Life's Ponderables

Oops… he saw from the distance the outer door to the Wohnheim starting to close. One of those blondes had just opened the door and was stepping out at this time of night on a Wednesday night when nothing conclusive really happened among the hostelled youth section of students in the Uni campus. Quickly weighing the options between completing the cigarette over the next 50 meters and not having to dig into the trouser pocket for the key to open the locked front door, he decided in favour of the latter and consequently flicked the three-quarters of his Luckies. Caught between the urge to leave it die a natural death in a couple of minutes and his natural sense of logic to reach for it and stub it down, he unconsciously stretched his right leg an extra foot, landed clumsily and squashed the cigarette, deftly adjusted his body reach to cover the last 50 metres before the door fully closed. He lunged in the dim-light night and covered two steps at a time – 8 of them in all, just about caught hold of the door-jamb, held it towards himself. After having ensured the door was open 2 centimeters, he slowly ever slowly let it go to the extent that it was closed but not locked. Most students who came out to dump their garbage bags into the variety of huge containers outside did this. The mechanics of laziness of the youth these days is a fascinating subject in itself for a full research paper. Canon was no pioneer in this department. After all, when in Rome be a Roman. And he did… now. Also, his confidence in himself to handle all these foreign lock systems and flash systems and swipe systems was pretty germane at the moment, having been around in this part of the world just for a month and half now. It still drizzled at times as it did tonight. Mostly the sky was grey and occasional snow did show up. Chill factor sure was getting to the bones, necessitating layers of clothes for a creature of tropics. And strangely enough for this part of the country the sun paid visits in little bouts of peek through the grey skies to vanish before you could concentrate enough on the pools of rays through a tad open windows. But the Sun still did make guest appearances, to indicate this was his season of cameos before he permanently went to hibernate at Kringledom until post-Easter wake-up call. However, what was comforting at this hour of ungodly darkness in this part of the world are the rattle of streetcars once every 15 minutes; comforting… to say the least, in an environment where silence was the son of the soil and raised decibels belonged only to the squeals that emerged from the throats of kidding couples of boys and girls who were eternally chasing each other’s hormonic surge.

Canon caught up his laboured breath to normal rate, fished a fresh cigarette, lit it… smoked it deep and nice. Meanwhile the girl who just left - dressed unnecessarily too much, given the eventuality that beckoned when someone left the comfort of their room to go elsewhere during midweek, when no one haunted pubs so late in the evening or visited the on-campus discotheque where anyway nothing happened except on weekends - had almost turned the bend and he heard only the click of her heels on the cobbled stone roads cleft by three pairs of streetcar tracks criss-crossing each other at various coordinates of the road within 30 meters of each criss-crossing. Two figures were crossing the road from one side, carefully stepping across the lines. As they passed him by, negotiating the turnstile that existed God knows why (when there were huge metal gates that were as wide open as the goal post without a goalie), they looked up. One of them turned a few steps after passing him, raised his left and waved, flashing brilliant pearl white row between black as this murky night’s dark lips. The Ethiopian he had met on his way up to the Movie Club. “Night!”

Canon stared at his cigarette, looked back, waved a reciprocal “Night” and turned in time to hear footsteps coming down from inside. Someone walking down the carpeted floor towards the inside door of the hostel. There usually were two doors. Both requiring turn of keys normally. About 5 foot distance between both, probably craftily created to accommodate a little space to the left or right where normally slot machines for canned Coke, Sprite, Fanta or Sparkling Wasser was installed. It usually contained also a slot for beer… at the hostels. And the beer usually would be some not so popular Dutch stuff. But in the middle of the night when you’re stuck to the hostel and don’t feel like going out, it just came handy, although a better alternative would be to drink vinegar or anything your food cupboard had to offer, like Tom Hanks did in an episode of Family Ties way before he became a star. Yes, vinegar tasted better sometimes than these nondescript Dutch beer. Or sometimes instead of a machine, piles of local free mailers and papers were dumped.

Finally throwing his cigarette away, Canon turned, opened the out door, and stepped in to the comforting confines between the two doors. On the right were mailboxes. Sometimes full, sometimes not. All the same, there were always a few envelopes that had fallen down, being hurriedly thrown by students who had rummaged through the mass to see if they had any for them. They usually did not bother to put them back in the respective post-box holes.

