Short Story: The Stories We Must Tell

The old man was at his usual place when I entered the bar, his back facing towards me, drinking leisurely without looking around. I never saw him leave the bar and he was always there when I came in, sitting all by himself at the far end of the bar. I wonder if he ever left that place. He never seemed unnecessarily chatty with the waiters and never for once got drunk. He was always the same man sitting there and drinking as if he was saying “It’s Ok. I’m here and I’m drinking. What can be wrong?” to the world.

Once I saw him stand up and walk towards the men’s room and that was when I guessed he was a really old man, must be in his seventies or more. I don’t know a thing about being seventy, or how men walked when they became that old but the man walked slower than my grandfather when he was seventy. So, I guessed he was around that age and he walked to the men’s room as if it was an effort, an unwanted chore that he had to get through. He walked the same way back to his place as he went in and resumed his drinking. Sometimes I get too drunk to observe him, or I got to run some errand or something, and that meant I always left before he did.   

He was not a hard drinker, that old man. I timed his drinks and he could not guzzle more than one an hour and he always appeared as sober or as drunk as the last one left him. Probably he loved sitting there but I could not find a single redeeming feature in the little bar for it to become an object of such genuine affection. I mean it is a good place, cheap and moderately clean with friendly waiters who never rushed you away towards the end of the night, and the owner always had a word or two with everyone, but for a man to devote so much of his life to its confines was a stretch even to imagine.

On my good days, I felt content looking at him from a distance; he appeared to me like a monk, peaceful and alone, at ease with himself and the world around him. I felt relieved when I saw him there and he had a kind of soothing effect on me. On my bad days however, I begrudged him, I wanted to hold him by his shirt, lift him and shake him off his chair, bring him into the reality away from his meditative stupor. I wanted to take it all on him, show him what it feels like to be alive and ask him if he ever felt it. I thought it was unreasonable and illegal for a person to be so detached from everything that’s happening around. I wanted to show him a newspaper and ask him what he thought of that. I didn’t do any of those, for most of the feelings pass but the old man stayed there, a poster of absolute defiance and unshakeable resolve.

Sometimes I wanted to know him, ask him about his childhood, how he was as a kid, when he had his first drink, the women in his life, his interests, hobbies, his anger, his strengths, his weaknesses, what made him, what broke him and what drove him to this state. Everything. I wanted to know the person inside out so that I can get rid of him, throw him out of my system after leeching his very life out of his mouth. I wanted to tell him that he can’t play enigma for long and that I was calling time on his mysticism, or façade, or musing orwhatever he called the little game he was up to. Maybe he knew all that and he had no intention of letting me, or anyone do that to him. On more than one occasion, I thought of asking the people in the bar about him, but I was quick to dismiss that idea. It seemed unethical and plain wrong to invade on his privacy from behind. If I was too gutless to face him and talk to him, the least I could do was not to resort to shortcuts. It was my cross to bear and I'm glad that I didn't work on the idea.

Lest anyone get any ideas about my psyche, let me clarify that the old man was never an obsession to me, at least that was what I wanted to believe. I was curious just as anyone but, I had my life away from the bar and I doubt it if he did and wondered what it must be like. He always dressed either in black or white, never crumpled, so he did seem to take some care in how he presented himself, though I can't picture him to be fretting about those sorts of things.  I thought about the money. There had to be some way he was able afford his drinking. At 70, he must be earning a pension, and if he did, he must have worked, and must have had a place to crash after the bar closes. I decided to tag along that day, for I had nothing better to do with my Friday evening. I was not invited anywhere and had the entire weekend for myself, so the seed was planted.

As a person, I'm not the most instinctive or proactive and I arrived at the decision to follow him after subjecting the idea to a painfully long thought process, but the idea itself was the easiest to arrive at, at least in hindsight. A ton of what-ifs were running through my mind even as I debated if I had it in me to go through with it. I chose to drank my senses out of working overtime.

An hour passed after I made the decision and I downed a liter of rum by that time. I stood up to see if I can walk behind him and follow him to his place. I could not focus, the surroundings appeared too hazy and I needed to urinate. The waiter who was serving me, came up to me and asked if I wanted anything else, as they were about to call it a day. I looked at the old man's glass. It was near empty and he sat there looking at a wall that was painted tasteless, too bland to hold anyone's interest for more than a second. I started walking.

My steps were decidedly haphazard as I made my way towards the bathroom, a mild excitement running through my veins for I was going to see his face for the first time in all these days. I didn't want to rush the moment, so I walked slower than normal, careful not to let the man sense something behind, also afraid not to disturb his ritual. I was about 10 feet away from him, his back facing me, his head a bit stooped on to the table, probably in fatigue, or drunk. "Please don't drop dead on me, you old man" I prayed as I took the next ten steps eagerly.

I went past him.

I didn't know if I felt ashamed to look at him, standing up and turning back to look at him, but I knew that I couldn't get a better chance to see his face. I was probably afraid of what I might find in his eyes. I felt my legs disappear under my abdomen, I guessed I was falling down. It was probably the alcohol, or the shame of standing up. I stumbled on my feet and grabbed a chair, exactly opposite to where he was sitting, still looking in the opposite direction. When it became too much for me to hold the posture, and when I felt too weak to take a step further I collapsed on to the chair. It was convenient, not exactly calculated, but there I was facing him, looking into his eyes, rid of all inhibitions.

