Erhebung
Torsa Ghosal
1.
Something
of his cut across the slivered light framing her office’s nearly-shut door.
Inside, she was following an eye-float that, after appearing against the
desktop screen about a month ago, had not left her alone. She was learning how
to live with a speck in sight just as she was learning other rituals in this
desert town. Open-air market on the dry streambed every Friday, seizing the
karst terrains of the nearby hills on Saturdays, and manoeuvring past the
environmental activists who blocked some part of the main road every day.
It
was Tuesday. She knew he would be here. But it was still three minutes until
her walk-in office hours. The eye-float, she now noticed, vanished whenever she
looked past the monitor to the picture of a woman peering through binoculars,
buoyant in a ballooning dress, that hung on the wall.
‘Professor,’
he knocked with the hands of the clock.
Head
turned on a locked shoulder, she looked like a surprised animal.
‘Am
I intruding?’ he asked. His off-white shirt had endured one too many washes but
his narrow blue eyes shone.
She
swivelled her chair. ‘No, tell me.’ What else could she say?
‘I
was very interested in that essay you mentioned in class about T S Eliot’s
borrowing the concept of ‘erhebung,’ elevation of the spirit over matter, from
Hegel via Schopenhauer. I found the essay in the library and even managed to
fit it into my last evening’s reading.’
He
paused to collect his tribute. A few words would do. He deserved at least that
for chasing her incidental remark to its rightful end when the other students
dragged themselves to Humanities classes. They were in the Polytech College to
train as intrepid explorers, who would set out in search of the black gold
before it was gone forever. They had as much patience for poetry as they had
for the protestors, who’d camped in the town to disrupt the construction of new
pipelines to the local oil refinery. Among this bunch of students, she must
know his one, unique mind.
But
she was distant, as though she were charting the contours of some other arid
plain.
Curled
up on the chair, he tucked his knees hard against his chest, behind the fall of
his flaxen beard. Longhaired guy, he’d called himself during the introductory
class, who lives for great poetry and German Idealism. What else is there to
life? Perhaps, food? And oil? He’d added, smiling. That last bit, he hoped,
would be his and her in-joke – a dig at the mercenaries around them.
‘Did
you say Eliot read Hegel?’
If
she had said it, she didn’t remember. Lecturing was like drawing patterns in
the air. There was a practiced choreography to it but there were also instants
when a pattern revealed itself to her and then, like the occasional ripple on
the surface of a still lake, it smoothed out, leaving no trace.
‘I
don’t care very much for Hegel, Schopenhauer, or anyone who recognizes solely
the reality of their own experience. That metaphysics has caused us to destroy
environments and poison other living things. Look at what we’re doing in this
town,’ she stopped, exasperated. What was she saying?
A
woman can’t tell her Schopenhauer from her Hegel, he
concluded.
‘How
do you think your classes are going?’ he asked. He knew it was her first
semester here, being a regular in the classes of the English professors. There
were three of them anyway, that’s before she joined, huddled in a corner of the
Humanities building. It was on him to save their sparsely attended brown bag
events with his studied insights.
She
shrugged. ‘Fine.’
Could
that be all she had to give him? Why was she holding herself back? Nervous,
little creature. He wouldn’t hurt her. She had to see that. ‘I could read out a
few lines from Hegel, Schopenhauer, or … well, anyone you like during our next
class meeting,’ he said extending his hand.
‘Why?’
she asked, dropping her eyes to the assignments stacked on her desk.
Ah,
she was simpler than he’d assumed, a pragmatist. He grinned. His reading
responses were in that stack. Next week, after extracting full points for his
outstanding work, he would drop by her office to ask what she thought was an
ideal response paper. She would then see him for what he was – a mind swimming
above the rest. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said today.
2.
Skype
pixelated, cutting off her husband every few moments. This nightly routine of
throwing pleasantries and concerns into a void that devoured half her words was
getting tiresome. ‘How’s everything’ couldn’t make it from one desert to
another, one in America and another in Kuwait, without glitches.
In
response, her husband would initially detail the successes of his team sent out
to optimize oil production from depleting wells. But it isn’t as if new
miracles transpired there every day. And he had little interest in the
apocalyptic fictions and documentaries she consumed. So, there was not much to
talk about save the eye-float. Was this the onset of glaucoma? It ran in her
family. Or was it what the activists were up in arms about – the side effects
of being exposed to the refinery’s toxic releases? Her husband assured her it
was neither; the refinery took necessary precautions that those troublemakers
knew nothing about. To divert her mind, he asked her to strip to her lingerie
and tease him. Don’t you have work, she asked, minding the time difference? He
continued to toss and turn on his bed.
