About Me, or about Szentendre (2013)

"What was this? Why did he write it down? What does it mean when a man picks up a pen and writes something? When something simply comes to him and it appears there, complete, in his writing? (...) And if you write something down, is it then lost, does it have nothing to do with you anymore, is there only a memory, an ache, left behind (...)."

~ Sandor Marai, The Rebels

I had found the café in a hidden corner on a previous trip to the town. Its small menu had attracted me straightaway and the little terrace with its wooden furniture and flowerpots tricked the mind into thinking that this was Italy or Southern France. This town had been taken over by artists one day in the past. Their energy had collected between the walls, every pebble stone overflowing with inspiration. That’s why I had come here to write on this sunny morning. The city had nothing left to inspire me – just tourists who moved collectively in groups from one corner of a building to another. I avoided stepping on my balcony during the day just to see them look up, wondering who it was that was living in these beautiful buildings drawn by history.

No, was I to stay here, in this country, I’d move to this town. I would sit in this café every day. How perfect life would be.

A woman passes by with 25 yellow roses. She smiles, her face filled with a bright light. I didn’t count the roses but I assume they are 25. Frank Sinatra is playing in the background.

The entire menu is vegetarian. I am delighted. I choose a salad with locally produced goat cheese and plums. It is perfect but I add salt. A lot of salt. Something very German to do, to add salt to everything. A reminder of my roots from which all these branches have grown.

I feel my skin burning in the midday sun and put some sun screen. ‘Instant Protection’ it says on the bottle. I remember that when I was small it had to be applied at least 30 minutes before going into the sun for full protection. Now it is instant.

I order a cake – though I am allergic to gluten – and an espresso which comes in a beautiful, old, ceramic cup with a delicate handle and golden ornaments. Just looking at it fills me with joy and I carefully pick it up to take a sip. I want to take the café with me, the feeling I get when I sit here.

I don’t want to return to my apartment which I’ve decided to soon leave behind already. A new chapter of my life is about to begin and I need to shed. The apartment is the past already.

Time that I had recently been wasting away has meaning again in this new chapter. I give it meaning. What would time be without me anyway; if I am not there to witness it, to pass it, to embrace it, to waste it or indulge in it? For all I know time might stand still when I’m asleep.

A butterfly passes by, maybe the 9^th I have seen today. I haven’t seen any in the city. Who would stay in the city if you can fly? I glimpse behind me to remind myself that I have wings. How quickly I forget at times, them being so delicate and invisible. For a few moments I lay down my pen to drift away in a flow of melancholy.

I see clouds moving in and wonder whether I’ll have to postpone my walk back to the city to another day. A long walk it will be – but what is walking other than meditation? Anything to lengthen the journey back to the city. Maybe I was going to walk in the rain, if it rains at all.

Maybe I should open a café like this one, simply for the selfish reason of sitting in it every day. What other reason would one have to open a café? I won’t open one though. It is not my path. I know this much. No need to know what you want to or will do if at least you are clear on what you don’t want to do.

More clouds. In between sun. Slow Jazz in the background. Maybe it’s Blues. Yes, Blues, not Jazz. Then an old Italian song.

As a writer you live in your head, 10 thoughts at a time. Every thought a story of its own. I have difficulty remembering things accurately; sometimes I mix up memories with surreal creations of my imagination. Right now I remember him dancing slowly with me to old, Italian love songs. I fall in love all over whether it is a memory or made-up by my mind. I got drunk here with a friend once, in this café. I miss her at times. Just like anything can be missed for the sake of deprivation of the now.

I can feel this country bidding farewell by showering me with all its beauty – a sweet pain that feeds the soul with light for any darkness to come.

The waitress goes around and waters the flowers, and pours some water on my feet to fight the heat. We all laugh. We – strangers who happen to be here at this very moment, united by laughter. Maybe it is coincidence. But I choose not to believe in coincidences. I am not sure what effect this belief has on my life, if any at all, compared to someone who denies the existence of destiny. Maybe deny is too strong a word, let’s say someone who questions destiny to the core of its existence. Far more poetic.

It is the first time I’m not wearing nail polish on my toenails – an unusual sight to me. I look at my feet and feel like I am taken back to when I was 16. Am I? No, I’m 24. It’s been eight years. Time passes quickly when you live, when you are awake. I had been tired of life once, maybe twice – not now.

