by Sarba Roy
In Sarba Roy’s story, a young man goes through the monotony of a normal summer night, only to retire with a chill of hope.
‘It’s too sultry to enjoy biryani properly. So, unless you want to spend the night struggling with indigestion, wait instead till it rains. It will, soon, considering how sultry the past week has been. It’s not that we disapprove of your inherent tendency to avoid home-cooked food; just a word of caution, keeping your best interests in mind.’
I hate the ring of truth that hovers around my mother’s advice, meant to sound as less sarcastic as possible. Summer makes me grumpy. Giving up on the things I like to eat makes me grumpy; hence, human. So, I retire into my room after a dinner of dry chapatis and commonplace vegetables, sulking over how seasons can afford their moods but humans are judged for it.
I wait for everyone to fall asleep and sneak out to my veranda, tiptoeing cautiously and opening the door extremely slowly so as to avoid the unnecessary ruckus of its hinges. The cigarette doesn’t lift my spirits either, feeling extremely warm around the lips and inside my throat. I wish I had bought mint instead. I will, soon, when I can afford a packet every day. For the time being though, Gold Flake Superstars would have to do.
I come back inside, sweating, with a thin film of saline water smeared along my forehead like an unrelenting lizard on its favourite wall. I wonder what to do next, but first I need to turn on the AC. I press the white square button into the socket, always too tight, as if to remind me of its importance, while the red one looks on eagerly for a touch of consideration. I set the AC directly to 17 degrees, instead of being civilized about it and bringing it down gradually from 26. I know this sudden change in temperature is bad for both of us; In his case, for his condenser and in mine, for my health. But we humans have this habit of rushing into things, like new lovers waiting for their first kiss. It doesn’t leave a sour taste in our mouths, as much as it leaves an innocent regret of not having done it better. Some things, though, we never learn, because these pleasures don’t come at too great a cost, at least momentarily.
As I wait for the room to turn liveable, I decide to switch on my computer. I sit on my chair, my back still glued to the t-shirt like a lozenge with a leak, stuck to its wrapper for dear life. For a moment I wonder, what if I decide to lean forward and the skin peels off my body? What if all of us roamed around this way? Naked and exposed. Wouldn’t we all be beautiful with the same pink muscles and bright, red blood? But my line of thought is interrupted by the sound of FIFA, which has taken its own time to load on my rather slow processor. I play a match half-heartedly, trying since forever to find the perfect posture where my lifted legs and outstretched hands can work in harmony. Not today.
I abandon the game and throw myself on the bed, clutching my phone, whose battery has just fallen below its threshold of fifteen percent. I fervently hope that this would be enough to see me through till I fall asleep. I’m wrong, obviously. Between admiring that ‘People Are Awesome–Episode 23’ and pondering over “’The Most Satisfying Videos Ever’, the battery dies. So I lie flat on my back now, wondering if it’s the summer that makes my nights gloomy. I am startled at the faintest sound of a door shut somewhere or someone pacing on the floor above, for no reason whatsoever.
Just as I realise that I’m melting into a sleep, the window rattles feebly for once. And then it starts trembling as if drawn to a fit. And I know what that means. So, I open the door to my veranda, without stealth this time, and embrace the first gush of wind and dust, for I know it is the harbinger of storm. I keep the door open, do the same to my windows, switch off the AC by finally pressing the red button. It bows into its socket and jumps back up with gratitude, having finally made itself relevant by lending its colours to the sky.
As I make my way to the bed for the final time tonight, I realise that seasons aren’t as arrogant with their moods after all, even though I know I’ll wake up to an uncomfortable summer morning again. I’ll wake up twisting and turning in a pool of my sweat on a crumpled bedsheet under piercing sunlight. But in this moment, I cannot help but fall in love with this damned summer night.
Pic: https://www.flickr.com/photos/wakingphotolife/ under CC license
Sarba Roy is a graduate in Economics from Jadavpur University, Kolkata. He has been published in Muse India, Project Fuel, Spark Magazine and PicnStory. His first book of poetry is also in the ranks. He hopes to better the world with his words.
