Speechless
Sreejith Sukumaran
For more than thirty years, I had been
a linguistic chameleon. Till my teens, I lived in Southeast Asia and spoke
fluent Malay. Then, displaced to India, I had to learn English, Malayalam and
Hindi, at the same time. That trauma left me barely literate. In the nomadic
years that followed, I picked up the vernacular out of necessity or love or
survival. Language aids communication, but it is more potent as a weapon for
power, to form clubs, to exclude. In business meetings or social groups, I
tried not to be offended when the language switched over to that of the
majority. I did my best to fit in with them, but I took the hint when the level
was notched up above my level of comprehension. I too have played that game,
that easy, sick game.
While being that chameleon, I realised
that I could forget a language just as easily as I could learn one. I began to
toy with the idea that language, and speech, must be irrelevant. Berlin seemed
ideal for this experiment, and I decided to live there, not as a tourist with a
return ticket, but as a resident. But for years, I refused to learn German.
At work, I had to talk but only rarely
since it is not a job requirement for a theoretical physicist. I could not
speak in the train, supermarket, street-side café or beer-garden; not in the
museum, cinema, opera house or library; not even in the police station or the
foreign office where I renewed my residence permit every year. It wasn’t
straightforward but there were nice people ready to understand what I wanted to
communicate.
My barber was one of those people. The
salon was a few blocks from my apartment, and in my third month I mustered
enough courage to go inside for a much-delayed haircut. The proprietor and
chief-friseur was a German, in her mid-thirties, with a friendly but strict
smile, buxom and rather unapproachable. She took measure of my hirsute mess and
assigned my unappealing case to her junior.
The junior-friseur was not a German and
more amenable to try improvised sign-lingo with me. I managed to register for
the combo of hair-wash and haircut. She stood behind me, and handled my head
gently. I felt her long fingers massaging my scalp. I kept my eyes closed
during the washing, shampooing, rinsing and drying. Once that was done, she
adjusted the chair. She stood close, in front of me. She held my hair in the
front, between her forefinger and thumb. Using her eyes and fingers, she
enquired about the required length. I indicated my preference with my little
finger. She expressed doubts about my fashion sense with a varying pout of her
lovely full lips. I gave up and signalled that she could do anything with my
head. She smiled.
I guessed that she was East-European,
in her early twenties. She was slim, athletic, one or two inches shorter than
me if I stood on my toes. On that first day, she wore a black t-shirt and
low-slung jeans. The t-shirt went well with her fair skin, her black eyes with
tinges of blue and specks of brown, and the Celtic butterfly tattoo on the
lower back.
The haircut went as well as the
hair-wash, in spirit if not in deed. She took her time, using just one pair of hairdressing
scissors and a comb. She used her fingers to measure and trim, to smooth and
set. She moved effortlessly from front to back, left to right. We looked at
each other once in a while, face to face or in the many mirrors, smiling shyly,
slyly but only when the chief-friseur was engaged elsewhere.
The hair-wash and haircut lasted twenty
minutes, every three weeks, on a Saturday morning. On one of those days, we
exchanged names like a talisman, or a memento. Hers is Delia.
We met outside that salon only twice.
The first time, around lunchtime, on a
winter Saturday afternoon, I met her at the Spar supermarket adjacent to my
apartment block. I was trying to count the exact change. The nice lady at the
counter was familiar with my dumb ways and waited patiently with a comfortable
grandmotherly smile. I gave her my usual apologetic look and my best smile and,
also directed the same at the person behind me in the queue. It took me a
moment or two for me to realise that it was Delia standing behind me. I paid my
bill, collected my bags of shopping and waited outside. When she came out and
saw me waiting, she smiled. I did not know what to do. Either the confusion in
my mind or the rumble in my tummy made me gesture to her about eating at
the Korean restaurant next to the supermarket. She nodded in agreement. We
shared soup, kimchi, noodles and bulgogi.
I have wondered since then about what
we would have talked about if we could have. I would have described my State;
green hills, lush plains carpeted by coconut trees, languid backwaters, sunny
beaches; boasted about excellent education and healthcare; Onam, wonderful
cuisine, communists and liquor; the secular culture and maybe, even my large
extended family.
She would have told me about the
Orthodox Church, the influence of Moslem culture, the great years of communism;
caviar, liquor, science and the great academies; ballet, the great masters of
art, authors, painters, composers; family gatherings at Christmas and Easter;
the land rich with natural resources, the entrepreneurs, the calm plains and
the beautiful lakes; and, holidays at the Black Sea or the Mediterranean.
I guess we would not have talked about
why we chose to be away from those places we called home.
