The Fragrance of a plague

I woke up along with your dream in the middle of a plagued city where the humidity of that tropical summer night was filled with the fragrance of saline and sweat. A dream that was filled with the scent of datura - tang of your never-ending void, the fragrance of your wonderful kisses, the odor of your monologues, the flavor of your love, the smell of your armpits, salty aroma of your clitoris. I can sniff them all amidst the pungent smell of deaths and sickness that filled the entire city. I think every act of human existence carries a smell - the filthy smell of greed that fills this tiny oblate sphere.

I have been thinking about you for the past few days, exactly from last Tuesday. These pale olive-green painted walls and the deserted street, which I have been gazing for nearly twenty-eight days from morning until twilight through that small maroon-coloured window panel made my Amygdala and Hippocampus ooze out human memories that they have stored across thirty-three years. I think you occupied a minor portion of my reminiscence which made me think about you almost all the time.

I am not sure if I get to see you once again. This plague might eat my pulmonary cells, or I might die out of starvation, or someone might kill me for a loaf of bread, or I might lose my last molecule of oxygen because of zero ventilators. Before my cadaver is being counted as an additional number for record books and stocked in history, I just wanted to recollect your fullest memory. I might have no time left to think about you again.

I do not even know where you would be – even though that information does not have anything to do with this story. You may still live in the same city where we have met last or first. Sorry! I tried to find your existence across social media, but you are not alive anywhere in social media. If you switched off your Wi-Fi, automatically you vanish from the reality. I do not even know if you are alive, maybe you might be quarantined by now or under ventilator or sneezing dry cough or you might be perfectly fine but locked down. I am not wishing anything; we are living a life beyond wishes and prayers. All we can do in reality is to gaze the deserted street and try to survive with sanity.

I remember you telling me one night – one of the two nights which we have shared together, you sound more critical and pessimistic. I think it was a damped monsoon night. My mind stored that day in my memory vividly, I can recollect everything that happened that day – including the ticking sound of that old-fashioned clock in your home. I doubt my optimism even today, being sceptical makes me feel alive. I think it is the basic nature of the human mind, without questions we would have been apes even today or at least questions help us escaping disinfectant stories. **

We swiped right in Bumble that night, I think I was the first to swipe you right, you swiped me right within next few minutes. Unlike most initial talks our conversation began with few lines from Metamorphosis. I sent you those lines – it was about Gregor’s bond with his sister Grete and asked why Gregor Samsa became vermin.

You replied, maybe he is an insect in real, as a normal human brain Kafka would have related him merely as a human who is suffering from existential frustration. Existential frustrations were the fancy commodity of 19th-century European writings. 

I responded with incredulity saying ‘you call Kafka a commodity’.

You said, I am not sure if Kafka was a commodity during his times – rather I think he never wanted him or his writing to be a capital, but Metamorphosis is a commodity now .

You are rude, but may I know why?

I think, I am tired of too much of west.

Over next few conversations we shared our cellphone numbers and you called me immediately. It was quarter past three and the pitch-dark rainy night was usually calm without the buzzing sound of insects or frogs croaking. My newly built condominium over the trashes of the greater city was in a deep sleep. A joint roll made me little tipsy and your voice echoed into my eardrum like a horse neigh. It was just a hi and a question, you asked, ‘will you come’ and I replied even tinier - right away.

**All I can do inside these pale olive-green walls is to think about someone – to kindle the memory of a human whom I have met in the past. The very thinking about sapiens makes my days easier. I do not know what else to do, I never experienced loneliness in these thirty-three years, amidst living alone for eight years. I locked my doors before twenty-eight days, and it is still unused. I might have vanished from the memories of my neighbors. It maybe a ghost living inside the flat for nearly a month. Social media and televisions are filled with the news of pandemic and death. Dead bodies, masked humans, panicked announcements, starvations, agitations, suicides, rapes, abuses, hatred, lynching and hoax stories spread across the glittering smart LED screens. **

The ghastly sound of Classic 350 interrupted security officer’s sleep and he stood up from his chair and opened the gate in half sleep. He might be wondering where the hell I am riding off in middle of a soggy night. I was geared up in the rider suit, more than safety, rider suit always saves me from rain and cold night winds. My motorcycle in a decent and constant speed was sprinting toward your city. When I called your number, it was half past eight and you were in deepest horizons of your sleep – I sensed it from your responses. I parked my vehicle in a nearby breakfast place and ordered for a chili toast, a coffee and bottle of mineral water. I emptied the water bottle in a gulp, it made me hydrated. Chili toast and coffee gave me some energy at least to think how to go with this craziness further.

