In the waiting room

There’s a certain smell that hits you the second you walk past the doors of a hospital. A sterilized odor rushes up your nose, initiating a feeling of well-known trepidation at what awaits you. I’m sitting in the waiting room of the Maruthi Clinic, which, to put it politely, is a little more than a hole in the wall.

Leaning back against the leather benches that face each other, I do a little scan of all the other ailing in the room. There’s an old lady in a dull yellow skirt, who has managed to drag her reluctant grandson to the clinic with her. The twenty-something, with both ears pierced in several places, looks down at his jet-black Nikes, while his grandmother gives her loud opinions on a particular family dispute.

Right opposite me is a man with a prayer cap on, doubled up in what seems to be either terrible pain, or deep thought. His wife, between the large sleeves of her customary black robes, clicks away on a concealed mobile phone.

My gaze shifts above them to the colorful health charts on the wall behind them. A flaming orange chart on tips for diabetics catches my eye—it’s the color of the syrupy jalebis being sold at the Komala sweet shop next door.

“Paul Dhara…a…m…a…raj?”

The receptionist struggles with my name, and flashes me an apologetic smile.

“Go in, the doctor will see you now.”

My wandering eyes close for a second with anticipatory dread and slowly, I get up.

Exhibit D

The gloomiest weather always brought in the most customers. Those first few drops that descended upon the shoppers/pedestrians/joggers/lovers/squatters, like arrows aimed with precision by some divine marksman, were what made business pick up at Chris’ Creamy Cappuchinos. (Alliteration? How clever, Chris—pat yourself on the back). Not that the establishment was otherwise entirely lacking in people wanting to grab a cuppa—coffee shops were still a popular social pastime. The Nazis hadn’t won the war. Their ubiquitous and congenial presence as the setting for every other primetime comedy sitcom only reinforced the cliché.

Fewer people where saying ‘Cheers’.

Fewer people wanted a place where everybody knew your name.

Even fewer people knew who Ted Danson was.

Well, at least, this seemed to be the situation in the little university town of (insert name). People just wanted to slink away into the corners of society and hold banter with the few they knew. If they saw an acquaintance, they made every possible attempt to avoid eye contact. In the contingency of having failed, they would nervously smile and wave, only to turn red with embarrassment at their acquaintance having blanked them altogether. Yes, they were a strange lot, the people of (insert name).

But enough about the people—this isn’t about them. It’s about a person. Exhibit ‘D’.

D for despicable.

D for delectable.

D for disinterested.

D for Danielle Steel.

None of these really describe D, especially not the last one on that list. D was the nondescript twenty three-year old that waited tables. He was so unlike his colleagues. He wasn’t playing this gig to pay for college. Why, he didn’t even know if higher education was a term he would ever come to associate himself with. He was waiting tables because he wasn’t playing guitars for Velvet Revolver. Or riding the winner at the Derby. Or even volunteering to teach underprivileged kids in the heart of Third Worldistan. Or anything else that might have occupied the centre of his existence in some parallel universe.

Not that he didn’t like his job—it paid the bills and every once in a while, found him a suitable but short-lived romance from the regular stream of waitresses that flowed in and out of Chris’ high-attrition establishment. But he just couldn’t find it in him to really enjoy his work and the processes it involved. Naah, give him a Les Paul Studio Classic any day and he’d give that Slash bloke a run for his money. And actually have fun doing it. This was the plight of poor D—a life entirely bereft of purpose, ambition or a sustained sense of fulfillment. And this worried him.

“Oy, if I remember right, your five minute break ended half and hour ago! Back to work, table 13 needs sorting out!”

That was grumpy Chris. His role in this story will be limited to that brief cameo only. It would take an entire series of formulaic pop fiction to get to the bottom of that which he has stuck up his grumpy bottom. (And I’m just not doing requests tonight.)