So,
she told him about the student who came to her office with bogus questions.
She’d heard rumours that the guy rattled off her schedule to anyone who wished
to arrange a meeting with her. Was this ground for filing a harassment
complaint, she wondered aloud? You’re so cute, her husband said. Can’t you
handle a boy’s attention? Baby, you can’t whine about every little thing on the
job.
But
her husband was speaking with no consideration for how the student made her
feel – exposed as a prey – she argued. Her husband withdrew his advice. Why had
she shared the problem with him when she didn’t want his solution?
She
just wanted to talk.
Had
she made friends? Shouldn’t she? After all, they’d decided to settle in the
town long-term. It was still the beating heart of the oil industry and had jobs
for the both of them. How common is that?
With
all the grading, who had time for friends?
You
must make time; despite long shifts, he’d found company to enjoy Bollywood
movies.
What’s
novel about finding Bollywood aficionados in the Middle East or anywhere – aren’t
we all strapped to the seats of the same multiplex?
Well,
she needed friends and, he could do with a wife who wasn’t a cynical
hypochondriac.
But
she rejected his interventions, and wounded, this time her husband hung up.
Her
husband’s hardship allowance for the current posting didn’t cover the energy
expended in these everyday battles. But all through grad school in the US, he
and she had looked forward to a plush house in the suburbs with a private pool
and Jacuzzi – that was their American dream – and since her literature degree
wouldn’t secure the down payment, he, the engineer of the family, had taken the
fall.
3.
The
perk of having a dingy corner office on the fourth floor was that she had the
largest window. The painted woman on the wall could detect sweatshirts on bikes
crossing the dry streambed through her binoculars at all hours.
The
longhaired guy had walked up to the professor when she was switching off the
projector this morning. The classroom had emptied by then. He had book
recommendations for her. She should take advantage of the weekly book sale at
the library. Did she come to campus on Thursdays and Fridays? If not, he could
buy her books, he’d said, leaning so slightly forward that only someone
watching for it would see it.
The
nicotine on his breath reached hers. Her stomach contracted. She wanted to slap
him across the face, but her job depended on student evaluations. And he would
rate her well. So, she’d left saying, ‘Thanks for bringing the sale to my
attention.’ But now she was mad at herself for it. He had sent a long follow-up
email listing the books she should read to better engage with Hegel.
Shouldn’t
she report his conduct? But what had he done? Recommended some books to a
professor. Was her ego so fragile? Her husband was right, she was being antsy
for nothing. But what about those gestures, the leaning forward, the extending
of hand? Was she reading too much into some innocuous moments? Couldn’t she
tackle a boy’s attention and recommendations?
In
response to his rambling message, she typed, ‘Your enthusiasm about my course
is good but office visits or emails to me, your professor, ought to be prompted
by a purpose such as a pressing doubt about an assignment or a comprehension
question.’
Hitting
send, she felt lighter. She had bought time. This would deter him—he couldn’t
possibly admit to not understanding instructions or the simple course
materials.
The
sky was red that evening for an imminent meteor shower. Walking on the levee
toward her apartment, between yuccas and ash junipers, an unaffected happiness
took hold of her. Perhaps it had to do with shutting down the student or the
fact that her husband was coming on a 15-day vacation this weekend. They had
been at each other’s throats the past few months. But at this moment, when she
could see a full moon drift in the stream that was not even there, anything was
possible—including complete reconciliation.
Against
the red sky, her eye-float appeared, disappeared. Perhaps it was an optical
illusion, like her husband was telling her, and had nothing to do with her
unwitting contact with the purple tap water. She didn’t drink from the tap, no
one in the town did, but surely, the lawn sprinklers didn’t use bottled water.
She
was at it again, thinking the worst on a night of celestial stunts. She had to
stop binging on those documentaries where some talking head pronounced the
unimaginable havoc the oil industry wreaks. You live only once, she recalled
the jingle of a cola ad. Besides, as her husband had pointed out, the refinery
paid millions of dollars in reparation for any damages. When his overseas
assignment was done her husband would join this station. Meanwhile, if she went
blind, perhaps they would throw in an extra something, in the way of atonement,
for an employee’s wife.
On
the main road adjacent to the levee, activists were sloganeering as usual. She
passed them. Did it matter whether there would be this red sky or a harvest
moon when she could no longer see them?
