There are many things you still do not know about me.
For example, when I was little, Mother took me to see the Great Russian Circus. It was dull, very dull. There was nothing Russian about it. As we walked home, I asked Mother if she would take Father, climb to the top of a tall building and jump off. I would stand on the street and watch them fall. It would certainly be more daring than anything I had seen in the circus. She was disturbed by my question.
A few days later, we were at the dinner table. One of my cousins, a boy I had never met, had had an accident that very day. As Mother and Father ate their fish and vegetables, they discussed the boy’s condition in the grimmest manner. The poor boy ran from a mad dog, they said, straight into a bus. It flattened his face completely. Upon hearing this, I roared with laughter. It was much funnier than the clown act in the Great Russian Circus. I told my parents what I was thinking. They stopped eating.
My point is this. If Horasi the eunuch wants me to correct my past, is it possible to rectify thoughts of this nature? Also, do I need to? Horasi also said that I must do this before it is too late. How much I can correct depends on how much time I have left. The lady of the rainbow set the clock. If even one of the thousand oil lamps is still burning, I have time. But it is impossible to trace the oil lamps. Instead, I think, I must find out how much oil is left. It is wonderful how my thoughts have become so linear over the past two days.
I stand just outside Viren’s building. My knees are skinned from crawling, and my white clothes smell of sweat and defeat. But I can walk now because I am out of his building. I look at the building opposite me. And then I stare at its name.
Rainbow Apartments.
Surely I will find someone there who knows how much oil is left. It is an old building, but its feet are strong. I count three floors. A few clothes hang outside the windows and collect dust from the street. The road is being dug up. No children live in this building. Either they have all grown up and left, or they were killed in a tragic accident during building renovations. Perhaps a slab of grey stone fell from the terrace and crushed them all. I think this because there are no children’s clothes hanging outside. I also smell sadness — each slab of stone stores it like an old person stores the death of a loved one in his teeth.
I enter the building. The corridor is dark.
I have always heard people say that when you are in trouble, a door will open. I do not have that kind of time. So I must start knocking. A door will open only if it is meant to.
On the first door there is a sticker that says: “Where there is a will, there is no confusion about money.” I knock on the door and read the sticker again.
The door opens. The woman who stands there must be in her forties and has big hips.
I blurt out: “I’m depressed. Life is too hard to bear.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did my eruption surprise you?”
“Eruption?”
“This sudden display of emotion. I’m not accustomed to it.”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me. But I think the future is bleak.”
I can tell from the way her hand grips the door that she wants to shut it. I fall to one knee.
“It’s all over,” I proclaim.
“What is?”
“I cannot pinpoint. The issue lacks specificity.”
“Get out!”
She slams the door shut. This is fine. A door will open only if it is meant to.
The door next to hers is of a similar dark shade. There is no sticker on it. I knock three times. The opener is short and stocky. His right eye is smaller than the left one.
“Your right eye is definitely smaller,” I say.
“Who are you?”
“That’s a hard question.”
“Listen, what do you want?”
“I want to buy some time.”
“Then stop wasting mine!”
“I was right. It’s all over.”
I look down dejectedly.
“What’s all over?” he asks.
“Even the lady next door asked me that. It’s strange how people in the same building think alike.”
“You know the lady next door?”
“No. But I was telling her that it’s impossible to define what’s over. I could say the oil is over. But that is being too specific. Do you see what I mean?”
“You better get out of here,” he threatens. “Before I make you.”
I turn around and climb the stairs that lead to the next floor. I can hear the door shut behind me. Yes, his right eye was smaller than the left.
There are two doors on this floor, one to the left of the other. I must choose carefully now, be extremely logical: I like to play cricket. I am a lefty (batting only) so I knock on the door to the left.
As I wait for the door to open, I notice that the wood around the keyhole has scratches. There is the shuffle of feet, a thump against the door, and silence. I assume I am being inspected through the eyehole.
“Who is it?” It is the voice of a woman. Her accent tells me that she is not from the city.
“It’s me,” I say. “Open the door, I have something to tell you.”
“Are you here for Madam?”
“Yes, I have a message for her.”
A chain unlocks. A dusky young girl stands before me.
“A chain unlocks,” I say. “And now a dusky young girl stands before me. But it is bleak, so bleak.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell Madam that human existence is pointless. I could tell you that the oil is over, but that would be too specific.”
I lie on the floor. The tiles are cold and dirty.
“Look here, I do not know why you are talking nonsense, but Madam is not at home.”
“Can you help me?” I stare up at her.
“With what?”
“I’m depressed. Life is too hard to bear.”
I hear the door being chained again.
I notice a crack in the ceiling. It forks like a serpent’s tongue. I recollect what most men recollect when they stand at a serpent’s tongue: two roads, A and B. A leads to a dark woman with one tooth. B leads to a dark woman with one tooth missing. Since A and B are at the ends of the fork, the two women do not know of each other’s existence. They live in isolation. Since they live in isolation, they do not know the norm for teeth. I surmise: if the serpent’s tongue was not forked, the two women would have known each other. If the two women had known each other, they would have known the norm for teeth. But would the dark woman with one tooth have given hers to the dark woman with one tooth missing? That is what makes everything so bleak. Added to that, the oil is over.
I hear the sound of a person climbing stairs. I assume it is a man because otherwise it would be a woman. It is impossible to decide whether I should get up.
“Hello.” It is a man.
“Same to you,” I reply.
“It’s good to see that you are aware of things, lying down like that. Not many people know the importance of lying down.”
“That’s the kindest thing anyone has said to me all day.”
“Naturally. I’m mankind.”
“Then you will understand the bleakness. The bleakness.”
“Get up and face mankind,” he orders.
It is an ordinary face, quite featureless, like an unimportant plain on a map. A white cloth shopping bag is strung around his wrist; he wears blue rubber slippers. Their straps fork like a serpent’s tongue.
He leads me to a third door. I am surprised to see it since I thought there were only two doors on each floor. There is no keyhole. He pushes the door open with two fingers, using the same hand to which the shopping bag is attached. The shape of a small bottle is evident through the bag. The room is completely bare, as though it does not exist.
“Your slipper straps fork like a serpent’s tongue,” I say.
“They are roads that lead to two women,” he replies.
“You know about the two women?”
“I do. It’s very sad.”
“Why?”
“The woman with one tooth did not give hers to the woman with one tooth missing.”
“I must lie on the floor again.”
“It’s what dejected people do.”
“Lie with me,” I plead.
“I must not.”
“Please. Lie with me.”
We both lie with our backs on the floor and stare at the ceiling. There is no ceiling — no concrete, no sky, nothing. Mankind does not say anything. He places the shopping bag on his stomach. It clearly contains a bottle. He removes it, leaving the bag dangling from the wrist. Inside the bottle is a thick yellow liquid. Very little remains.
“It is.”
“So it’s not over, then.”
“This is all that’s left,” he says as he turns a little my way.
If there is little oil left, the lamp is still burning. I must act fast. I have found my logician. It is not a good thing. I once walked into a room full of people who were smiling. They sat on chairs, on sofas, on the floor, and there was a disturbing sense of group joy in the room. I stood there fixated. They were brilliant magicians all of them. I asked, why is everyone so happy? One man coughed, a young girl bit her nails, and the remaining dismissed my query as though it was an inopportune request for ice cream. But they did not know why they were happy. When the magician meets the logician, the first crack in the sidewalk is formed.