D dragged long and hard at his vanishing cigarette and decapitated it against the stone walls outside the café. In an anticipatory motion, he looked up at the sky and shook his head, like the shamans who, with their holy smoke, first portended the arrival of the white man. It was certainly going to rain. He had a knack for telling these things. Trivial, unimportant things with no bearing on anybody’s life. Unless of course, the rain were to come down really hard for forty days and forty nights—now that is hardly trivial. But this was the university town of (insert name), listed on the traveler’s guide as a place for benevolent weather. In fact, most of the people outdoors today wouldn’t even have umbrellas on them. D was sure that even the local news station hadn’t mentioned the chances of a short spell. But D just knew. He couldn’t explain how. Now if he could only make a career from forecasting weather based on instinct! D, the weathergirl. Umm…no.

Back indoors, D felt ever so slightly disoriented. It was probably the thermostat; someone had been meddling with the knob. A dull haze, probably from the receding heat wave, clouded his vision. It would rain soon, signaling the advent of a furious monsoon. One season was engulfing the next with vengeance, in a forceful bid to reclaim its kingdom on earth. Another summer would have passed him by. Another fleeting empire would have fallen. And D would still have very little to account for. His place in the larger scheme of things would remain undefined.

Table 13. It was the blight of every waiter who ever served at the café. Despite its scenic location by the corner window, allowing its resident to look all the way down the hill (did I forget to mention that this little town was built along uneven terrain), it only ever attracted the most stingy, penny-pinching customers. This parsimony seemed to collect in abundance all around that little nook, like a bad fungal growth that congregated in damp corners. What was it about misers that made them want to look down into the valley and soak up the view? Shouldn’t they rather live all alone in big, dark mansions and yell ‘Bah Humbug’ at passing charities, nephews in love or their minimum wage employees.

“Table 13? Haha, go on then lad, chop chop!”

That was bothersome Sam, one of D’s more annoying colleagues. Again, tales of his sycophancy and lechery will find no mention here—he is just as much a non-player as his boss. Maybe in a parallel universe, someday. Maybe even in a sequel. But not now.

D threw his apron on and made his way towards Table 13, on the other end of the quaint little coffee place. He’d done 13’s before. The trick was to listen for any hints of a “Please” at the end of their order. Any failure to exhibit such manners would result in a little tampering. A little too much spice in the meatballs (yes, Chris did do meatballs—finest on this side of Sweden). A trace of snot in the pastry, if it was a really long day.

But today was different.

Most people who came to the café almost blended into a ball of noise, laughter, tears and excessively strong perfume. Even the events that unfolded at each table with each group’s arrival were, on a long enough timescale in the service industry, common.

The hysterical breakup.

The nervous first date.

The noisy bunch of frat boys discussing world economics.

Tourists complaining loudly in incomprehensible tongues about getting ripped off.

The exhausted married couple trying to get away.

The exhausted married couple, who hadn’t succeeded in getting away and thus, came with a clan of unruly children.

But today was different.

Not different in a very obvious manner. In fact, the difference was so subtle that it was almost impossible to articulate. Like when you just know that you’re on the verge of something pivotal, something big. And it had everything to do with the fat, middle aged man sitting at Table 13.

Maybe it was the hair—a greasy comb-over with the odd hair inching upwards in an attempt to reach the ceiling. Or maybe it was the incessant twitching of his nostrils, which flared up and receded like an angry volcano. But what D almost instantly zeroed in on was the object he carried in his left hand. A large, black umbrella. Something you’d see a young Julie Andrews get airborne with. Did you know that she wore a wig in that movie?

But enough of Hollywood trivia, let’s return to our story, which has just acquired a rather interesting middle aged man. With an umbrella. Now, carrying an umbrella around, even to a café on a hill isn’t really a spectacle that inspires attention. But what really got D was that there was someone else in his surroundings who could tell that it was going to rain. He thought this was a rather unlikely and rare coincidence. He’d spent years sitting by the café, watching the weather gods creep up on unsuspecting shoppers/pedestrians/joggers/lovers/squatters. He’d chuckle and brace himself for a surge in coffee sales at the shop that evening. But here was someone who was actually prepared. A modern day Noah, with an umbrella for an ark.

“Can I take your order, sir?”

Noah (that’s what we’ll call him for the rest of this story) looked up suddenly, almost as if he were frightened for a second by D, who had crept upon him. He looked like he was immersed in deep thought. Probably contemplating what to do with the Bengal tiger that had brought both its wives to the ark, D chuckled.