‘Professor.’
A voice rang in the night.
Stunned,
she thought she gave out a cry, but no one seemed to have heard her. In the
distance, an elderly couple was taking a walk, and the protestors were drowning
in their own chants.
The
longhaired guy was coming at her. Was he hiding among the protestors? Or had he
followed every move of her body, taut in leggings and barely contained in a
blazer? His eyes had the glint of a cat’s. There was nowhere she could
hide.
‘I
saw your email,’ he said, closing in. ‘All semester I’ve demanded well-rounded
knowledge of you and in return offered you something of myself. Where is the
harm in that?’ he asked in a cool, singsong voice, scratching his groin.
She
felt like she was being doused with boiling water. It took a lot to pull
herself together and string a few words. ‘This is not the place—’
‘Where
then?’
Not
here, not now, she said in a breath and resumed walking, faster than ever. In
no time she had overtaken the elderly couple, left behind her apartment, the
strip malls, the massive refinery. It was a few hours before she turned to see
he wasn’t following her.
4.
She
called in sick the next day, the day after, and the day after that, fulfilling
her teaching obligations through video lectures. She had also drafted multiple
emails addressed to the department’s Chair about the student. She would send
the note once she was certain her language wasn’t giving her terror away. She
wouldn’t play a hysteric brown woman.
In
all this, there was her husband’s trip to look forward to, he would be here,
and he could even escort her to campus for a few days. That would dissuade
anyone from following her. She’d been taught, men frightened away men.
From
her apartment’s terrace, she could see the refinery’s columns, standing tall
behind the pinyon pines. She stood there naming the forms taken by the nebulous
smoke that the columns breathed out. Perhaps her husband could just stay here.
It might take them longer to get the house of their dreams without the hardship
allowance and tax cuts but between his income and hers, they could get
something decent for the time being.
A
biker had stopped abruptly to look in the direction of her apartment. For a
moment, breathing was impossible. But the biker adjusted his helmet and was
soon on his way. Why was she forever in a haze?
It
was then that the phone call came. A small accident had occurred at the rig off
Kuwait’s southern shore. While the matter was being looked into no employee of
the company whether on land or offshore could abandon post.
5.
Emails
fail at tone. So, she’d decided to see her department’s Chair in person. In any
case, it was time she returned to campus. Enough of the video lectures – students
could rise in rebellion. They hadn’t signed up for an online
course.
When
she entered her office, she smelled rotting sardines and it made her sick. The
trash hadn’t been collected in her absence. She put the bin outside the office,
opened the window to let fresh air in, and finally set down to rehearse what
she would say when the Chair came for the meeting.
She
had practiced tone and delivery a few times when the door was knocked. Take a
deep breath and clearly communicate that the student has been disrespectful;
then, use his emails as evidence – this was the hard part, would require
interpreting and close reading – and end by saying she might have been stalked.
Everything had to be put with a light touch but not light enough to be laughed
away. A delicate balance. She opened the door. It was the student.
‘Where
were you?’ he asked. His beard had been trimmed, and not a shirt, but a dark
kurta clothed his pale, skinny frame. He glanced at the trash bin, ‘that gave
you away.’
‘It
isn’t my office hours,’ she protested, weakly, but he pushed the door. She
would yell like a wild animal if she found her voice. But all she could do was
walk backward as he claimed more and more space. Then it struck her, this
barging in, this was misconduct, as clear as day. The Chair would be here any
minute and he would see. There was relief in her terror now. She would be
believed.
And
it was a clear day too. So, when she reached the window she knew the day could
take her a long way, away. Eyes set on the door – was the Chair here? – she
pushed herself up, sideways. There stood the student, extending the hand she
wouldn’t take.
She’d
thought she would hit the ground, but pumped up and up, she rose. Recovering
her spotless eyesight, she now saw herself floating over the town in a ballooning
dress. The people, the buildings, even the refinery’s tall columns turned to
dust in a growing desert. What a miracle this was, she would tell her husband.
***
Torsa Ghosal is the author of the novel, Open Couplets, Yoda Press,
India, 2017. She is also the Associate Editor of the South Asian literary
magazine, Papercuts. Her fiction, poetry, and essays can be found in Aaduna,
Unsplendid, Papercuts, Himal Southasian, The Hindu
Blink, Muse India and elsewhere. She currently researches and
teaches contemporary literature at California State University, Sacramento.
