It wasn’t the sound of a child’s scream that sent me running
from my bathroom to the balcony, that’s as common as the Indian mourning retching,
it was the yells of a man. The
intensity, the ferociousness and the magnitude of his words were pierced
intermittently with the cries of a child, mind you, but his voice overtook the
sounds that filled the morning air. I
didn’t hear the morning caws of the crows, I didn’t hear the ocean, all I heard
was his yelling. Looking to my left, I
peered over to see my next-door neighbor come out her cottage, a similar place
where we had just shared, just moments before, a brief “good morning,” our
first ever since she and her boyfriend arrived days ago. This is the first morning I’ve seen in days
as I emerge from a bout of the typical India induced food poisoning. Now, instead of a friendly gesture we look at
each other in disbelief and worry, giving each other the “I don’t know what the
fuck is going on” shoulder shrug w/ a furrow between our brows and a mutual
silent fear to add any more noise to the ruckus in the place below us. The door to the room is wide open and I see
the lower calves and feet of a man but no more. I glace to the stairwell approaching the
entryways and the guest house cleaning boy is waiting, hidden behind the
corner, afraid to continue his morning duties because he has to pass through the
air of their commotion. A few people
gather on the balconies of the adjacent building to see what is happening. A concerned looking aged woman cranes her
neck in attempts to steal my perspective and then walks to the opposite end to
see if there is anything she can see from the balcony that belongs to the
bellows. She returns, glances at me as
if there is nothing to report and I return the same.
Soon after a little girl scuttles out of the room with that
familiar little leg shuffle with her mother behind, clasping her had, who is
remaining very quiet. She speaks a few words
to the daughter but not many as she rinses out dirty dish containers over the
railing into the communal garbage dump.
The mother goes back inside and the little girl, who can’t be more than
6 or 7 years old still cries. I check on
my neighbor and her eyes are fixed on the scene, standing with her hands
clasped against the railing like she’s waiting for something, maybe waiting to
see the same thing I am, waiting to see what the hell a grown man that yells at
such decibels looks like. The mini crowd
of a few still gathers on the neighboring balconies, not with a voyeuristic eye
but one of helpless interruption. What
can you do when you don’t understand the language penetrating every bit of air
around you but can feel down to your marrow the intention? A few moments later I see the same masculine
feet and legs but only for a moment as the mother emerges from the door with the
fixings to go to the beach. As she
gathers her daughter and slips on her shoes I look at my neighbor again, her eyes
transfixed, and I look back as the door closes behind the two ladies and hear
the “clunk” of the door lock behind them.
My blood courses with a long forgotten sensation as I stare
at the closed door and the faceless man behind it. My neighbor made her way to the corner of the
balcony and sits in the lounge chair, eyes fixated at the door, half in focus,
half in a daze, her face painted with sorrow, anguish, remembrance and a sense
of pained familiarity. I sit down and
wait to see if this man is like my dad, who I haven’t talked to in over 2 years
or seen in 14, not due to my lack of trying, to see if he’ll sit and simmer in
his own festering darkness or if he’ll emerge and show his face. Time passes and the door doesn’t open, much
like the look on the face of my neighbor doesn’t change. She and I may be strangers but in this moment,
we have a familiarity that goes back deeper than we’d care to remember and all
we’ve ever said to each other is, “good morning.”
Moments later, she leaves.
We never even exchanged names.