“Um…ahh, yes, of course. Bring me…”

As Noah’s eyes scanned the menu card, D’s eyes remained transfixed by the black umbrella. It was a large sized umbrella supported with gleaming metallic wire. Blacker than any shade of black he’d ever seen, its cold, evil metal glinted in the sunlight.

“Yes, everybody wonders why I have an umbrella on a nice bright day like this. But I’m telling you, it’s going to rain!”

Hmm? Noah’s passionate warning about the weather made D wince for a second. He didn’t think his customer had noticed him looking so keenly at the umbrella. Was he being so obvious? What was wrong with him?

“Yes, I’ve been given a heads up by my friend in the county’s meterology department, and most of my friends are with the county office.”

Most of my friends are in my head, thought D.

“Right, so I’ll just have a cup of tea then, please.”

Great. Another one of those people who goes to a coffee shop and orders a cup of tea. How completely plebian! Why bother coming all the way to a fancy café which does a zillion different kinds of fancy and exotic coffees, if all you want is tea? D nodded and made his way back to the counter. Who drank tea anymore, unless you were British or ill? Oh well, who was he to judge, thought D. One man’s tea, another man’s—

D didn’t finish that clever little line in his head. His body spasmed into a momentary bind. A very loud and sudden bursting sound had just gone off. Like a crazy man who’d entered the café and pumped a round from his Remington pistol in random directions all around. Killing innocent coffee drinkers and minimum wage employees.

But that wasn’t what had happened.

Today was very different.

After the initial shock wore off, D turned around slowly. No it wasn’t a trigger happy psycho on a spree. Rather, it was a clumsy, awkward man trying to get his umbrella to close again. The fool had unknowingly pressed the button on its stem, causing it to explode open. D swore under his breath. Silly man and his umbrella! D continued towards the counter swearing, leaving behind a contrite Noah who was profusely apologizing in to the occupants of Table 12.

Yes, tea. The man wanted tea. The café did some rather elaborate teas, despite its condescending attitude towards the beverage. Its employees didn’t just bung in a tea bag and serve with a smile. They were taught to make tea with loose tea leaves, which were flavored with a hint of vanilla or mango. And then they were served in old-world tea cups that almost made you want to sip slowly with your pinkie finger sticking out. Elaborate and classy were Chris’s watchwords. D set the kettle on the stove and waited for that whistle. It’s interesting how the whistle has always been used as an ominous signal, he thought.

To give alert you about cops when you’re vandalizing back alleys.

To signal to your boyfriend that he can now climb in through the window.

To—

D’s mental ramblings came to a halt as the kettle whistled. The coast was clear, D smiled.

He stuck tea leaves into the porcelain cup, jokingly expecting them to protest against the scalding hot water that would soon fill up its insides.

But today was different.

The clouds of steam that billowed from the kettle’s only orifice engulfed his face. The haze had returned. D could hardly see and stopped pouring, but the steam continued, unabated. For a second, D felt lightheaded. Almost as if this column of smoke was from a gigantic marijuana bong. The room had blurred into oblivion. All D could see were the tea leaves and a little puddle of water swirling around in circular motion. Anti-clockwise. Maybe because this town is in the southern hemisphere? Round and round…

And then, an image seemed to appear. At first it was rather unclear, just a confusion of colors exploding before his eyes. But then, the colors seemed to separate themselves. Into finely defined boundaries. Shapes. Sizes. Forms. All well defined. Soon, the shapes stopped colliding with each other. It was now that D could see that it wasn’t just any shape. It was a hazy human outline. The hazy human outline of Mr. Noah. The awkward man seemed to be saying something to himself in this vision. Repeating the same incoherent words, over and over again. Unfortunately, this premonition hadn’t come with surround sound audio. Everyone else was just a blur. The only comprehensible form was that of Mr. Noah. D was still watching him, much to his ignorance.

For a second, it seemed as if the form was fading away. D felt relieved. And then, a jagged bolt of light descended, blinding him momentarily. D shielded his eyes from this magnificent burst of illumination. Seconds later, he slowly peeped through his fingers. Mr. Noah was slumped downwards by the open window, face first on his Table 13. He wasn’t moving. He was just lying very, very still. It was almost as if that light had zapped him dead. And all D could hear was the steady drip of water, almost as if the ceiling had caved in with the rains.

