The Familiar Smell

The street looked full, full of life, full of ecstasy, it seemed like all of a sudden, the filthiest thought of the future had been rooted out from the minds of all the people who gathered there, leaving no space for the past too. They were all at that particular fraction of time, it looked like the energetic murmur of the street transcribed to a rather loud and precise Rumi quote, ‘Don't make yourself miserable with what is to come or not to come’. Indeed, the Chaiwala, which he has passed right now, had a brownish shade on his white beard and looked somewhat like Rumi. This made him wonder. Roni Seth, one of the most poignant and struggling journalists in the country, is celebrated among his contemporaries for his trademark lack of knowledge, lack of language, and the truly disgusting smell of his body. Heera Mandi always came top on his list, which he had made long back when he was mentally sane, stable, and somewhat happy. Even Roni was not aware of the prophecies that made him a successful and sought-after journalist. He was in his usual dark-shade kurti, with buttons unbuttoned enough to make his left nipple slightly visible. His hair was unkempt, yet stylishly curly. The sky was mostly black, and the pregnant clouds were peeking in as if they were waiting for their entire life to collide and shower over humanity.

The rain started drizzling slightly, with a mild drizzle. Roni is fond of rain, he likes to get drenched in rain, and he loves the smell of it. But quite unexpectedly, Roni thought of avoiding the rain this time, his body was getting weak. Though he always had a fascination with how tolerant and vigorous his body used to be, the time.., with no exceptions, had made its mark on Roni’s body. He is ill and is struggling with it. Roni Seth, a 37-year-old journalist, and two-time recipient of the national awards for excellence in journalism, was diagnosed with a disease, with a fancy name. Even Roni had a hard time remembering the name of it, he had it inscribed with him to refer to, if somebody asked for it. Roni was not sure why he was carrying it with him, nobody in the world actually knew about Roni’s illness, except him and the fat perky doctor. Roni’s parents are long dead, which he speaks happily of, with a gratitude of ‘it was the right thing to happen’ monologue. And Roni was self-ostracized from the family.

Roni paced into a nearby verandah, which was near to a small grocery shop. The rain intensified, didn’t know the exact reason but Roni was thinking about his brother. He always wanted his body to smell like his brother. He was so into thoughts that he looked quite tranquilized. There was even a slight grin on Roni’s lips, which he would never realize after he came out of that bliss he was in. Even Roni didn’t know how his laughter was, how it sounded like. A sudden gush of wind made the rain mizzle over Roni. He stood back just because of basic human reflex, otherwise he would have stayed there for no reason. He walked slowly over the verandah and strolled the stairs. Why heera mandi? He didn’t know the answer. Even if he resorts to his fairly obscure memory, he’ll be left out with no answers. These streets are always hooked to his mind, Roni makes this vivid imagery of prostitutes who involuntarily come to one of the oldest and most dignified professions on earth every time he tries to succumb to his worldly challenges - Prostitutes carelessly slanted on their beds thinking about the next worldly artifacts the useless heap of money would get them. The imagery is always accompanied by the smell of rain, Roni hears the sound and smells the rain every time he imagines it. The atmosphere was more or less similar to what Roni had imagined it to be, serene and disruptive.

Roni reached the first floor of that old, rustic building in Heera mandi. This project was not one of his usual melancholic job targets, rather this request came out from an energetic boy he used to be, a boy with hope and life. Amidst the flickering pile of smoke and spicy taste of his VSOP, this was the decision taken by the boy in him. Roni was broke, one could confidently tell that his bank account would never see more than 5000 Pakistani Rupees in its entire tenure. The only fortunate thing Roni had was a place to return, thanks to his parents, the only thing they had left behind for him, or the only thing Roni never sold off. Out of the very limited assets his parents kept for him, his house was the only thing he never sold off, a place to return. And Roni, despite being in a constant kick of local as well as sorted alcohol and the pungent smell of Will's navy cut his father used to smoke, clearly knows the difference between house and home. He never thinks about his parents except in the few moments before he slips to sleep, life itself goes in a flash in front of his eyes during that time.

The rain drooled over the clumsy carpet covering the roof. Roni walked through the congested walkway. The flagbearers of ecstasy, the keyguards of the key elixir of life, were standing there. They maintained an order, despite the rain, they never bothered to come out of that order. They never looked like prostitutes to Roni, he never considered anybody as a prostitute as well, for him they appeared like prestigious tawaifs who even achieved a greater realm than the emperor they were performing for. Nobody, literally nobody looked so artistically complete for Roni, the nose piercing, carefully kempt hair, fake but dazzling ornaments, carefully exposed body, a bait, and a home at the same time, kind and cruel at the same time. They were not calling Roni, he found it odd, no clinking of bangles. Perhaps they were also lost in the ecstatic dance of rain, to the mist of rain sprayed over their face, soaking the parched make-up. The mist of rain made their face wet, and despite the running makeup, their face looked live, ugly but live and full of life.