He had no need to browse through those piles of unattended envelopes. He had just spoken home using one of those Phone cards. It was indeed a technological marvel how a little plastic, slightly a size bigger than a visiting card, could connect some University pay phone booth to Thiruvezhundur, a town stuck between mountains of haystacks on the roadsides and made popular only by its propensity for Tourist cars that plied pilgrims who travelled to cover a multitude of Vaishnavite temples in and around for about 30 kilometers. Amused at this thought, he just anyway spent a cursory 10 seconds to skim through the names on those envelopes practically anonymous inspite of the plethora of names each one carried. “Entschuldigung,” he moved aside to let the person belonging to the voice without so much as looking up. Had he looked up, he would have noticed the two eyes trying to fathom his presence hereabouts. They belonged to the spacious blonde of the Gauloises fame he had encountered a while back, back at the Uni lecture complex. There was an expression that mixed something of a bit of apprehension, a bit of curiosity towards the unknown, a bit of fascination towards the unacquainted, a bit of superiority of the skin and a sense of nativity. Without paying attention so much as to who replaced him at the mail pile, he pushed the inside door, nonchalantly turned left, crossed the floor, laboured the flight of stairs, mind occupied by the recent call back home. He did not pause to think until he slid his rucksack to the floor and dumped himself on to his bunk bed. Sitting with both hands sinking into the soft bed, he slid further to lay down with legs lolling out. Looked up at the bunk above his bed below and stared at it thoughtlessly for a few minutes. Where was life headed? Why am I here? Alone… wouldn’t say lonely… instead of chasing easier dreams in the land across the Atlantic where back home was Edison, onsite was San Jose and offshore was Bangalore or Hyderabad. He thought of his cousin at Nottingham and another at Alberta, Canada. Although physically much farther away from their respective hometowns, they were psychologically much nearer and connected and communicated comparatively inexpensively. Is this diaspora or mental diahrrea? Bleeding thoughts that choked his resolve with sentimentality that took a great resolve to shoe away. And the constant to-ing and fro-ing to the Ausländerbehörde to convince them that he was not here to emigrate like those tons of Arabs and Africans who sneaked in to the country and sought refuge or asylum and lived in cantonments of ghettos that were no different from a Jo’burg Shanty Town but for the multi-storeyed buildings with barbed wires, broken window panes, communal baths whose ceilings oozed stalactites courtesy the baths from the floors above; that he was here on purpose of education and for God’s fricking sake intended to get the hell out of here even if he were to be presented with the prospect of marrying the richest Teutonic separated female with schlange Beine, blaue Augen and who was zartlich und sanft inside and outside. He was not in accordance with the lay of the land from day one. Or perhaps the land was not appropriate for his liking.

In this frame of mind, he heaved himself towards the refrigerator that was purring in a corner. He had left it switched on without even realising, as he left that evening to watch The Holy Grail out of sheer boredom. Opening it, he pulled a .5 litre tall can of beer, indexed the little metal knob, felt than noticed the little spurt of froth that tinged his thumb, put it to his lips and felt the gentle bitter ecstasy that spread through his tongue towards the food passage as the liquid eased itself inside. Now he felt a bit better.

The Fortnightly Movie Club

“Aw… the fortnightly movie club!”
“And what’s showing?”
“Monty Python and the Holy Grail”
“Seen it… but don’t mind again. Lemme try. Depends on how soon I get on to a terminal. Have a few official mails to be processed.”

“All right. Cross my thumbs then,” she said, with a smile that was very infectious and alluring you knew that hasn’t changed from childhood. There are certain types of smile that smacked of attitude, though you need to be a good reader of the types of creases that formed around the mouth area; then there are those that beckon you only to make you realise that you mis-read it; and then there are those that you think are meaningful only to realise the face that contained the head that issued it actually meant nothing. This was not a naïve one, neither meaningful one, nor neutral. It was… friendly. No agendas, no hidden messages. And Canon felt a stab of jealousy at her heart, not at the man who had the woman. That he was yet to feel in or against anyone.

“Awright, later then…” he said looking at his watch as Dirk muttered a “Ciao”, walking away with the tray containing the plate and tissue and other degradables to depositing rack.