“Listen, how long does it take to get a customer a cup of tea?! Will you please step on it before we lose all our customers to your dawdling?!”

D snapped back to the real world. A world outside tea-leaf-inspired soothsaying. A world where bosses got angry when you caused a spillage on the kitchen counter when making your customer some tea. Chris was screaming his head off about the mess. But D just wasn’t listening. He reached for the mop and sorted out the puddle on the floor, his face pallid. He was still thinking about what he had just seen. Tea leaves. Being able to see what looked like the future. A horrible vision of what was to befall the man. A man who’s only sin was opening an umbrella indoors, and sitting at Table 13. Could he really foretell calamities? Was this just an extension of his knack for weather forecasting? He had to warn this unlucky man. This was what he was meant to do. This was his calling. Like all those old men who interpreted visions for their kings.

D walked slowly towards Table 13. He hadn’t even begun to formulate what he was going to say. He had no clue. Noah was now looking out of the window, gazing pensively at the valley below. Probably wondering why he didn’t swat those two mosquitoes on the ark. Somehow, this just didn’t amuse D anymore.

“Errmmm… Aaaa…”

All D could manage was an embarrassing splutter. Way to go, Prophet Ezekiel. But it did attract the man’s attention.

“Yes, what is it? Come on, don’t just stand there…”

Splutter. Splutter.

“Erm…. Aaa…. Sir… How many sugars will you take with you tea?”

Just then, as if out of nowhere, a monstrous rain cloud swallowed the sun. A crash of lightning rent the recently clear sky, pouring out an unexpected deluge of thick, fast rain. It was almost biblical.

D for divination? D for downpour? D for deathly omens? D for Daniel?

Exhibit B

Just as he was settling in, the lights went out. Now this was quite an annoyance for Exhibit ‘B’, because after a long, tiring day at wherever it was that he spent it at, the prospect of a quiet T.V. dinner was indispensable. Well, in all honesty, it wasn’t really a very quiet T.V dinner. You see, ‘B’ was ever so slightly deaf in one ear (I can never remember which one and very often end up yelling down the wrong orifice, much to his irritation) and he needed his beat-up telly to blare at volumes found otherwise only at election rallies and band practice at Uncle Ethan’s suffocatingly small garage.

But B’s condition was deep-rooted in his childhood, and he wasn’t entirely to blame for his hearing disability. Ever since B was very little, he hated the sound of silence. He didn’t like Simon and Garfunkel very much either. But most of all, he hated memories of being sent to bed early because “Mommy and Daddy had grown up stuff to talk about”. In a desperate attempt to overpower the rather violent ‘grown-up conversation’, B would force his beat-up radio to its maximum capacity, wrenching the volume knob harder with the appearance of every swear word that managed to stray away from the living room and past his door. Even through high school, B refused to sit through the sepulchral silence that suffused his examination halls. He was almost kicked out on several occasions when he inadvertently started tapping his pencil to kill the calm. The generous use of the volume dial in his car stereo would even make Bach sound discordant and unsettling.

So at age 21, B subconsciously made every effort to just make some noise. It was almost as if he feared, on some subliminal level, that Silence would wrap its tentacles around his neck and strangle every last breath out of body, given the chance. Conversations with B would almost never have awkward pauses, even if appalling jokes or inappropriate references were involved. This phobia made B an obnoxiously loud individual whose incessant chatter at the top of his voice often left people wishing he would just go away.

“Damn Government! Wish they’d sort these power cuts out! If they only used some of our taxes on REAL problems…” A string of expletives, addressed to the powers that be, adorned the next few sentences. B groped about in the dark, desperately looking for a table to place his unfinished dinner. Finding a little tea-table to stick his plate on, he bravely ventured towards the kitchen to find some candles. These attempts only resulted in him knocking down a glass of water and some heavy contact with the leg of his sofa.

