“It should
finish somewhere, nahin?” he asked himself, not quite aware that she was
standing not very many feet behind him. The lone window seemed resolute to pour
as much light as should be possible into that dark and deprived room, but those
four squares of soft sunlight that could have been are stopped short at the
panes covered in patches of black linen. He was scribbling furiously at the
corner of one wall, numbers that didn’t seem confined to pattern or purpose.
“It should.”
“But what if it
doesn’t finish here? You know like in this room, in this life. What if it needs
more space to be written on, what if it needs more time to be written in?” she
asked him, as she opened a small cupboard near the door, pulling out two
smallish glasses and a decanter that looked like it had been around for a lot
longer than either of them. He watched her pour the liquid amber in the two
glasses generously. “Though what it really needs, I think, is more people to be
written by.”
“Thank you.” he
said as she handed him one of the glasses. They sipped in silence, staring at
that abomination of a wall before them. To her, the numbers were a formidable
opponent, demanding from him the time that was rightfully only hers. To him,
though he couldn’t tell yet, the numbers were a formidable opponent as well,
demanding a sense of pattern and a sense of purpose that he couldn’t quite put
down into words. “Let’s get another marker, we still have three more walls.”
“I’ll start from
this end, see? You start from your usual top-left corner. We’ll run into each
other somewhere near the middle, move down by a bit, and then start writing
back towards the edges.” she suggested, but he was already atop the chair,
starting with the first scribble in his own corner. There was this muted
tension churning in the air around him, and she could almost imagine those
numbers were being pulled right out from there. “Oh, but also, why exactly are
we doing this?”
“Because it
should finish somewhere.” he muttered, and then stopped writing, the marker’s
tip at the wall in silent introspection, and the room suddenly a little more
silent than usually. She could tell her question had been received, and that a
suitable response was being processed as well. But what worried her was how the
marker’s tip never strayed from that point on the wall right there. “These
numbers, they start at a definite point. So why can’t they end somewhere as
well, see?”
“No, I am afraid
I don’t. But don’t let that bother you. We’ll finish these walls, we’ll cover every
last darned inch-squared. Then we’ll get very drunk, plastered even. And then,
before either of us has to start slurring, you can tell me about the numbers.”
he smiled a weak smile, and the marker was writing even before he had fully
turned away to face the wall. She sighed softly, and decided she would need
another drink before she started. “Would you like some liquid motivation too?”
“22 over 7.” he
said, and kept looking at her while she tinkered with the glasses and the
decanter at the other end of the room. The room around her was dark and stuffy,
and two walls covered in bright green scribbles adding very little to the
already challenged décor. The numbers did start at a very definite point, at a
very specific digit. 3. This was followed by a monumental fullstop, and from there,
numbers that didn’t seem confined to pattern or purpose. “Make it a double
please.”
By:
Sarthak Prakash
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