A sense of achievement seemed to crawl into me when he started talking. It was like he was expecting me and he prepared the speech in advance. His tone seemed condescending, that I wasted so much time. It was a stream of consciousness, yet every word embedded with so much meaning and thought behind it. He said.

"Son, I know you were looking at me. I know that you want a story. I know you must have imagined one. Let me tell you, that whatever you imagined is way better and truer than what I have to tell you. Frankly I have nothing to tell you. I got no story to tell you. I wish I had, but no, I don't. You might think I got a dead wife, my kids abandoned me, and I'm wallowing my time away in sorrow. Let me tell you, none of that is true. If I had a story, I wouldn't have been here. "

"When I see people like you, looking at me, my heart goes out to you. I wish I had something to tell you. I wish I could speak to you, something that you don't know, something you would like to know, something only I can tell you, but alas, oh alas. I sit here every day, wishing and willing you to come to me, so that I can tell you something. I want to talk to you, the lot of you, but what can I speak of. I don't have stories of adventure, imagination, optimism. I didn't live that kind of life. I'm an old man. I lived some days, some years, none too memorable."

"Look at me. Do you think I'm hiding something. Heck, I'm not capable of that son. I'm 72 years old. Not the best of the time or age for keeping secrets. I don't have the energy for being enigmatic and sustaining it every day. If my routine interests you, that may be because of your interest in the mundane, the dull, and the unhappening. Who would want to spend their time like that? I wouldn't. Do you?"

"You are the one that should tell me stories, son. I'm sitting here, drinking my time away, seeking stories, yet you come to me for them. You disappoint me, son, and you wasted so much time doing it. You are better than this. You are better than me. Go ahead. Tell me a story. Be a story. I'm all ears. I'm here and I will be drinking to your story. But, son, please, give me a story. That's all I ask. At this age. Go away. This is not the place for you."

"I won't, for once, say please and rob you off your wish to live the life your way. I can only point out to you one of the ways that brought us together on this dull night. How do you feel tonight? Do you want to feel the same tomorrow night? And the day after? It's easy to say yes, and you can sit there, away from me. We can drink our nights away, but never together. You want to talk to me? Know me? Bring me a story. I'm all ears. I'll be here. Let me tell you the last thing. If you got a story to tell me, you won't need me. Don't feed on the old bones, son."

I never saw him again. I wanted to be a story worthy enough to tell him.  

Fifty Word Inspiration: Regret

[This Fifty Word Story is a response to the weekly prompt Fifty Word Inspiration and is to be considered a bookend to the story “Regret” by Samantha Chan. Read her story first. ]

Of course she would. She said yes and wished he heard it. Felt it. 

Has he gone so far that there is no hope? 

Who got hurt more in the accident? Is she destined to live a death? She dreaded at the thoughts. 

Oh Nick. I’m alive. Don’t go away. 

Go Further, Get Closer

I dragged the word document on my desktop slowly into the recycle bin, as carefully as I would have helped a blind old man cross the road. The desktop looked empty, almost reminiscent of the state of my mind. I wiped my face with my palms and stood up from the chair I was sitting in. Walking towards the balcony, I saw the food carefully arranged by her on the dining table. I had no appetite. I lit a cigarette and stood facing the huge apartments with their doors closed and clothes left to dry on the railings. The cigarette smoked itself as I stood wondering about the time I have been spending at home, doing nothing effectively. It was exactly three years ago that I took a decision to quit my job and decided to be a house husband to concentrate on my writing. 

The first year was great. She went to work at around 9 AM after having breakfast together and I had the entire house to myself. I read a bit, till I thought I was inspired enough and wrote till 1 PM. We called each other at lunch after which I got out, bought groceries, did some chores and prepared coffee for myself. I read what I wrote and discarded most of it, but when I called it a day at 6 PM I usually had something to read for her in the night. She usually hated most of what I wrote and I defended that she does not belong to my target readers. She never complained about her work and I never felt a need to ask. After about a year, I was ready with my manuscript and several rejections followed. I laughed the first few away but their relentlessness took a toll on me. I got protective of my work and stopped reading to her. She didn’t seem too concerned one way or the other. I discarded more, wrote less and drank myself silly. 

I went in and quickly retrieved the document from the recycle bin. I read it entirely twice and felt frustrated about it. It felt hideous and amateur and I don’t think such work should occupy any space. It was another three months of my work. I pressed the shift and delete button angrily on the key board when I heard the sound of her letting herself in. The door to my room was slightly ajar from where I could see her discarding her shoes and collapsing on our sofa. If she was disappointed with my failures, she never let me feel it. It added more to my guilt and I decided that three years was enough time I could have given to myself. I wanted to actually do something and contribute to our family. I could not bear to look into her eyes anymore unless I make myself useful in some way.

I could see the gap widening between us. We rarely speak to each other these days. We eat separately and do not sleep together anymore. I usually pass away with the amount of drinking I do and she watches a movie or goes to sleep early. We don’t feel awkward when we face each other but I feel thankful when I come back to my room. Sometimes I notice her through the open door, like how I’m doing now, and want to reach out to her. But I never had anything to say to comfort her. But now, I have it and I open the door and sit beside her on the sofa. Her eyes are still closed and her head resting on the pillow facing our ceiling where the fan whirled nonchalantly. We are on the same room sitting on the same sofa, but we could not be any farther than we are to each other now. 

With the power cut and a dull sound, the fan and the lights went off in every room and we were engulfed in darkness and silence. I could hear her breathing and the rhythmic inhale and exhale of air. I called out her name and put my hand on her shoulder. She snuggled closer to me just by a wee bit and I informed her of my decision to go for a job again, with a resigned voice. She didn't say anything and after a while said that she was feeling hungry and suggested that we eat together. I asked her if she wanted to go out to eat, but she preferred eating at home, whatever was available. I prepared a table, lit candles and we sat facing each other. The only sounds that were heard for the next few minutes were those of the spoons clattering on the porcelain plates as I was still unsure of her reaction to my decision. The power came on as we finished our dinner and I pushed for her reaction again. She smiled and said that she was feeling sleepy. She asked me to come with her to watch a movie together in her room. We saw Rituparno Ghosh’s Antarmahal. She dozed off mid-way, her head resting precariously on my shoulder as if she was unsure if I would be able to bear her weight. I made her sleep properly on the bed and got out of the room. 

I can’t remember when and how long I slept, but I woke up to the gentle ruffling sounds of her packing her clothes into a travel suitcase. She was also packing my clothes and I asked her if she was going somewhere. She ordered me to get ready and left to book us a cab. We reached the airport together in the cab, when I asked her where we were going, she smiled and asked me to let her surprise me. 

We reached the airport, where she checked us in to the flight leaving to the Maldives in an hour. It took me five years back, when we first went to the country immediately after getting married. I had very fond memories of the place and the time we spent together. Though it was thoughtful of her to choose the spot again for a holiday, I was not sure if I was prepared for it. I was shabbily dressed and with my scraggy beard I felt totally out of place in the flight which has newlyweds giggling sheepishly, muttering their words so that only they can hear each other with not a care for others in the world. I took my seat near the window and she followed me, the seat next to us remained vacant.

We reached our hotel around 7 PM in the evening and decided to call it off a day. I shaved myself clean and put on a clean white shirt the next morning and ordered coffee for us. We had our coffee in bed as she looked at me admiringly. We lazed around the entire day in our private bungalow that she has booked for us. It was the same one we stayed five years ago and it almost felt surreal to be there again. We sat on the chairs looking at the azure waters that covered the vast expanses of our sight. I could have stayed there for another day without doing anything but she suggested we go out for our dinner.  

The sun was setting when we got out of our bungalow and we both knew the exact place to dine. It was after all the same one we dined earlier and it was not difficult to find it again. We took a corner seat and for the first time on our trip I looked into her eyes as we settled ourselves. Then I started speaking. It was an endless stream of all the thoughts and frustrations that were suppressed in me for the last two years. I told her everything about my work and how inferior I always found it. I told her about my lack of discipline and how I resorted to drinking as an escape, about my guilt in being home all day and not being worth anything to our family, about my inability to communicate or to make sense either with my writing or with my behavior. 

She sat silently and never took her eyes off me. She did not say anything, nor stopped my flow. She sat there looking at me as if I’m performing a single act stage play with her as an exclusive audience. Her eyes were riveted to me and I don’t know what I found in them or if I understood what she felt. Is she forgiving my failures and saying that it was okay. Is she pushing me to face the reality and to man up. Is she accusing me of being so full of myself and never having any concern about her? Does she accept my failure? More importantly is she suggesting that I’m a failure and it’s about time I accept it? Is this trip a taunt on my inabilities, financial and familial?

We finished our dinner and she paid the bill. We got back to our bungalow and with a drink in our hands sat again on the chairs that we left before going out. I did not stop talking to her and she seemed to be processing all that I was blabbering. I even told her that I was ready to take a job again, start working and become useful. I think I was exhausted by the night and could no longer speak about anything. She went to refill our glasses and I was left with my silence again. It felt great to finally get everything out of my system. I needed that and she knew that. That was the whole point of this trip. A solitary tear drop tried in vain to break through the reservoir of my eyes but I controlled it before she returned with our drinks. I snuggled closer to her and she kept her hand on mine, closed her eyes, smiled and said that we are leaving to Hyderabad the next day and that she would accept any decision of mine. I felt a mountain was lifted off my back and was surprised how easy it always was and how stupid I was not to realize it earlier. 

We sat waiting for the flight back to Hyderabad when she showed me this video, saying this was how she got the whole idea of this trip. “Only change is, I had to play the romantic.” She smiled and I joined in.

P.S : This is a work of fiction.

This story is written as a part of Go Further to get Closer contest by British Airways hosted by IndiBlogger