SQUATTING AT THE DOOR

Ginny had sat down outside his room. His flat. He called it his room; force of habit since his poorer days when he was still pursuing calligraphy, when flats were rooms, that too shared at times. A room would be a room, sometimes with a bathroom attached, mostly shared with other tenants in other rooms. Bathroom would always be smelling of shit, little brown droplets everywhere, as if tiny shit explosions took place. Rooms would be just a mattress on floor, with a table and chair next to it if one was lucky. Empty packets of momos and cigarette packs full of stubs and ash in one corner, coke and water bottles littered next to the mattress. Some books, a dirty laptop with sticky keys on the mattress. Almirah with no locks, full of old socks, dirty clothes, a comforter for winters etc.

Ginny was working now so he had a 1 BHK. One room, a hall and a decent kitchen with a fridge in it, attached bathroom with working geyser and flush. There were no bottles around, but a big Bisleri bottle on a dispenser.

He still called this a room; perhaps it was, one man only lives in one room, only needs one room, like life it’s just one. One man can only live in one room at a time, no matter how many rooms fill up his house. Ginny wouldn’t have thought of this, but would have registered it as wise had he read it somewhere. He liked getting reasons for his habits; he found the fact that there was a cause for things he did, comforting. Not that chaos was much deterrent to his life, his way of being, but he just believed it’s good to have reasons. It gave one things to say to another. It gave a reasonable man, defense.

Still, he sat outside his room, squatting, taking rest from wall. And he didn’t really know why he sat there. And he had no answer had any one who passed by asked him. But it was his room and he could stand or sit outside it as long as he wished, would have been his response, had someone asked, that is. No one had. Mostly it was delivery men, the cleaning lady, the building caretaker who had gone up and down the stairs and corridors. He had had to get up for the cleaning lady, for she was cleaning and whatever she cleaned was her domain. And even though the room was his, the mop and broom were hers.

It wasn’t exactly true that all he had done was sit there, he had gone down earlier for a chai and smoke twice. He had loitered about the complex for a few minutes, taken the longer route from the chai shop while coming back, but what was true was all these acts had centered around the ‘sitting’ in front of his room, they came full circle back to sitting, as things which share a center usually do.

He felt up keys inside his pocket, assuring himself he wasn’t locked out. There were three keys bound together with a keychain. One for his room, another for the almirah, final one for what, he didn’t know. Caretaker had given him his set, told him about the first two and comfortably ignored the last one and didn’t even pull it out of the keychain. It probably belonged to a broken lock or an almirah which had rotted. Even Ginny hadn’t thrown the key out, it gave the keychain that added heft that one needs, to feel the keys in their pocket. Light key chains might as well be no key chains, for the owner keeps picking their own pocket to search for them.

He got up, stretched, hands still in pocket feeling up keys and coins. He could go inside, he could, and set the day right again. But much of the day had passed, and there was no setting it right, it was going to set in soon. In morning that he had got up, got ready and dressed up to set out for some much important tasks. But as he had started walking down the stairs he realized he had forgotten each and every one of those tasks.

He knew, he knew there were no notes for those tasks. He never kept notes, his memory was bad, but he never really believed this. His memory was bad, but his recall was better he thought. He would eventually remember things, sometimes a bit too late but he didn’t have urgent things at hand mostly, with due deadlines; his job was a set of repetitions, with little space for new tasks, it was all muscle memory.

He had forgotten tasks properly this time, he felt it in his bones. He had tried to recall it but instead was flashed with dozen other memories. He recalled an incident from his childhood, where he had set out with cash clutched in hands to buy milk, which he had then promptly forgotten, only to go around the neighborhood for an hour to return to an angry mother who ended up thrashing him. He remembered promptly giving his bat away, to a stranger who jokingly asked for it, while he was returning from a game of cricket. He had many memories, yet none of today.

And so he was stuck, with no notes and no tasks. He was too ready and too embarrassed to go back in. It was his day off and he had set it aside for tasks, important tasks, now he could not use it for anything else. What if he had gone out for a beer, and recalled the tasks two beer in, with full memory but no muscle coordination to take upon the tasks? What if he had visited a friend, but the task had involved doing something for the friend, who would then ask if the task was finished, causing him that much more embarrassment, first out of not knowing the task, then not doing it?

He would get up, shake his legs every now and then, whenever he felt his legs falling asleep. Even though he had justified to himself, to answer someone, had they asked why he was sitting there, he was still a bit nervous sitting there, so he would pretend at times to be working away at the lock if some tenant would pass by or motion to take the stairs. It was afternoon now and he was getting hungry, surely he could take some time off and eat, maybe rest, a nap too. It was a holiday after all and he was his own master, and it was he himself who had set those tasks and he could quash them had he so wished. But he was again not sure, what if those tasks were set by someone else, the administration, his parents, some friend? He realized how not free he was right now. He realized how not free at all he was, ever. He was not a slave, but for sure he felt like no master.