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“Some rain,” said the blonde boy – good-looking by any standards, just around 6 feet, thin firm pink smiling lips, blue eyes, wide shoulders that was genetic than gymmed - though no doubt some shaping had gone into it; but who doesn’t lift a little weight or swam a bit or played soccer here! He was slanting his face to his left shoulder to ease the attempts of his shoulder-high, slim, flowing red-head girl with handful of assets hidden inside a thick overcoat snug enough to keep warm from the chill of 8.15 p.m greying sky that had been drizzling the past hour non-stop. She was trying to nibble his left ear out of sheer boredom. They have been holding hands – her right and his right holding high the umbrella and clasped in each other’s grip – while his left girdled her waist and came up to vanish inside the unbuttoned coat around the hip. The movement inside the right waist-level showed he was keeping her warm with amorous caresses that signified nothing specific. At least it would not specify anything for a while, as long as the rain continued to frustrate their walk-away!

“If you call this rain, what would you call what we have back home!” remarked Canon as he stepped out of the glass doors to just outside, under the one foot awning that helped them seek temporary refuge from the drizzle. Actually it was constant and boring than pouring, hence it was irritating. And it made the muddy macadam that was so dry and firm that afternoon soggy now. It’s not a happy feeling to feel your shoes gum to the mud once every ten steps, and if you are not careful, you probably are going to soil the edges of your trousers. And there is always the likelihood of a trashed beer-can tripping you! So, the couple were waiting. Next to them, about four feet away from them, to the right of the boy, was a lonely, plump blonde who after desperate attempts to club her hands in a cup to blow some hot air from her mouth into the cache made by the cupping, to keep herself warm, gave it up, turned to where the wall met the hinges of the glass door, shielding away from the gentle gust that accompanied the drizzle, took a half-crushed pack of Gauloises, pulled one and lit it, shielding the lighter. Replacing the cigarette pack and lighter into her left trouser pocket, removed the stick from her mouth with her gauche hand, moved the hair falling on the right eye with a deft flick of right hand, blew a plume of rich French smoke into the German rain. And gave a side-long furtive glance at Canon standing at the far end of the slim girl.

Uninvited comments in these parts from strangers new to these parts! Those are the sentiments hereabouts where people considered you not so firm or impolite if you didn’t look into people’s eyes or did not hold gaze when conversing… where people considered it impolite and rude if you continued to gaze into the eyes of strangers who are on-coming passers-by, for more than the moment of instant unintended contact on the streets. But the couple didn’t mind. These are changing times. Young ones and teens and adolescents are bearing out a different outlook. Smiled easily and with warmth, offered you cigarette if you lent them lighter as they casually accosted you on the street for “feuer”. Didn’t mind crossing tables over at a pub for a small, quick, curious stab at gleaning new info from new people who are total strangers right from their skins to their languages! The plump girl however was probably of a different breed, not totally comfortable at this sudden openness happening. So she gazed strangely, as she licked her upper lip to feel the sting of the nicotine.

“Where you from?,” asked the boy, with a slightly different accent that Canon was to distinguish four months later as something specific to the region of Saarland, across the country. Students came to universities and colleges to study, right across the land. No holds barred. And that was really exciting. Fellowmen and women within the country were confronted with an explosion of cultural exchanges among themselves. And they had believed – since they hadn’t encountered until now – that it was merely dialectical as well as proportional variations (in culinary and other related practises) lingually and soci0-culturally. Now it seemed that there is a whole world of difference between two people who lived in two different towns that are merely three or four hours drive apart! One thing never varied: the way a German opening up to English would pronounce the ‘a’, with a little twang of ‘e’ to it. So nasal and funny but with a sweet feel to it.

“Indien”.

“Ah!, it pours when it rains there, right? Have heard of it,” said the boy.

“Yes, raincoats are no use. Tschüss…” Canon started braving the drizzle that had now almost thinned out to droplets you thought you imagined were there. As he trundled away, swerving a little slush of shiny grey, he could hear the plump blonde unlocking the chain that had tethered her cycle to the cycle rest vertically impaled to the ground. Rows of them where you locked your cycles routinely. Now he climbed a little mound to reach the tarmac, pausing to check the time. Time to catch the pay-phones to call back home.

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