FICTION
Face-Blind Town
Strangeness Around
The cup of steaming hot tea entered his throat, and he felt relaxed, for the first time that day. He took out a few coins from his dust-infested money bag and handed it over to the tea-stall owner, someone he should have known, yet he couldn’t. He could see that he wore white pants and a discolored torn, maroon t-shirt, his shrunken skin, displaying map-like veins, but as soon as he tried looking at his face, it was hazy, he couldn’t see his face. Yes, that scene scared him, but somehow he managed to get out of that little stall, walking on to the insides of the town, his town.
He crushed the earthen teacup, jumping over it a couple of times, seeing it break into infinitesimally small pieces, and feeling a sense of relaxation getting built inside him. He looked around, it was still early morning as if the shiny grass tips were crying to the morning sky, sharing its grief about the dewdrop that has evaporated, while the morning sky reciprocated saying that it too has lost all the twinkling stars.
It is not that the tea-stall owner was the first person whose face was hazy, just like a thick layer of fog gobbling up the snow-clad mountain ranges. The passengers in the bus, by which he journeyed to this quaint little town, were the same too. Seemingly strange at first, his brain somehow managed to believe the fact that, let their face look hazy, I want to revisit my city, after so many years. But a tingling consciousness kept nagging him, why does everyone look like that, today? Why is it specifically the face, and not the whole body? Did he land in a different realm? But this is his town, where he grew up, the tea stall, was the same stall, where the owner handed them freshly baked cakes during holidays. What happened to him?
He knew he had to at least ask someone, but again that may release bouts of laughter from everyone. Did some curse get conjured all over the town? Or is it him? No, that cannot be the case. As far as he remembers, he had a proper meal last night that was devoid of anything to make his brain play tricks. He knew he wanted to search for a mirror and see himself, that could be the clue.
For a few moments, he decided to ignore the strangeness around him, and enjoy the place. Everything had changed every single thing. And why won’t it? It has been twenty long years since he left the place. He made some quick calculations on places he would love to visit.
One, walk by his own home, which probably would have been consumed by the tentacles of crawling trees. Two, the small patch near the river where he used to sit and watch the water flow by. Three, to have his favourite curry from his favourite food shop if it still exists. Four, to walk the length and breadth of the town, which he is already doing. And Five, see her, yes, if she’s still here.
The river, its low murmur pierced his eardrums. It was invisible but somehow, made sure to make him feel its presence nearby. He walked towards it, searching for that sweet spot, where so many evenings were spent, reminiscing, thinking, and writing. Ignoring the strange looks that some animal-turned-people gave him, he managed to find himself sitting on that spot, the sound of the river and the river itself showing it all to him. Welcoming him with open arms, asking him to jump in, and let it caress him, let each drop nourish him, head to toe. The soft rustle of leaves because of the meandering winds, punctuated by the song of the river, almost put him to a slow slumber, his mind going back to those days, when friends, so many of them spent most of their time, here, fishing, chit-chatting and swimming. Those were the days. But he had no time for nostalgia, a couple of more places to cover. He got up.
The town is a small one, a single muddy road cutting through the town, the same way a knife cuts through a cake. He kept his head down, to not feel that horrendous feeling of seeing faceless people all through the town. But the child inside him wanted to see through those shops, those green fields, houses that changed over course of time. Do any of his friends still reside in any of those little houses made of mud and brick? Or have they migrated to places unknown? How he wished he stayed in contact with all of them. He thought he’ll visit someone some other day, because it is already noon, and he had two more important places to visit.
Overwhelming emotions engulfed all his senses, as he saw the house, after a gap of so many years. It stood there like a lightning-struck banyan tree, alone and dilapidated as if still trying to come to terms with the fact that its heart is empty. Empty of those cacophonies, those waves of laughter, quarrels, and what now. Probably feeling a bit jealous of seeing the houses around, that still echoes with lively sounds. There were far too many reasons for their family to flee their motherland, ranging from debts, and rivalries, about which, his young brain couldn’t fathom much about. The surroundings looked like a dump yard of household stuff, and amongst it, stood his own house, half-broken, and the other half waiting to go down soon. He wished he could enter it, touch those walls, where memories, sounds, and smells, probably may juxtapose together, and sing a song of the yesteryears, in that old gramophone that they had. No, he is not ready to feel them now, if it gets too strong, he won’t be able to conquer them. Those memories would delve deep into him, pierce each vein in his heart, and he may not get up, again. Quickly, he turned around and started to walk away, but his ears listened to a sound. Turning back, he saw his grandmother, calling him earnestly, with so much love on her face, asking him to come home quickly, because his favourite lunch awaits him. Strangely enough, he could clearly see her face, those dimples, her toothless smile, the shrunken skin mapped across her cheeks, every single dimension of hers was visible. He started to walk faster, rubbing the corner of his eyes, where a few teardrops eventually dried down.
A left turn, from the house, and there was the balcony, a cozy two-storeyed house, that smelt of love. That same smell of tantalizing jasmines entered his nostrils, and he felt like being swayed across places, a sense of comfort, a deja vu, it was all so familiar. As if, she would now, any moment, open the windows and take a peek. Her freshly combed, wet hair would rest on one side, while he would try to drip those extra water off them, drop by drop, they would fall on that dusty lane below. How lucky that lane must be!
The town had considerably thinned of movement, it was afternoon and the sunrays managed to draw beads of sweat from the skin. Heaving a sigh, he turned back but was stopped on his step by this familiar-sounding sound of windows opening. It had to be her, or not?
There she was, her hair dripping wet with water, lunging out of the window sills, she combed them, which resulted in sending flurries of droplets on that lucky lane, down below. His mind was beside her, seeing her, and feeling the aroma of fresh jasmines, as she continued her combing. Moments later, he folded her hair in a neat bun, and her eyes fell on him. They were surprised, probably a bit bewildered, and he quickly turned and made his way to the main road. Ohh, those eyes, still so beautiful, she had aged so gracefully. The hairs were now a mix of silver and black, but it was all so magical, and he thanked the heavens to let him at least have a short glimpse of her.
The strange thing, he could visualize her face, see every bit of it. It all seemed so very strange now, he saw his grandmother, who had passed away a long time ago, and now her. No, no, no that cannot be the reason. He started to walk furiously searching for a mirror, wanting ever so urgently to see his own face. Looking around, yes, everyone who is walking around, has a hazy face. He saw this eating house having a mirror and almost ran towards it, almost being hit by a white ambulance sort of vehicle. He stood in front of the washbasin, which had a mirror, and looked intently.
“Hello Madam, yes we found him. He was lying unconscious in a deserted town, I have no clue how he escaped, but don’t worry, he is under control.”
“Yes, yes we are almost there, but he has regained consciousness, and is blabbering about facelessness, the love of my life, the smell of food and family. We have administered your recommended dose of the medicine, to calm him down, and the rest you can take it up, once we reach. No, Madam, I still don’t know why he ended up in that deserted town, maybe once he’s a bit better, we may ask him. We’ll see you soon at ward number two of our asylum.”
***
Somsubhra Banerjee, 2022