I am not the patient kind but he is, so I have no choice but to divert my mind and seek pleasure in the process of waiting. I smile, back to the now, to the café, to the question whether I should attempt to walk back. I’m wearing flip-flops. I assume it would take me 2 hours. I might get a heat-stroke. If I do walk, I will have to buy water. It might start raining and I will have to stand underneath a roof for a while. Or there might be a thunderstorm and I will be hit by lightning. I will walk – at least for now, that I am still sitting.  

Maybe the people I had laughed with a few minutes ago will read this story and recognize themselves, just like the man at the other table who stirred his lemonade until all the ice had melted. That wouldn’t be coincidence, right? But maybe they won’t read it. That wouldn’t be coincidence either. Either way, destiny – wether they read it or not.

Before leaving the café I ask the people next to me how long it will take to walk to Budapest. 20km – don’t even try with those shoes. I won’t. Instead I stroll around the town, up and down small alleys – a beautiful stillness everywhere. Time might as well be standing still, I wouldn’t know. I pass by souvenir shops and fall in love with a handmade, crocheted parasol and a dark-blue dress with traditional Hungarian patterns – next time. Today I’ll just walk.

A museum. Another one. Maybe dozens of them. I visit a gallery and the young woman explains to me that there are 200 artists living in the town right now and every summer artists from India come to stay at an art colony close-by. ‘I live in India’. She doesn’t quite understand. It doesn’t matter. I had said it for my own sake, a thought spoken out loudly. There are no coincidences.

I make plans to rent a room here one summer to write. I will.

I walk on. Next time I should take a boat back. Not today. I walk by a museum and remember Indian music playing there many months ago when I passed by.

It is past 3pm now. Let’s just walk a little more.

A Letter (2013)

Dear You,

I have never written a letter to you. This is the first time. All those mails and SMS, phone calls and chats. I like when we Skype. I love to see you and hear your voice when you are so far away. It is the closest to you I can get these days. I am writing you a letter because I want you to have something to hold on to when things are not going too well. Like now.

But this letter is not to complain or argue, to tell you that things should be different. I am writing this letter to tell you a story. I call this story ‘Love Drunk’. It is about a man who – while others finish one pint after the other – he gets drunk on love. For him, love is the only thing that makes his life worth living. It is the only thing that makes him want to get up in the morning. When people offer him a glass of beer, he politely declines it with a smile saying ‘No need my dear, I have love’.

Interestingly, no one has ever seen him with a woman. Everyone at the pub banters with him and many times he has heard people say ‘Oh come on Charlie, just admit that she doesn’t exist’. He responds with a smile and doesn’t say a word. He knows, that’s all that matters.

One day he didn’t show up at the pub. His friends got worried and decided to pass by his house to check on him. He was in his garden, weeding. ‘Charlie, why didn’t you show up at the pub today?’ ‘She is coming home tomorrow!’ His friends got excited. Who was she? What would she look like? And where had she been?

The next day they all showed up at Charlie’s, with flowers and chocolates. A small woman was sitting on a bench in front of the house, next to Charlie. Holding hands and saying nothing. Upon seeing his friends Charlie got up: ‘How nice of you to come here. Meet Natalia. We met two years ago on a holiday in Georgia. We saved up money for two years and now she is finally here.’

His friends got excited: ‘You should have told us, we would have put some money together’ – ‘We would have helped you’ – ‘Is that why you never had a drink with us?’

‘Don’t worry about it. We are love drunk. Time means nothing to us.’

I love you.

Me.

Tick-Tack (2013)

‚Tick-Tack. Tick-Tack. Tick-Tack’

Sameer sat up straight in his bed, staring at the clock. 30min to go. He glanced across the room. Leela was asleep. Sukhwinder lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Pinky was playing with a few pieces of wood she had gathered the other day. Chotu sat next to him.

He was the oldest and he had been here the longest. On his papers it said that he was 14. He looked 12. Leela was the youngest and he felt protective about her. So far he was successful at it. Most of the men who passed by were looking for young boys anyway. He often thought of a way to get Leela out of the room, the building, the city. He would draw maps in his mind. Sometimes he did it while a man had come to visit. They liked him. Most of the men who came were regulars.