And then it happened. Like a scene straight out of a Laurel and Hardy classic. We should blame it on the abandoned banana peel that lay not-so-innocently on the floor. B wasn’t particularly agile and the second he stepped on that peel, he tasted the cold, hard marble floor of Apartment 46 in his budget accommodation colony. He fell rather funnily, face first—I still can’t work out how he managed that. People who slip on banana peels (you’ll be surprised at the frequency of this much-caricatured freak accident) almost always land on their backs. I guess it’s a little like how toast always falls buttered-side up. He didn’t really cause a big crash, probably because of the absence of cutlery in his hands at the time. B did register a respectably audible thud, though. Not that it mattered very much, because when you live in a budget accommodation, chances are that your neighbours aren’t Mr. Good Samaritan and his missus. You could be pulling a Jack-the-Ripper for all they cared.

It took B a few minutes to snap out of the initial whiplash. He was just about managing to navigate past the celestial bodies that revolved around his head and was starting to hear himself think. But that’s when the worst happens. The immediate shock acts as an anesthetic, but the second it passes, the terrible pain kicks in. Like a sharp jab to the lower back, crippling you in several places. It felt like someone thrown on their finest tap dancing shoes and done an elaborate number on B’s spinal chord, with an encore and everything.

B groaned in pain and then wondered immediately if he had actually emitted any sound at all. He could barely see anything, except for the diffused moon rays that sneaked in through a tiny crevice his landlord called a window. Any attempts to move, or even breathe heavily set in motion an excruciating jabbing motion across the length of his spine. Suddenly, B noticed some movement in his lower body. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that his leg was starting to involuntarily tremble. The awareness of this physiological reaction came with a terrible revelation. All around him, it was perfectly quiet. Not a sound from anywhere. And B was completely trapped in this prison of deathly silence.

The calm was suffocating. B wondered if the silence had caused the air in the room to thin out. No, let’s distract the mind, he thought. If he just waited a little longer the lights would be back on and then he could drag himself to the telephone. But even in his state, he knew that it would be a while before this badly drawn plan materialized. A solitary fly buzzed around his leg, brushing against it very lightly but in strokes of rapid succession. Damn fly, he thought, it’s almost as if it knows exactly how to torture me. Oh well, maybe playing a song in one’s head would help? A little singing might ease this tension, it certainly helped those kids in that movie about Nazis and nannies… what was it called again? Mary Poppins? No, of course not, that’s the one with the flying woman, right? It was quite ironic how A.W.O.L lyrics would be in desperate situations like these. The only song he could think of—and its randomness took him by surprise—was ‘Something Stupid.’

‘…And then I go and spoil it all by saying—!’ B froze. The couch had almost certainly made a sound. Like almost as if it has just taken a step forward. Oh, stop being such a baby, he said to himself. It’s just this darn silence that’s accentuating every little creak. Probably termites… bloody loud termites! Do termites have ears, he wondered. Probably not, and that’s why they make such a racquet, those inconsiderate little vermin.

As his mind meandered through rivulets of incoherency and random thought, B was swiftly returned to reality, courtesy a sharp pain that shot down his back. It took him a few seconds to react with a muffled whimper. B wondered if this would ever end. Maybe he’d just lie here for days and days and then a neighbor with a keen olfactory sense would detect the smell of a rotting corpse. B began to build newspaper headlines in the air: ‘Man found dead in apartment after a week.’ Naaaah, he wasn’t headline material. He estimated that he’d probably find a mention somewhere between ‘Woman sells child on e-Bay’ and some other great tragedy that people actually cared about.

Maybe prayer would ease my situation, he wondered. But I’ve never prayed, is now a good time to begin? Seems rather selfish, really! Or maybe this is one of those situations that God creates to reveal himself to me. As he pondered this big theological question, B felt the ground below him vibrate. It began to rumble, like a vacuum cleaner adorned with war paint. It sent a sudden shiver down spine, which seemed perforated in several places. It felt as if the ground was opening up to swallow him in. A few seconds later, the movement ceased. Probably some scientific explanation that I could get from Physics class, he reassured himself. Resonance and all that jazz.

