorations—it looked like it was being renovated. But in the bathroom was a large tub, and we both stared at it. “There’s no water though,” she said.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” I assured her.

  I was soon shuttling kettlefuls of steaming hot water back and forth from a stove in the kitchen to the tub, as she undressed in an adjacent room and came out wearing a robe. The tub was soon full of hot water, and she looked at me with clear gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she told me. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done something so sweet for me.”

  I mumbled something incomprehensible, too shy to meet her eyes, for she was standing excitingly close to me, wearing nothing but the robe. I left her to enjoy the bath and offered to wait in the next room. I heard the robe drop softly to the floor—I would have gladly signed away all the treasures in the world to be a fly on that wall. I heard her climb into the tub and gently splash about within it. She called out to me suddenly, asking if I could hear her.

  “Loud and clear,” I told her, from the other room.

  “Then talk to me,” she said, with a small laugh. “I’ll get bored sitting idly in this tub.”

  And so we talked, as though we were two friends reunited after years apart. We didn’t bother getting to know each other—we already seemed to know everything of importance. Instead we told jokes, swapped memories and anecdotes, and laughed merrily as if time were a patient spectator, content not to budge until our conversation was complete.

  Perhaps it was because I was in the other room and unable to see her, but I no longer regarded her as a world-famous actress and performer. Her celebrity status seemed irrelevant as we bonded, for beneath all the glamour that surrounded her existence, she was still a human being, and (I sensed) in need of a friend, just as I was. I had the impression that we talked for hours, yet I remember mere seconds of it, and logically, considering that she had a show to perform within minutes, we could only have conversed for seconds. But how could someone take a bath and make a friend in mere seconds? It was as if we were in some kind of a time warp.

  Looking back, I don’t remember a single detail of the conversation we shared, but I do remember how much joy I derived from it. Regardless of the impracticality of it, and of the inexplicable timeline, I knew I would cherish the sentiment for years to come.

  “I have a problem,” she called from the next room.

  “What is it?” I asked, getting to my feet.

  “Come in here.”

  I entered the room, which was bathed in steam. She stood by the tub, wearing her robe, looking resplendent but anxious. “What is it?” I asked her again, concerned.

  “I don’t have slippers,” she told me. “How can I make it upstairs with bare feet?”

  I looked at the floor, and found that it was layered not with carpet, but with rows of inch-long nails. How had I not noticed this before? “Well, don’t worry,” I assured her.

  I was soon carting her through a labyrinth of hallways on a wheelbarrow, as she giggled with amusement whenever I took a sharp turn, or else sprinted a short distance just to please her.

  In a pragmatic corner of my mind, I wondered where the wheelbarrow had come from. Perhaps more importantly, I wondered why I hadn’t merely carried her. If I admired her, liked her, maybe even loved her, wouldn’t carrying her have been a more intimate and romantic gesture? Wouldn’t it have been an ideal opportunity to get closer (quite literally) to her?

  In answer to these questions, my consciousness claimed that the only thing that mattered was her happiness and contentment. It lauded me for having managed (through inexplicable and bizarre circumstances) to yet again come to her rescue.

  We entered the make-up room. A gaggle of girls emerged from the corners of the room, speaking incomprehensibly over each other, fawning at her, questioning her disappearance and thanking the heavens for her return. She was plucked out of the wheelbarrow and taken into an adjacent room. As they carried her through the doorway, she looked back at me briefly: our eyes met like two lovers sneaking glances in the middle of a crowded room.

  I stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do.

  There was a mirror in the corner of the room. I hurried towards it, deciding to take the opportunity to fix my appearance and make myself look like someone she might be interested in. I stood before the large, cheval mirror and gazed at my reflection: only, it wasn’t a person.

  There was a pond in the midst of a little wood. Tall, elegant trees bordered the little pool, casting the water in a serene, emerald shadow. A small, cherubic-faced boy sat on the edge of the pond, with a silver ball in his hands. He spoke to it fondly, thou
gh it didn’t answer him. He cared for it, bathed it in the water, nurtured it, loved and cherished it, yet it sat unmoved like stone. When he was finished caring for it, he saw his reflection within it. He spoke to the reflection and it spoke back. He seemed happy and content. They smiled at each other.