Sleepless night and three hundred miles of non-stop riding – ignoring the joint breaks literally drain my life out of my body. I rushed into a nearby old business motel booked room for a night and settled into the cozy but clean bed. It was past noon when I woke up from the sleep. I gulped a bottle of mineral water that was placed near the television. A neat and deep sleep - it certainly refreshed me. I can hear the hustling sounds of the busy city – even the air-conditioned room was filled with the rusty city air.

I lighted my smart phone’s display; the home screen was filled with notifications – few missed calls and some WhatsApp’s. You have sent a text with just a question mark. I dialed your number, on the other end, you laughed and asked - have you reached?

I Said Yes

How was your sleep? all ok?

Where I must come?

Fuck? Where are you?

I told the place and name of the motel. You told me to vacate the room and wait out. You reached the place even before I am done with my vacating procedure. You were in a white cotton pants and sleeveless black colored tee with a word embodied in the front ‘fictional’. Your uncombed hair was stripped with red and sky blue. You came out of your car, hugged me tight and said sorry. I was just smiling.

You instructed me the route and asked me to follow you. Your house was not far; we reached your place in fifteen minutes amidst the traffic. It was a small old-fashioned cozy home in corner of a ramped street. A little garden, with varieties of roses and few herbs, occupied the gap between the gate and entrance. As soon as I entered the house, I noticed the ticking sound of the old British clock which hung in the middle of the lounge – it was not exactly a lounge, but a room extended along with kitchen in a corner and a wooden dining table made of mango wood in the middle. A mimicked version of Picasso’s Le Rêve - painting of Marie-Thérèse Walter, Picasso’s French lover, was hanging on the left wall. It was quite a big frame. I was thinking how Marie would have felt seeing this oil painting for the first time, she might be the first spectator of that world-renowned cubic painting. Apart from that I could not find anything – a smart television and a play station in the corner of that room did not attract me.

You opened the fridge and poured some canned orange juice in two beer glasses and offered me one. We were silent for a long time, I tried to overcome that void by drinking that juice in sips. You broke the emptiness and asked, what makes you to come here?

I think it was the joint. So, tell me why metamorphosis is a commodity?

Your response was intruding, It is tiring to talk more literature. I rather prefer to talk something else

Something else?

Do you have anything to drink? – maybe a beer?

You took a can of Budweiser from the refrigerator, placed it on the coffee table, which was right opposite to the couch and asked

Are you thirsty? As if walking in Atacama

Have you been to the Atacama?

No but decibels of fancy names are always sexier

Oh! I do not find anything lusty in sound of the word Atacama

You said, but Latin America is

It continued with endless conversation; all I can remember was the ticking sound of that British clock. We might have lost the sense of being hungry, because we never had anything for lunch, at least all I had in twenty-four hours was a chili toast, a coffee and three joints. When we noticed the clock, it showed exactly four. You went to kitchen and made coffee; we drank it over our next set of conversation. 

** My daily routine goes in an unwritten order. Forcing to get up from the bed with the fear of being alive and equally wanting to be alive. Make a black tea with the available tea leaves, cook a rationed food for the day, eat it as brunch around noon. Gaze the deserted street and if I am lucky, I will get to see a masked human face from distance – mostly silhouetted faces due to Sun’s rays. Close the window around six, take a shower, eat the brunch’s leftover or eat something frozen in the refrigerator and go to bed with the hope not waking up the next day. The fear of being alive makes me sick, every night I am settling into my bed with the tiredness of getting up next day. **

That night we went to a neighborhood bar which was a few hundred meters away from your home. It was a casual hangout bar with loud music in the top of that ten-story building, bar extended further to the terrace of that building too. You picked a corner seat facing the city and ordered for two tequila shots. I can witnessed the never ending lights of the city from there. Those seats were too narrow and too high to sit at ease, but the view and the cold monsoon breeze made things comfy.

Waiter placed the transparent shot glasses before us, those two glasses were filled with a shot of Patrón and topped with a pinch of salt. You asked my permission to use my neck, I was wondering what it would be. You squeezed a drop of lime around the right side of my neck, asked me to sit still, said cheers, gulped the shot and licked the drops of lime juice spread in the right side of my neck. I was sure that our meeting was not a hook up, at least we did not spoke anything sensual until that moment. But I must admit, I never had an experience of a swaying tongue tasting a blob of squeezed lime juice spread across my neck. You told me that you always prefer to start pleasant evenings with a shot and a neck.

You ordered a beefsteak and after a minute of silence you asked me

What makes you to stay alive?

Is that a kind of pickup question for an interview?

Not exactly, but I just wanted to know if we are alive.

I am not sure; the whole life might be a dream. Death maybe a wakeup call.

So, the dreams that we experience? Kind of inception?

Nolan is an overrated craftsman; he has his craft which may help him and his producer earning a billion dollars.

Not even interstellar?

Oh! Can we talk about Kafka instead? Or Picasso’s Le Rêve.

Ha! Le Rêve is not mine but my ex-partner’s. I don’t know much about paintings.

Can we order something to drink? I prefer Jack Daniels neat.

Whiskey!

Bourbon and Irish always

So more American

To contrast, yeah.

Loud music announced the arrival of disk jockey. DJ was juggling between trance and 70s, it makes me wonder why and how. But it was funny to hear Beatles and trance together.

You looked into my eyes and said - you are yet to answer my question

About living?

Yes, I think so

I am just living, like anyone else. I do not have any other option than being alive. At least my body and mind are in better state to fight death or they are trying to live few more days.

** I don’t even know why I am talking all these to you now; maybe rants help humans to live with sanity, like gossips. Or writing a story makes me feel better, as if I am talking with someone in real. Off late, I can feel the countless legs of Hottentotta tamuluses crawling across my brain - they are trying to eat my brain cells like a grand feast. Those crawling legs help me to excavate my memories from the deepest layer of my brain cells – archaeological pieces of evidence of my existence. The unprecedented desire for human faces and their voices makes life tough, thus talking with humans over a piece of paper helps me a bit. **

You brusquely stopped our conversation and said, this bar brews wonderful craft beers. If you want, you can try their strawberry or mango flavoured beer.

I am selective about my drinks, a loyal patron of certain tastes – bourbon whisky or IPA makes my drinking.

Ok! Cut it off. Thus, your body and mind force you to live. And continued “I” is nowhere different from body and mind – You gave an extra decibel to the letter “I”

We the humans have been talking this same story of existence for nearly three millennium, but we are not bored of it.

Humans got bored about ‘absolute’ stories of existence long back and our current fascinations are towards ‘relative’ existence

I asked, What is that?

I don’t want to talk that shit. Do you think talking plank constant along with deconstruction makes any sense in the terrace of a ten-story building, which is filled with the smell of beer and whisky and vodka and rum and loud fucking shitty music?

That’s really a long sentence!! I am going to call my next JD. By the way, do you want me to tell the value of plank constant, the value of the smallest “h” that we found until now?

One more Jack Daniels, please. And I think, I am sitting in a bar but not a graduate physics classroom.

But you are sitting in parallel with a physics professor who covers high energy physics for graduate students.

Ok! I made a mistake. I should have asked you about your job before I ignited my motorcycle engine.

You do not have an option now or ‘relatively’ you can stay in a hotel if you want.

You told that the bill was on you and you paid it with your credit card. It was not plenty as I expected, a decent cheque for that kind of bar. We came down the stairs, walking down the ten floors gave a different high. It was beyond eleven in the night and the streets were almost empty, last commuters of the city were rushing towards their homes. We started walking back through a yellow bleeding road, yellow light of the streetlamps. I don’t remember anyone else in that road by that time, it was you and I along with the cold monsoon winds.

You asked me – do you believe in time?

Of course, I do.

Do you think time is absolute?

Of course, it is! It is the only absolute thing in this universe. Time determines everything.

You know what, there is this theoretical physicist who is living in the city of Marseille in southern France. You know how that person got into physics?

Who is that? What is the name of that person?

I am not sure if you may know him and don’t bother his name is not very much attractive – a medieval Italian masculine name.

How that person got into physics?

LSD.

LSD?!

Yes, LSD opened his path to unknown horizons.

You do drugs?

Don’t divert me from my question; do you know time is not absolute?

How it can be? No way, physicists may have 1000s of theories of your own. There is no need for us the common people to believe in all your stories.

It is not mine, but that’s what Einstein’s theory of relativity was all about. It is not only time but everything in this universe, You, I and everything.

I just looked up at the sky and asked even these stars?

Universe do not have up or down or right or left. Everything is universe including us. It is a stone-age myth to see the universe up the sky.