Silence continued to prevail over the room. Its partner in crime was the all-engulfing Darkness, who twisted the dim light to make all the objects in the room look like angry gargoyles. B began to realize that he was sweating profusely. He felt a new sound, steadily pounding at the back of his head. It was the ticking of the clock. Tick…tock…tick…tock…, its rhythmic patterns strongly reminiscent of nursery rhymes.

B tried to block out these sounds, but feared that any attempts to do that would only make him feel even more panicky. And then, he had the closest thing to an epiphany (without the inspiring background score, of course). He wondered why his ear was so tuned in to picking up on the slightest sound. Was his mind actually making a constant effort to latch onto every little noise just to kill the silence? Like the montage at the end of a ‘Who-Dunnit’ film, where the lead character traces his steps backwards, B’s watched scenes from his life flicker at rapid speed. All along, the ticking of the clock got louder and louder…

He couldn’t take this anymore. He had to do something.

Yes, I’ll scream, he thought. Why hadn’t this occurred to him before?

B felt a choking grip on wrap itself firmly around his throat. He began to breathe loudly and heavily, causing more pain to his back.

No, this couldn’t go on.

He had to do SOMETHING.

B mustered every last breath in his body. His muscles tensed as they prepared themselves.

The loudest scream ever to escape his tonsils.

To compete with the finest war-cry.

Initiated before the bloodiest of tribal wars.

B opened his mouth and was ready to let go. This was the most pre-meditated vocal noise ever. Here goes—

B opened his mouth but all that came out was a frightened whimper. This was because just then, with a flash of brilliance, the tube light flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

A familiar rumble from his telly followed, like the thunder that succeeds a flash of lightning.

The power was back on. The night was over. Let there be light.

Exhibit A

Plunked on an uncomfortably hard chair against the window in the dark corner of his living room, the young actor watched the evening set in. Winters in this city were mild, but he always wrapped himself up extra warm with his red sweater. This slightly worn woolen saw very little of its owner for the rest of the year—the warmth usually kicked in by February and only proceeded to levels of sultry discomfort as the year progressed. Classic dull red, with a V neck. The other reason for its seasonal appearance was because the actor’s mother had spent a whole twenty pounds on it, without consulting him, of course. Such is the nature of Christmas gifts that parents give you. More often than not, they’re way off the mark. The actor had wondered how—two winters ago—the subtle hints dropped for a ‘new video game’ had been wrongly read as a wish for an ‘unfashionable fleece.’ Oh well, he’d now resigned himself to appreciating its utilitarian benefits and looking past the fashion expiry date that the manufacturers had forgotten to put on the tag. Maybe it would come back and be a rage again. Nevertheless, he had other things on his mind.

There was a gentle knock on the door. The actor didn’t flinch. Nothing about his demeanour even remotely acknowledged the tap which implied that there was somebody on the other side. Had he even heard it? To clear any misgivings, the knock resounded again, a tad louder than its predecessor. This time, the actor sighed. Yes, he had definitely heard the knock. A minute of silence elapsed. It was almost as if he knew exactly who it was on the other side of the door. A sharp thump now upped the ante. Strangely, it wasn’t the impatient knock of somebody seeking an audience with the actor. Rather, it seemed like somebody had been knocking for quite a while before this story began. Almost as if there was a whole other story that preceded this one. The thumping continued, followed by a muffled yelling of the actor’s name. Thick doors are such a blessing.

Fortunately for him, the actor’s apartment had a curtain of mahogany that could keep an invading army at bay. No battering ram could dislodge it from its hinges. Now if only his landlord would allow him to set up a moat with crocodiles, he wishfully thought. That would put an end to every nosey neighbor who would show up at his doorstep, bearing a meat pie and a broad smile. Of course, he knew what the others were saying about his ‘antisocial’ vibe. He was sure that any conversation that referenced him contained generous use of the words ‘sociopath’ and ‘freak.’ Well, it didn’t really bother him. I guess you reach this conclusion because he never reacted. He’d ritually venture downstairs every morning to get his newspaper and milk and there would always be a gaggle of excited neighbors, loudly discussing about the blush-worthy shenanigans from the previous night’s party. But just as he passed them on the stairs, they would go quiet and retreat into a little ball of secrecy. It was almost as if they were discussing military secrets or exchanging information on the whereabouts of the Holy Grail. The ones with strong consciences would look away or look down at the red-carpeted stairs, almost ashamed to be partaking in this practice of social exclusion. Others would stare back, menacingly.

