Storython: Running Blind 2

[To know what this is all about check Ravages's blog.]

Continued from Part 1:
That is unusual. Who is knocking on my door at this hour? I struggled to my feet and made my way to the door, tapping the floor with my stick. I don�t have to do it but habits die hard you see.
I stood near the door and said �Who is this?�
After a few seconds, I heard shuffling of feet. Silence. And an adolescent voice boomed from behind the door.
�You blind dog!� The voice swore in Tamil (Kuruttu Naaye!) �The next time you act high and mighty, I will take your walking stick and shove it up your miserable butt and you can�t even scream because the stick would have emerged out of your mouth. Otha Thevidiyaa payya! �
I laughed out loud and said �You have a fertile imagination.� It must be the college kid living in the ground floor.
He must have kicked the door hard, for it screamed out and hummed for a few seconds and the gratuitous, stainless steel vessels in my kitchen let out a shrill, harmonic echo.
I heard another muffled voice. Someone was pleading with the hothead. Silence reigned.
I tapped my way back to the chair by the window. I settled down and lit another cigarette. You might not have encountered too many blind smokers I guess. If not for my musician acquaintances, I�d have never discovered the joy of smoking in my life. I played guitar and made some sort of reputation playing in a popular light music band. I played occasionally in the studios, for movies, commercials, and TV shows. The money was good and allowed me to repay the home loan and still maintain a comfortable life, if I call it one that is. I even employed Thangavel, my errand boy who lived a couple of streets away. He is a self-taught percussionist and for some inexplicable reason, he thought that I was his ticket to stardom. I paid him five hundred rupees a month: to buy my cigarettes, food, and stuff. He is my only friend, whose sympathy did not give me ulcers.

There was distinct chill in the wind that had rain written all over it. I wouldn�t mind some rain. I loved the fragrance of it all; when the first raindrops made love to earth and the orgasms screamed through a feral fragrance of moist earth and invaded my senses.
I started my wait for the rain.

Back in the blind school where I spent my childhood, Mr. Easter had spotted my talent for the guitar. I instinctively took to it, don�t ask why or how. Mr. Easter, our music teacher, took special interest in me. Before long I was playing in concerts by blind people, for blind people. And, soon enough, some light music band whose name I don�t recall, offered me a chance to play in one of their shows. I was more of a novelty than a musician for them but the crowd loved it. Some magazine wrote about it. And here I am.

Somehow, through it all, I never made any real friends. I did not want to hang out in blind people associations nor did I want to marry a blind girl in a mass marriage ceremony in front of a politician who did not give a damn.

As for the normal people, well, they are funny. People expected me to advertise and acknowledge my infirmity, every time they helped me. They wanted me to accept that I was a burden on their civilized shoulders, when I was not one. And, each time I refused someone�s offer to help me, I knew that I had accumulated yet another pint of hate. They wanted to help me not because they cared. It was an opportunity for them to reassert their superiority. And, I always denied them of the opportunity. Not because I disliked them, but because I believe, it is the equivalent of beating up your wife when your boss took you to task. I don�t want to be your wife sir. No, thanks.

Far away, the Electric train barked grudgingly as it gathered speed. The wind picked up and I could hear it whistle through the Coconut trees on street. And an unsettling quiet settled in. The radio died on me. The kids on the street screamed with joy. Power cut. I don�t know why kids loved it when the power took a vacation. The rain made an abrupt yet overwhelming start. It poured down without an ornate preamble as if someone tilted a giant bucket in the heavens. I knew that it was going to rain all night, for I couldn�t hear the wind anymore. Before I realized it, my face was wet. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I realized then that my matchbox was on the windowsill. It was completely wet.
I staggered to my feet and tapped my way to the kitchen. I kicked something on my way, must have been a cardboard box. I checked the shelf first and then the space below the gas stove. Forget a matchbox, I couldn�t even find the gas lighter. I didn�t know if I had one, for I never use the kitchen. Thangavel sometimes made tea for me and that�s about it. I realized that I had to spend the night without smoking. I was distraught by the fact that such a silly thing could upset one�s life so much. I walked back to my chair and shut the windows. I drowned in the chair. The power-cut seemed like it�d last the whole night. This was the third time in as many months that this was happening to me. I�d lose the matchbox or I�d run out of sticks and I had to spend the night without smoking.

After an hour that seemed like ages, I pulled out a soggy cigarette and stuck it in my mouth. The wall clock was enjoying its share of the floor and limelight and tick-tocked away gleefully. With no competition to counter the noise, it sounded eerie. Somewhere someone dragged furniture and it made that awful noise like a giant chalk piece scratching on a giant blackboard. I don�t know why I was so desperate. Probably it was that college kid that abused me. Probably I had it with people thinking that they could get away with murder just because I was blind. I don�t know. I wanted to smoke. So I decided to step out. I�d probably walk to that small shop or ask one of my neighbors for a matchbox. I actually relished the idea of this little misadventure. I knew that my neighbors hated me. I wasn�t too sure if that shop would be open now, with the rain and the power-cut. Yet, I wanted to do it.

I managed to step out of my apartment and lock the door. The floor was wet. The landing was devoid of any human activity, obviously. I couldn�t feel any light too. I walked towards the staircase. The lift rarely worked and during a powercut it was out of the question. I wanted to hold something and I moved towards the ledge. I held its edge and walked towards the staircase. The ledge wasn�t too tall. It was slightly above my waist. I had to be careful. The ledge separated me from the small gap between our block and the next. Before I reached the staircase, I stepped into something furry and soft. I should have worn my shoes! And it jumped up and let out an ugly shriek. Must be a Bandicoot. But it freaked me out so much that I started jumping around, frantically trying to get it off my leg and slipped over the ledge.
I fell in one smooth motion. My stick went first. My glasses next. I was all curled up and I was struggling through the small gap. The walls scratched my back, legs, arms, and my face as I fell through the floors. I heard my stick hit the ground. And I fell on my back.

When I came around, I realized that I must have broken my back. I couldn�t move my lower torso. I fainted again. When I came around, I realized that something was crawling up my leg. It must be a Bandicoot. Probably the same one that assaulted me in the landing.

[Anand, all yours. [To know what this is all about check Ravages's blog.]

Tags: Story-thon, Fiction, Story-thon Ravages, Story-thon Suman

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