I shouted in the middle of the road – can you please stop it? Time is absolute and it is everything. Can you please stop that ‘relativity’ shit? It is annoying and I am not on LSD, unlike any fucking scientist. My words echoed in the deserted street.

You smiled and said – ok! Let us walk further, few more minutes to home.

** Home is not a great place as we think; it is nothing more than a place to sleep and shelve the rotten stuff. Too much of home is suffocating. More than building a home, humans build too many stories around it – unwanted emotions tagged along with walls built with bricks and cement. But home is worth no more than a hotel room.

I open and end my text messages with plague stories. I force myself to call or text people and check to make sure they are fine. I even deleted my social media, too much of plague posts may kill me even before the virus enters my body.**

Your house was filled with you, I and void. We were in silence; the ticking sound of the old British clock was sharper than it was – like the sound of piercing ammunition. I think the very sound of that clock acted as a piece of foreplay music. I didn’t change my clothes – a pale pink round cotton tee and a white striped black pant. You were in a red silk satin nightgown. In the moment of silence and the arousing ticking sound of the clock you threw over me and started kissing – it was a long kiss than usual.

We had three orgasms back to back (and I hope the orgasm was mutual) – they were one of the best orgasms until now. After the sex, you hugged me from my back and asked do you want to talk about ‘relative’?

I didn’t say anything, it was again immeasurable void around us. I turned back and kissed your stretch marks.

You said – Don’t romanticize it. It was just fucking painful. If someone says that childbirth is the greatest gift or pleasure of human existence, then ask them to do a self-doggy with a machete. The pleasure of childbirth is nothing but too much propaganda.

You don’t like your daughter?

Liking a human being is no way equivalent to hating labor pain. I like her as a company but not her birth pain or these stretch marks which reminds of that unbearable pain.

We got up from the sleep with a deep early morning kiss and it ended in another orgasm. You whispered in my ears - you are one of the best sexual experience I ever had, you are passionate about the human body. I think you may love human bodies a lot because you handle them gentle and equally wild. You reminded me of a person from my past, an iron sculpture artist.

I did not react anything, my face went empty without expressions. My head was on your abdomen and I was staring at the sky-blue colored ceiling. You asked me –

Do you hold anything in your throat? Do you want to puke out? If so, just puke the words out and go home fresh.


I said nothing because I was thinking of nothing. After the minutes of emptiness, I asked – can I carry your smell and this tree of life with me?

My smell? And this tattoo? Why so?

To store it in my ‘relative’ memory.

You laughed and told you will forget me when you find a better smell, even I will forget you when I find a better orgasm or this episode of my life might be settled in the deepest tissues of my brain. Nothing is absolute! Relationships are more vulnerable than our lives, so try not to carry anything with you. you winked and added 'maybe you can carry something 'relative'

After the light breakfast and a coffee, I started my journey back to my town.

I carried the memories of the tree of life tattoo and the smell of your woody cologne. Post which I never met anyone with a tree of life tattoo in the back of the neck or anyone with the fragrance of woody cologne. Both reminded as your reminiscence within me.

After a few years, I met you once in a conference in the same city, we waved an exciting smile and had a formal interaction before you disappeared into nothingness. 

** I am supposed to stop this story here. I don’t know what made me write this story through this writer. Like a ghost, I made her write it overnight. It is not going to serve any purpose (!) or give a pleasurable reading. It may help the writer’s colleagues from that ultra-elite saloon - yeah! maybe you can visit her, she is a wonderful hairstylist, she got her hairstyling skills better than writing, to gossip about her in husky voice – like an interesting one night of their peer. I just wanted to be alive and rational, I don’t want to run out of this house stripped and kill someone. I just wanted to see this street filled with humans. My greed for human faces made me remember you – not only you, but I have also recollected the memories of nearly forty-six human faces that got vanished from my life – angels and demons equally. Not sure if she can write all the forty-six stories. Writing is a boring task and equally ruthless and lethal – sometimes warrants your happiness and solitude and even your soul altogether.

I might wake up tomorrow with a cold or fever or a sore throat or I might wake up perfect. If you are alive even you may have to undergo any one of these, or you may be under ventilator already. The crawling claws of Hottentotta tamulus vanished from my brain already or they might stop for time being. I may get a chance to meet a future with human beings wandering in the streets - holding hands romancing, fighting, begging for a meal, stealing, beating, laughing, jogging or whatsoever it may be; I must get up tomorrow with the fear of being alive and the lust to stay alive.**