And then it would happen.

Someone would let a little giggle slip. It was a very short-lived chortle, which was swallowed quickly. Unfortunately, the damage would be done. The rest of the group would break into stifled laughter, and shuffle about to avoid being identified as the perpetrator. Yes, there’s the ‘nicer’ guys, who between paroxysms of mocking laughter insert a ‘hello’ or ‘how’s it going.’ But that hardly makes it any better. If anything, it is almost insulting. It’s like when somebody robs a convenience store and then sends that very same place a Christmas card, come December.

No, the young actor never reacted to this, or any of the other belittling. Did he really ever care about it, or was he indifferent? Do people who never display emotions outwardly ever give two hoots about stuff like this? Well, I’m sure they do, you say. They are human. However, I’ve noticed that there are a sizeable number of people who build such high walls around their emotions that it is almost impossible for anything to get in. Nothing ever enters—sticks, stones, Romans, Tiger Woods. They live lives of emotional frigidity and nothing affects them. Then again, I just may be entirely wrong.

The thumping continues and our eyes rest solely on the actor. Come on, he must react. How much longer will he continue to remain oblivious to this intermittent annoyance? At this point, I wondered if he were deaf. Now that would make an excellent ending to this story. But the next thing he did assured us that he had perfectly fine hearing (no ‘cookie’ for this writer, unfortunately!). The actor, very slowly, got up. He dusted what seemed like bread crumbs off his functional, no-frills apparel. With several large steps, he made his way to a little shelf that sat above a table, right across the room. The actor’s living room was broad and long, and it seemed to take him an eternity to get to the other side. He sidestepped several pieces of furniture and followed the winding dragon designs on his carpet. He then reached up to the shelf and fumbled with something—a rectangular shiny object. On closer view, you could see the outline of a metallic silvery radio. He whipped out the long antenna from its back and turned the switch on. The inanimate object suddenly came to life, blaring static and sonic disturbance. The actor twiddled with the tuning knob for a while, gently forcing the machine to give in. He delicately twisted it this way and that, in an almost epic battle with the contraption. After having slowly choked it into submission, the ageing Phillips finally yielded. The static died down and was replaced by a rather upbeat big band number—Benny Goodman, I think. The actor then shifted his attention to the volume knob, which he yanked forcefully, all the way up. Yes, he could be both gentle and brutal at the same time.

The actor paused for a bit. Any knocking had now ceased to be apparent. He stood in the middle of the room, motionless. The ensemble’s sax player was running circles around the room with an elaborate solo. But the actor wasn’t appreciating or even listening to the music. You could tell, because his brow seemed crinkled and his face stern. Then slowly, he walked away from the shelf, into the darker corners of the room. Nightfall was approaching. Most residents of large apartments would usually turn the lights on or light a candle—anything to illuminate the room. But the occupant of Apartment 401 seemed disinterested with incandescence. If anything, this seemed like a genuine attempt to keep the room under the cover of darkness.

Our eyes now travel with the actor. Initially, we stumble over furniture and curse him for not having turned the lights on. But gradually, our eyes get accustomed to the darkness and engage their night vision. Everything is a funny shade of green and black.

This includes the dull red closet door that the actor walks toward.

He grabbed a different knob this time—a larger, shinier one. For a few minutes, he hesitated. Why was he deliberating over opening his closet door? But like the knobs on the stereo, he slowly turned this one as well—gently, but firmly.

On the floor of his closet lay the person on the other side.

Gagged? Yes. Drugged, possibly—seeing as how the person offered a rather weak amount of resistance to their ordeal. But the moment the door opened, the person began to writhe and thrash about on the floor. Muffled curses floated past the piece of metallic tape that sealed the person’s mouth. The young actor’s shadow towered over his victim. It was almost as if he had added a few inches to his average frame just then.

“So, do you think you’ve learnt your lesson yet?”

All through, Benny and co. played on, entirely unaware.