  “How do I look?” came her sweet voice, from somewhere behind me.

  I turned away from the mirror to face her.

  Dressed in a gleaming, pearl-white saree, atop a stylish, velvety blue blouse, she practically sparkled in the dull lighting. The saree, draped over her right shoulder, circled back around her to eventually rest stylishly over her left arm—not many women would have looked as sophisticated and as effortlessly beautiful as she did in an outfit that was the perfect blend of a traditional design reworked with modern flair. Her dress aside, the rest of her appearance was equally flawless: her long, black hair fell in elegant, wavy curls just below her shoulders. Her make-up, if there was indeed any upon her, was barely discernible, and served only to accentuate her already beautiful features. She wore simple jewellery in the form of silver earrings, which matched the colour of her saree, and a matching bracelet upon her exposed left wrist. Her look in its entirety was unassuming yet mesmerizing, for it allowed her natural splendour to shine through. Her radiant smile flashed brighter than the cameras that would click furiously tonight, in a futile attempt to capture the full effect of her limitless beauty. Her eyes, large and reflective, studied me eagerly, with unrestrained anticipation. She was waiting for my response.

  Only, I was unable to find the words at once.

  “You look stunning,” I eventually told her, breathlessly.

  “Thank you,” she said, softly.

  We stood in silence, our behaviour awkward and hesitant. I wanted to say something sweet and thoughtful; I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her. But before I could do either, one of her assistants emerged from the other room to inform her that she was due on stage.

  Almost suddenly we were backstage, and a large red curtain towered over our heads. Assistants, spot-boys, technicians, and other theatre personnel scrambled here and there, barking orders and replies at each other. I felt rather out of place, and conspicuously in the way.

  “You should take your seat before the show starts,” she told me, urgently.

  I hesitated. “I… I don’t have a ticket,” I confessed.

  She seemed confused. “But didn’t you come here tonight to see the show? You told me in the elevator that you were here to see me, and—”

  “See you, yes,” I said, “But I meant somewhere in the lobby, surrounded by a hundred bodyguards, or else as you stepped out of your limousine. I didn’t come here tonight for the show—I… I couldn’t afford a ticket. I was just hoping to catch a glimpse of you… I never dreamt that I would spend all this time with you.”

  She looked at me with a mixture of pity and gratitude, but didn’t say anything.

  “Your show’s starting,” I told her, in an effort to break the silence.

  She nodded and slowly walked away. I felt my heart shrivel with pain and disappointment. She was drifting out of my life. But just then she paused and turned back: an invisible hand clutched my heart tightly, delaying its demise.

  She came forward, tilting her head and frowning. “I want to see you again, though,” she said, and it sounded like she was having an internal debate about the matter.

  “So do I.”

  She danced forward and beamed at me. “Then come with me,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “We can perform together. That way I won’t risk losing you.”

  Perhaps I should have paused here yet again to wonder why she didn’t just bother to get me a ticket… it was her concert, after all, and it would have made more sense than inviting me on stage. But again, none of these logical inconsistencies seemed to matter to me at that point.

  “But I don’t know how to perform…” I told her.

  “I’ll show you,” she smiled. She went to a cabinet and opened it; hundreds of large, beach-ball sized tennis balls fell out, and she picked one up and tossed it to me. The background dancers and other performers materialised out of nowhere and each grabbed a ball, too.

  This seemed rather strange… where had the life-sized tennis balls come from? This almost definitely felt like a dream now. A dream… Something clicked within my mind. I reflected over every moment she and I had shared since our meeting, and realised that most of it had been strange and nonsensical, almost dream-like. My recollection of our time together already felt disjointed, as though the significant moments had been meshed together without any logical, linear chronology. I thought back to before tonight, to before I had met her… I had almost no memory of my past life, up until the moment in the elevator. I realised I didn’t know where I was, or how I’d gotten here. Had I driven? Taken a cab? Could I have afforded a cab? Did I have a job? And for that matter, a larger question surfaced: who was I?

