The White Sheet - 2

We discussed this several times during the week before Sanchari arrived. Anuradha had the same last words on our way to the airport – “Not such a big hassle as you make it out to be, Raag. Even I will have some company. Otherwise, in this god forsaken country, I hardly get to even talk to any other soul.”

I knew it was a lost cause and changed the track - “God forsaken country, indeed! Does someone remember saying – Jaanu, this is such a lovely place… just like Kerala – God’s own country?”

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Ok, I said that, but not the way you say it with a drool,” replied Anuradha, staring me from the corner of her eyes. “And three years is a long time to spend in the back waters, don’t you think?”

“Ammu, you will forever remain Ammu Tammu, huh! Do you realize that you live in one of the most beautiful cities on this continent, and not in some obscure jungle of Africa?”

“Mr. Raag Sanyal, will you stop calling me Ammu Tammu, please? How about Anu, or better still, Anuradha, for a change?” said Anuradha. “By the way, I am warning you, at least in front of that girl, you better treat me respectfully.”

“Ok, baba, it will be Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal. Promise. Happy now?”

A smile wanted to flicker on her face, but Anuradha was determined not to give in. She continued to put up a mock appearance of her anger.

Sanchari’s assessment of Ivory Coast wasn’t very different from our own when we had first arrived. It was easy for any visitor to be seduced by this country. More so, if the visitor came in a packed Ethiopian Airlines flight from Bombay, sitting next to a fellow Indian, Keralite to be precise, who narrated to her the horrors of living in Africa – Never venture out in the city after dark. Never keep your car windows open at a crossing. Ask your company not to send you out of city on work without proper security. We use helicopters to travel between towns because carjacking are so common here.

“He did tell me, though, that Ivory Coast is a lot like Kerala – full of back waters,” said Sanchari.

“And beaches too,” added Anuradha.

“I see, Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal, then, that you don’t quite dislike this god forsaken place as must as you tell me you do,” I said with a chuckle.

“Ah, Raag, stop teasing me now. So, Sanchari, you didn’t expect to step out of the airport and find such a beautiful city, did you?”

“Not at all. In fact, I thought it would probably be like going to one of those obscure towns in India. And I step out of the airport, and what’s the first thing I see – big cars, well lit roads, and automated car parking. Come to think of it, I took our good old Ambassador on my way to the Bombay airport.”

“Indeed, what misconceptions people back home have about this place. Take this flyover – I wonder if they have constructed any such in India yet,” I responded.

We were driving down to the other side of the bay, passing by the Novotel Abidjan. We were flowing through in a smooth Saturday evening traffic. If it was the sight of the orange glow of street lights that glimmered in the lagoon in front, or just the summer breeze, I do not know; but we all remained quiet for sometime.

Finally, Anuradha muttered, “Reminds me of the Marine Drive in Bombay.”

I knew she missed India; perhaps even more than I did.

The White Sheet - 1

The sheet, incidentally, is stained too, with three drops of old, faded redness. - Salman Rushdie

The sky tonight is a dull black. A dithering wind did not blow away the clouds. It will be a gloomy Wednesday morning tomorrow - I will wake up, read a book sitting on the toilet seat for ten minutes, then look at the watch and rush up to take a shower, enclosed in the glass cabin that gets covered with steam and makes me look more attractive than I am in the luminous yellow light that floods a wide mirror on the front. And then, Ammu will knock on the door; remind me that I will be late to work. I will quickly step out of the shower cabin, carefully place my feet on the blue mat, careful not to spill too much water on the floor. Then I will spread a palmful of cream, and apply it on all parts of the body accessible to my two hands. The clock would have ticked another five minutes, and now, I will know I will be late to work.

But that will be tomorrow.

Tonight, it is a dull black sky. Not that I can see the sky - what with the white window blinds that shield the view from me. But the blinds are not always closed. Sometimes, Ammu rolls them up. Sometimes, I also roll them up. Earlier, when we only knew how to roll up the blinds and not bring them down again, for days and nights light and darkness, and prying eyes, had free access to our inside. Then, I learnt from a stranger how this system works - how to play hide and seek with the world, how the black dull sky can be hidden from the view one moment, and then, the next moment, how the swaying green leaves or the brazenly oversized flowers can be brought back to sight.

Oh, and that is not all that I have learn so far. The White Sheet, after all, is getting filled. The lines have been drawn out, and the ink has started to spill. Sometimes I wonder why I must bother; why not just fill my palm with mud and leave a stamp on the sheet, and then let it float away in the wind.

But I trust not the wind for it dithers a lot. And this sheet is all I have. For now I will keep it with me.