We had a long lunch without a word or a
touch. When we looked at each other, we searched each other’s face and eyes.
The other senses tend to work better when one is speechless. We shared the
bill. Before we parted outside, she held my hand for a long while. I wanted to
hold her tight and never let go.
One hot summer Saturday, I found the
shop was being refurbished for some other business. I walked back home and did
not leave the apartment that weekend. I felt lost without my hairdresser. Or
maybe, I was just disappointed that I had to find a new one.
In mid-winter, I was on leave on a
Thursday. I had planned to visit a photography exhibition that afternoon and
attend a concert later that night. The exhibition was not exceptional and I got
out early. It was getting dark and I had couple of hours to kill before the
concert.
I walked to a cemetery. Usually, I went
around noon, when there were other visitors clearing leaves or checking the
stories etched on gravestones. On that day, the place was deserted. I saw my
friseur outside the shop, behind one of those handsome gravestones.
Delia looked weak and scared. Even in
the fading light, I could see that her lovely lips had a nasty cut, and her
left cheek was bruised. Dishabille and clearly distraught, she looked like
a discarded doll. She had a small backpack with her. She leaned towards me and
I held her. She did not smile or cry. She said weakly, ‘Hilfe, bitte.’
I knew those words. How unnecessary
those words were at that time. I knew that she needed help but of what kind I
was not sure other than to know that I was not the one she really needed. I
suggested the police but Delia seemed reluctant.
I decided to approach Susannah, a
friendly colleague who treated me to home-cooked feasts quite often. She
herself was an armchair liberal and quite useless with practical matters; but her
partner Gudrun who was involved with various human rights groups seemed to be
the right person for Delia.
Susannah and Gudrun lived about two
kilometres from Wannsee station, and I calculated that we could reach there in
about thirty minutes on the S-Bahn. I tried to call the couple from a public
phone booth but they didn’t answer. I checked my wallet. I did not have enough
for a taxi, even if I knew where to get one. We waited in the cemetery till it
was dark before leaving for the nearest station. We tried to be inconspicuous
but not even darkness can provide adequate cover for a dark-skinned guy walking
around with a dishevelled beautiful fair lady. In the train, we took the bogey
right behind the driver, supposedly the most secure one.
We reached Wannsee around six. We
walked fast, eager to reach the safety of my colleague’s house. The road was
deserted. We were a kilometre from the house when a car overtook us, and
stopped a few metres in front. Two men got out and approached us. One was
holding something that looked like a gun. I would have suggested running if I
thought it would be of any use. Anyway, Delia looked spent, defeated and she
just crumpled on to the sidewalk.
The two men walked casually towards me.
I remembered those movies in which the good guy puts up a jolly street-fight
for the damsel in distress. I was tougher and fitter then. I lasted half a
minute on my feet. One man moved quickly and I tried to follow him. The other
came behind me and immobilised me with a chokehold. The first hit me on the
solar plexus leaving me breathless. By reflex, I raised my hands, which were
guarding my groin. Predictably, the next kick was to the groin. I nearly lost
consciousness but I was still standing. After a few more well-aimed punches to
my sides, I slipped to the ground. They kicked me a few times as an
afterthought.
Those guys were not mere street fighters.
They did not leave any visible injury. From that foetal position, I watched one
of them drag Delia to the car. The other leaned towards me, roughly grabbed my
hair and whispered in my ear, ‘Talk … kill.’ I knew those words too.
I did talk to Gudrun and Susannah.
Through them, I talked to the police. But, the talking did little good; rarely
does. Maybe, those men were Delia’s husband and some relative, the police
suggested weakly. They hinted at the bitter truth too. There’s too much traffic
of that kind, Gudrun explained. Even today, I hope to see my friseur on some
street, amongst cheerleaders, in resorts, at air terminals, ports and railway
stations. But, we never see such cheap profitable cargo, do we? Those screams
are always in some alien lingo.
Sreejith Sukumaran’s short story Another Dull Day was shortlisted for the
Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2012. He posts his short stories on a personal
blog using the avatar ‘New Nonentities’. In earlier avatars, he tried to be
creative in theoretical physics and risk management in investment banks.
a story that slowly but surely draws the reader in, and while the theme for the competition is 'choice', this could equally well be a story about loneliness.
ReplyDeleteThis powerful short story delves into the complexities of language, communication, and human connection. It is a poignant exploration of the longing for understanding and the universal need for human connection, leaving a lasting impact and resonating with readers on a deeper level.
ReplyDeleteThis powerful short story delves into the complexities of language, communication, and human connection. It is a poignant exploration of the longing for understanding and the universal need for human connection, leaving a lasting impact and resonating with readers on a deeper level.
ReplyDelete