He started checking his phone, in hope someone had messaged and asked him updates about anything. Nothing. There were forwarded messages in some group chats. A few marketing messages. A reminder for a bill, but the bill could have been paid online, it not at all something one would need to go out for and it wasn’t even due soon.

He needed to pee. He gave up, he had to go in now, after giving up everything that made him squat there, everything that made him squander the day. Just as he was about to pull out the keys from his pocket, his neighbor, Leena aunty, an older lady in the building called out, “Gunveer, what are you doing there son?”

“Oh nothing, aunty” replied Ginny.

“I saw you standing out there earlier too, is everything alright?” said Leena as she came out and started walking towards him. Before Ginny could reply, she said “Lost keys?”, seeing as he was standing, hands in pocket, for a while, in front of his locked door.

“.. Yes” lied Ginny. He said this unknowingly. He could have told her that wasn’t the case, and that he was in fact standing outside his room, as it was his right, his planned response had fell flat. But he just agreed, firstly because he didn’t like correcting people till it was pertinent that they be corrected; if an incorrect assumption could end or continue the conversation smoothly then what of it, it was better than a correction and truth. Secondly he felt he couldn’t own up to the faux pas that began this morning. Of course losing keys was another kind of embarrassment, but in terms of embarrassment a borrowed embarrassment was better than an admitted one.

Leena asked, “Do you have a lock maker’s number, or a carpenters? You should get cracking before evening.”

Ginny replied, “No I don’t aunty, do you..”

“Poor boy, come come, I will give it to you” said Leena as she waved at him to come to her house.

As he took his first step behind Leena who was already walking back, he realized that his keys rustled and clanged against spare change in his pocket. To not be found out, he put his hand in his pockets, quieting the keys and change. Leena told him to sit as she looked up the contact in her roll-a-deck. She was an older lady with a smart phone and roll-a-deck. It made sense. Her house was well furnished, and full to the brim. Each wall had multiple paintings, each corner had a corner table of a different design and different artifact kept on top. No wall was seen till all the way down to the floor. The sofa was big, nearly touching the center table, Ginny could imaging hitting it as he sat down or got up from the sofa. So he sat in one of the side chairs. It seemed she had too much wealth for stuff, but not enough for a bigger house, or maybe that’s how she liked it. The house looked like it wanted to look cozy but missed the mark, like a hug too tight and generous, robbing the hug of intended warmth and making it smothersome instead.

As he was surveying the house Leena asked him if he wanted some tea. He said no, then waited a moment, and asked if he could use the loo. It was always a bit weird using someone else’s bathroom, lest you find their dirty underwear or you leave the toilet unflushed. She pointed the way without looking and he used it. When he was back, she had a couple of cards in her hand.

Instead of giving the card to him, she said “take a picture, I need these cards, I keep forgetting things too you know, can’t give them away, people take them and forget to return.” Even though Ginny had no use of these, he felt slighted by the implication that he might steal her things. He laughed instead, just a “haha”, half assuring her with his laugh that he was no thief or ingrate. She looked at his strange laugh with mild puzzlement. He took the pics.

She then prompted him, “ call and see, I have had these numbers for a while, I don’t know if they work still.”

Ginny replied” It’s ok aunty, I will do it outside”, as he tried to get out. She continued “ Call, call, I will also know which card to keep then.”

Ginny was now stuck, with this peculiar older lady, in a situation that needn’t have existed, on the verge of making calls to people he had no use of. All this time wasted, over this made up scenario, he thought. But he could not confess now, he was in too deep. So he called up each contact, and hung up before the call could connect, and told her numbers were not reachable. For some reason Leena didn’t throw away her cards after this. Maybe she saw through him, maybe she was a hoarder.

He then said he would try asking the caretaker, Leena clearly looked annoyed at this whole situation, Ginny seemed beyond reasonable help. Ginny left and went down, he had to go through with the act now. At least till the point it was visible from Leena’s windows, it was only the last leg of the act.

As he walked down, he kept walking down. He walked better now, not just because he didn’t have to hide his keys or because he didn’t have to pee, but it felt easier to walk. It was an unmoored walk. He seemed to be capable of going anywhere. As he went downstairs he saw the caretaker. He didn’t need to, but he went to the caretaker. He didn’t need to, but he asked for the contact. He didn’t need to but he called the carpenter over. The carpenter would come soon and open the door by loosening hinges, and Ginny would go in, with keys in his pocket and no notes, relieved, satisfied that a task had been set and accomplished.