  If this was a dream, then it would follow that she wasn’t real. Or was she? I remembered her, remembered my feelings for her, and knew her as a person to be real. But was she actually, physically here with me? Or was she part of the dream? Considering how famous she was, how exclusive and utterly inaccessible to a common person she would be, how had I managed to meet her unprotected on an elevator and spend an entire, bizarre evening with her? Was our friendship truly plausible? Or was this all just one large, indulgent dream?

  It was then that something happened to shatter the illusion, yet strengthen the importance of the moment. She glided forward and took my hand. The moment I felt her touch, I knew this was definitely a dream, for her hand lacked the warmth and texture of a human being. And yet, her touch possessed the overwhelming thrill of a fantasy turning real. The mere sentiment of holding hands with a celebrity that I had admired from afar was so overpowering that I surrendered myself to the deception. I had found a friend, a real friend, and our friendship (though strange and even somewhat absurd) seemed likely to last through eternity. I was in love, and perhaps more importantly, I sensed I would be loved.

  “Are you coming?” she asked, looking at me expectantly. She was still holding my hand intimately, as though we’d known each other for years.

  She was me. If this was a dream, then she was quite simply just a projection of my own imagination. But so what? She would never fall in love with me in real life; but here, within the confines of my subconscious, we would make a perfect couple. Did it even matter whether I was dreaming? The touch of her hand was exciting, and the promise of a life together was intoxicating. If anything, the knowledge that this was all a dream had somehow sweetened the experience. Reality is incomplete, for it is governed by a rigid, predictable set of rules that paints a colourless existence. But dreams are effervescent, structured in such a manner that the dreamer can extract as much colour from each moment as possible. I could never have had such a night with her in reality, not even if we actually were close friends. But there is something magical about the absurdity of dreams, which presents the dreamer with a sentiment, without all the unnecessary residues of plausibility and rationale.

  I was glad that this was a dream. The only thing was… I didn’t want it to end.

  “Hey…” she said, her eyes stealing my thoughts. “Coming?”

  “Right behind you,” I told her.

  She took both my hands in hers, and facing me, led us towards the curtain. I was anxious, apprehensive, even afraid, but her eyes stayed with mine, assuring me silently that everything would be fine. She was so beautiful… Smiling, she led me through the curtain. I didn’t know what I would find behind it, but as I relished the touch of her hands within mine, I realised I didn’t care. Whether I found an audience, or else woke up alone inside a cold, grey reality, it wouldn’t matter. Dream or not, I knew I would never forget her touch. It was the touch of reality.

  VIII

>   Soul Mate

  I am happy—no, more than happy… I am content. I approach each day with a sense of clarity that was once beyond even my mere reckoning, let alone my reach. I see the world for what it is, yet the darkness and the shadows that my eyes discern are promptly colored with laughter, joy and fantasy. Like a powerful wizard painting a better world through a masterful wand, I augment everything negative that I come upon, until it too radiates with the kind of positive energy that now bubbles within me. I feel immortal, indestructible, almost god-like, and I owe this enviable prowess to an incident that occurred a few years ago.

  I was in the middle of some kind of a market, surrounded by hundreds of bustling people. I refer to it as a market, but whether it actually was one, I have never found out. For though it looked, sounded and smelt like a market place, it also possessed some considerable abnormalities: for one, the people didn’t seem to be bustling about calmly shopping for the best prices, but rather appeared tense and frenzied, as though their lives were at stake. Their behavior and the looks in their eyes reminded me not so much of Sunday shoppers at a bazaar, but desperate sinners lying prostrate outside the doors of a temple. The market itself was quite unlike a “typical” market: there were neither dozens of shops scattered about, nor a host of cunning vendors running them, but only one store and one very large queue that led into it.

  I found myself standing in the middle of the queue. There were all kinds of people assembled around me, of all ages, genders and ethnicities. It made it difficult to guess what city I was in; the overall surroundings suggested this was a small, somewhat impoverished town. The buildings looked archaic and in ruins, yet I was unable to guess the time period based on their designs. The street was dusty and unpaved; the sky was dark and overcast; there were no mountains or defining land features, and I saw no tree or any other form of vegetation that might hint at the identity of this location. There weren’t any cars or other automobiles to be found; the people were dressed in distinct and varied attire, ranging anywhere from suits and robes for men to dresses and sarees for the women. I felt as if I was in a town not of this earth.