Ajit, Preet, Amar, Naveen, Harmeet, Nigam, Omar, Raghu, Jaspreet, Dinesh, Sohil, Vipul, Manendra.

So many names. He remembered most of them. Some were kinder than others. Some brought food or laddoos when they came. Some gave him new clothes. Some got him liquor. But after that they all were the same. The laddoos and liquor didn’t change any of it. A numb pain inside him, sweaty hands all over him.

No, Leela had been lucky so far. He would get her out. She was small, she looked up to him, she called him ‘bhaiya’. He had to protect her.

‘Tick-Tack. Tick-Tack. Tick-Tack.’

15 minutes to go. Chotu sighed. Sameer buttoned up his shirt. He looked at the books next to him. A gift from one of the man. ‘Read and you might get out of here one day’, he had told him. He couldn’t read. He had never been to school.

Pinky had stopped playing and was now just staring at the door. She was around 10. Sameer always thought that she was pretty. Long black hair; big, round eyes and pink lips. Sometimes at night he would climb into her bed and touch her. She never stopped him. The first few times she had tried to push him away but not anymore.

The other day Sukhwinder had tried to climb into Leela’s bed but he stopped him. Leela had to be protected. She was small and innocent. She was the only pure thing in the room – maybe in the city. One day he would get her out of here. He would get her married to a rich man. And they would be happy. He would be happy. They would provide for him as well. He would eat everything he wanted to – just no laddoos.

Five minutes left. Leela was now awake. She sat in her bed and stared at the fan. Chotu switched on the radio.

A knock at the door. All of them sat up straight. The door opened. A man walked in he hadn’t seen before. He looked at him, then at Leela. No, not Leela. He wanted to scream, get up and stop the man. Don’t take her!

‘I want her’, he said pointing at Leela and a few seconds later she was gone. A few seconds that felt like eternity. He had to stop this from happening. He had to. He couldn’t.

The door opened again. A familiar face smiling at him. ‘Hello Sameer, I got you some laddoos.’

‚Tick-Tack. Tick-Tack. Tick-Tack’

* Laddoo - an Indian sweet, Bhaiya - Hindi for 'brother'

Amid the Waves (2013)

“There is nothing I hate more than going on a cruise”, he said to his wife after entering the cabin. He looked out of the window – nothing but water. Maybe he would just jump overboard and drown himself. The thought of it made him chuckle.

“I really don’t understand why you take me on cruises. You know I hate them.” He walked over to the mini-bar and glanced at the collection of miniature bottles. “Amy, are you listening?”

Amy stopped unpacking her bag for a moment. Her eyes met with Harry’s across the room. “They are serving dinner at 8. You might want to freshen up before that.”

Harry looked at himself in the mirror. There was no need for him to freshen up. He was handsome. Old, but handsome for his age anyway. “I think I’d rather go for a little walk.” He put on his hat and sunglasses and made his way up to the ship’s rail.

The wind was cold and the sun was hiding behind clouds. Harry thought to himself that there was really no point in taking sunglasses on a cruise. There was never any sun in the middle of the ocean. Only water, just water everywhere. He walked around for a few minutes until he found an empty bench. He sat down and stared out at the horizon. ‘Travel broadens the mind’, they say. It certainly did not broaden his when all there was to see was nothingness – besides the water of course. God damn water!

He could feel the discomfort growing inside him with every wave that hit the ship. Amy liked water. She always did. She would swim and go boating, and she would always take a bath, never a shower. He had told her many times that it would use up less water if she would take a shower instead of filling up an entire bathtub with water every second day. She did not care. She was probably taking a bath right now while he was out here, in the cold.

Tomorrow he was going to write a postcard to his daughter and tell her how awful the ocean was and that there was absolutely nothing to see. That it was just empty and that all he did was to wait for the ship to reach the next harbour. He would write the card secretly. He didn’t want to upset Amy. He lit himself a cigarette.

After a while he slowly made his way back to the cabin. Amy was sitting in front of the mirror and prettied herself up for dinner. “Anything special up there?” – “No, just water. Nothing but water.” He kissed her on the forehead and took a miniature whisky from the minibar. “She was a pretty girl once”, he thought to himself and looked out over the ocean.