DECAY

By S. M. Shahrukh · Issue 01, 2025

A drop of water falls on his cheek and runs down like a teardrop. He looks at the rain falling but he is yet to reach the edge of the verandah! He looks up and sees seven drops of water on the ceiling, it has a wet patch, the lemon green surface has a dark island. Lucky seven, he thinks. The drops are getting ready to fall, getting heavier and elongated before hitting the floor or anything on the path of their destiny; he moves, he won’t allow another drop to hit his person. He notices the puddle on the floor, he was standing on it a second back but never realized. Will the puddle grow and grow and make everything on the verandah damp? He doesn’t know, nobody tells him.

The rain, after a hot spell of days, fails to cheer him up; he loves rain. Rain that soaks the clothes of women on the street, making the ugly look beautiful, making the shy women brave, they have no choice. He comes to the mirror in his room and looks at his face. The wriggly snakelike trail of the water drop is clearly marked on his face, the skin tone on the line looks greenish. Will that green line gradually cover his face? His whole body? His soul? He doesn’t know the answer.

He looks at the wall opposite the mirror. Water had seeped into it a long time back, it’s still pealing after all these months. The ugly face of the wall has become a grotesque art work. Natural or manmade? He hasn’t a clue.

He goes back to the verandah, avoiding the puddle and the falling drops, but a drop hits him on his bald pate. Did the drop make a splash? He doesn’t care.

He stands at the fourth floor verandah, the gust sweeps his face with a moist touch, he wants to get drenched, he wants the cleansing rain to wash all the green away. He looks at the street. A woman rushes along in the downpour needing a refuge, her red saree is blackish from dampness, she looks swathed in blood. He looks down at the pavement. He makes out a mangy dog lying on a brick dump, drenched to its last remaining fur, lying with apparent content, it seems - the eternal itch is not there, the mange has stopped, both, only for a while. How to get all wet like the dog, he thinks. He has to go to the street really fast, in a split second. He puts a foot on the railing bar and hoists himself up.

Dhaka, 5th August 2014.