Familiarity

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.