Roni held the balcony rail and kept looking outside. He felt like running down the street, getting drenched in rain, and breathing in the rain as much as he could, till the point of suffocation, or maybe even after that. The room behind Roni was empty. He went inside without even thinking. The only vacant room in the line, he might have entered there out of curiosity, the curiosity of Roni makes spontaneous decisions, nowadays since he has no energy to analyze his decisions, he is out of the guilt he feels all the time he makes those decisions. His senseless mind now slightly understood the reason why he dragged himself to the room. He smelled something, something very familiar, something that poked a beautiful unicorn who strayed with its never-ending energy, a unicorn he had long forgotten about. The room was well-lit, it had the same dim shades Roni always wanted to set for his house. He hated the standardized and bright light of these gritty industry products. The room was lit with a mix of vintage decorative bulbs and candles. He strolled in, he saw a woman knitting a small handkerchief beneath her bed, she was sitting down. Roni went straight in. Something restricted him, maybe that thin line of lust and ideologies. Even a drunkard can have ideologies, it’s not the monopoly of the sober. But a drunkard does have the backup of his instincts when he crosses the line, not does a sober. He decided to be a moth, not a fly, the instinct that Roni possessed as a birth trait. A moth, not a fly! He sat beside the woman. She might have felt the weird and disgusting smell of Roni Seth’s kurta, which was not washed for over a week now. He remained silent, he seemed like an obdurate lover who waits patiently for his lover to respond first.

Time flew, the rain intensified more, and Roni kept silent and stiff. She completed her handkerchief and dusted the knitting kit. Roni stared at the entire process like a child yet adamant, not obedient. ‘‘500 for an hour’, and if you are the kind who bargains, no less than 300, shall we start’’, she spurted out, it seemed like a well-rehearsed dialogue that only an expert or a melancholic side performer could deliver. Roni felt numb, and out of numbness he told ‘500’. She never looked at Roni. Shall we start? Put the money in that box near the parrot cage after you finish. With or without a condom? Roni didn’t answer that. During his youth, he had thought about, going to an escort, a highly paid one to check his sexual potential. Even though the flood of useless and mundane philosophies had overpowered that feeling, he always wanted to check his sexual potency, the feckless character that comes with every male born. Roni didn’t answer. They both stared through the window, which opened at the last spurt of wind.

The sky appeared dark, and Roni felt the fragmented clouds as ravens, the same ravens he saw in the dream moments before he got the death news of his mother and father. Roni moved closer to her, he understood where the smell came from, it was her body. A mix of sweat and perhaps some local brand of perfume, or maybe a local foreign brand which some of her customers might have gifted her. Roni sat beside her, she kept her hair to the right side where Roni was sitting. The intensity of the smell peaked. Roni closed his eyes and reminded someone, it’s been years since that person had crossed Roni’s mind, not even through dreams. The smell of sweat, the same smell of the neck, the fresh smell of the fabric, the taste of sweat, salty but sweat, the smell of fresh herbal oil, the smoke of a burned-out candle, the sound of grass, the criss-cross skin, everything flashes through Roni’s head. He asked her ‘Can I hug you?’. She was dumbstruck for a second, though she came back to her senses after that split of a second her face still looked puzzled. Nobody had ever asked for her permission, right from the lover pimp who had got her here, in a heaven of eternity. The candle burned off, the room was filled with jasmine incense Roni used to be familiar with. ‘Yes, you can’, there was unusual stammering in that since it is not a dialogue the actress is accustomed to. She tried to hide the stage fear that a professional actor experienced after a remarkable journey in the acting life, shame! Without wasting a fraction of time Roni extended his arm and held her. Roni held her in a gentle way which he was not familiar with now, it takes a lifetime to learn how to hold a woman, but not the one whom one loves. Roni held her in that way, dipped his face onto her neck, and hugged her tight. She slowly closed her eyes, usually, she doesn’t close her eyes, not during any of the circus she plays every day and every minute. She held his back. Roni stayed there, she could feel the change in Roni’s breath, a sudden change in his rhythm. Roni heard the thunder and the sound of the flying ravens, oily black ravens, they never got drenched, amidst rain Roni had never seen them soaked or getting heavy by rain, perhaps they knew their purpose, the purpose of life. She held him tightly. She suddenly felt the hot tears of Roni, he was not sobbing, and she was not sure whether he was crying too. But she held him. Roni was taking heavy leaps of breath, very heavy. Both of their bodies met in a strange way, perhaps it was a divine blend of lust, reticence, and repentance, a divine blend. They stayed like that and had no intentions of moving. The breath and tears of Rony never seemed to stop its intensity. Their bodies entangled further, it took its own course of time. All of a sudden, she kissed Rony’s forehead, a slender, wet kiss. There was a sudden jerk in Rony. She again closed her eyes, laid back, and kept her body in a more comfortable position. The windows and doors kept shutting in and out, the candles kept burning out, the rain kept intensifying and they lay there, never hoping this to end. Roni Seth, a celebrated dumb, lucky bastard was not hearing the sound of raven now and was sliding to sleep without having the thought of his parents, perhaps for the last time.