"There was a knock on the door"

There was a knock on the door.

I looked up from “Happy Days”—(which, incidentally, with all due respect, I was just not able to comprehend as a comedy. And all the religious blahblah some people were imposing on it! Reductive.)—it was not a knock on the door per se, for I was actually sitting in the train. Funny rapture from reality, sometimes reading seemed to do to you.

It was not a knock on the door per se. Rather, it was a little boy in his Russian beanie, possibly 4 years of age, knocking on the glass barrier near the door for some reason. As I was looking up he pressed his face against the glass, which added a cute touch of distortion to his chubby face. Our eyes met. Blue eyes. Very blue eyes.

How he resembles a golden fish, thought I, cracked up a little bit by his comic expression. I smiled at him. It was a rare friendly gesture for me in a train ride, during which I usually just read or write to avoid unnecessary eye contacts with other passengers.

For a moment he seemed to be shy seeing me smiling at him. He looked away, half concealing his face, but still turned back to me after a few seconds and smiled back. It was the most heart-melting smile I’ve seen for quite a while, for my entire life even. This is way too cute, thought I, and widened my smile to a grin. I could see from the reflection of the glass barrier the baggy thingy underneath my eyes. I only had those when I was really having a hearty smile.

There was this narrow space between the pole and the glass barrier. “Dada.” He squeezed his tiny hand through the narrow space. Tiny 4-year-old hand, wearing an emerald checked glove matching his Russian beanie.

Was he trying to make a handshake with me? What does he mean by dada? I was genuinely intrigued. However, unsure about what he meant to do, I did not venture to shake his hand. A handshake within such a narrow space between the glass and the pole did not translate to me as the most desirable idea at the moment. Plus, what if his parents, who possibly happened to have looked away when we were having our earlier connection, think that I was trying to cause harm to their precious boy?

I could not reciprocate other than, apologetically, giving him my most hearty smile.

flexibility

"You know you really should do some stretching before you swim."

She turned around and saw this young guy talking to her. Blond curly hair, freakishly white teeth, and a dazzling smile. He probably worked as a lifeguard in this private beach.

"But I am not going to swim. I will just bathe." She answered, slightly annoyed by the perfection this young man represented: health, youthfulness, and possibly posh upbringing. He might work as a lifeguard, but seriously, what did he know about life at all?

"I am sorry. But rules are rules. No room for flexibility." insisted the young man. He probably never violated a single rule in this 25-years-of-life, thought she, though still formed a pliant smile, "Alright then. Stretching it is."

She was willing to do anything to drive the nuisance away. After all, she did not come all the way to this fancy private beach just to be bugged.

She started undressing herself. It was a chilly autumn afternoon and she was somehow overdressed. Beanie, scarf, cardigan, her tunic, after a minute she was only left with her flowy petticoat. Her bony arms were exposed to the cold air. She flinched and started stretching.

The blond lifeguard, satisfied to see his demand met, walked away towards the direction of the bar.

She ceased stretching and walked into the sea. The water was freezing. She gradually lost her perception of temperature. Extreme heat or extreme coldness, it did not really matter to her.

She kept on walking and walking. The water level had come up and reached the brim of her nose. Oblivious to the impending discomfort, she closed her eyes.

She did not intend to swim. As a matter of fact, she never really learned how to swim.

She opened up her arms and embraced the water. It was a serene Thursday afternoon. The sea was silent. No waves at all.

Till human voice wakes us 
And we drown.


**
indebted to:

Kate Chopin, The Awakening
T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock