The First Vice

NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental.


Camelia lighted the tenth cigarette of the day and exhaled richly onto the darkness.

Outside, the vast expanse of familiar landscape, the black and white of the divine Himalaya, seen countless times, but never experienced, seemed impenetrable.

What a relief! She felt like bales of cotton bobbing up and out of some abyss on the unexpected occasion; like soap-bubbles in the air; dewdrops on a wild flower; so free and fresh yet so profound; the sweet aftertaste of it all lingered on her mind. She felt like kissing the air as she gazed at the star-studded sky; the swarming phosphorescence that looks so transient, almost hallucinatory; she saw the veiled moon hiding behind the swift cloud and the meteor rising, falling; she kept staring, standing on the terrace of their hotel until Fatima said, “You have finished an entire pack of cigarettes! First vice of your life, baby. Try the others. Trust me; you would never need a man.” For indeed this escapade to Pelling with Fatima and three other childhood friends has elevated her to a different height; taken her mind off her search for a man; her failed attempts at several matrimonial sites for six long years; numerous rejections; scowls of her father; indifference of friends. How strange is life and how wonderful! - Around the vicious circle and off it.

A truck roared by, invading the silence. In the midst of waking and dreaming, Camelia sensed strength, confidence; certain recklessness; an urge to enclose the elusive reality in a time-warp and stay suspended in her own zone. As she rolled another marijuana joint, she heard moan, hot-breath and whispers of the lovers in the room right beneath the terrace. She stiffened a little, sharpened her senses to be part of the whirling sensation of pleasure, the numbing sounds of lust and love, which rasped her body deliciously. Here she was still untainted, she thought while the rest of the world seemed to be spinning on love. A plain Jane with an Adonis, Camelia thought of the lover-girl; a sluggish, sloth creature, plump and short, with freckles on her face; she was around thirty and spoke English with a thick vernacular accent.

For having spent a better part of her years in Delhi, being part of the elite journalism circuit, now she was aware of her charms; a touch of the bird about her, vitality, intelligence that people could kill for. Yet the love clock of all effectual men seemed to only tick for plain Janes. As the owl of Minerva lurked in its nest, she watched life go by from her perch in Delhi; feeling a violent grudge against the world which had scorned her, sneered at her, cast her off. She suffered greatly as she saw love blossoming in her flat-mate- Neera’s life; the twinkle in her eyes, the triumph and jingle in her voice, the intensity in her moments. For heaven only knows, why good things only happen to less-deserving people; the most dejected of miseries are bestowed on souls like her who have always been honest, good and fair.

It was not that love did not come to her door; it came in different hues and forms; wrapped in soft mesh of the early morning air; which as the day wore on, merged with the eternity. “You are my soul-mate. I wish I could marry you,” she remembered the words of Glenn, a fellow journalist. Her heart went out to him, felt attached to him, yet she never found him strong enough to be her husband; he remained a fleeting sensation in her life. Now that they are parted for years, he never cared to write her a letter; some days, some sights bring him back calmly; without the old bitterness; especially those spring evenings in Delhi, that she liked the most.

For it was the month of March, one of the best months in Delhi. The sun seemed to swirl in a mild, caring way and exuded that divine vitality which Camelia loved. The spring of the year breathed life into the very year and adorned the trees with young leaves; life seemed to be full of immense possibilities. It was also the time when her switch from financial sphere of journalism to general seemed a coming-out-of-the-box experience, a connection with the wider world. Yet her heart did not beat for the newness in the air or the state of the nation. Did it matter then, she asked herself, did it matter how clever or accomplished she was if it did not help her get a suitable man? She wallowed more and more in self pity. For Neera was quite happy with her new-found lover-boy- perfectly happy, though she has never taken a single risk in life or had she chosen a noble profession; her whole life appeared to be a failure. And it made Camelia angry still.

It was not that Camelia had any feeling of superiority over others or any sense of being out-of-the-ordinary. She was like a sharp-edged knife with the ability to slice through every being. She could understand people almost by instinct. Forgiving friends easily was not in her nature as she had high expectations from them. She had ill-feelings towards her friends who were so imbued in their lives that they could now barely squeeze out time for her. She resented the fact that now she was the last priority for people she always stood by through thick and thin. For people really move on in big cities, in the ebb and flow of life, somewhere they get consumed by their own passions and needs- and only some pilgrim souls like her strike out alone; their blessed beings wait eternally for a touch of warmth.

“Good things happen to good people. Do not worry. You just have to be more open to the world and look around,” said Fatima, rather lovingly, for they had known each other since childhood.

As she stood on the terrace of their hotel, in the lap of the Himalaya, she mused, plunged into the heart of the moment; trying to collect the whole of herself- for this very moment was the truth for her, far removed from the constant bickerings of her parents for her marriage, whispers of jealousies of her relatives, pressures to prove her worth in the world. The dazzling, snowy inclines of the mountain peak transfixed her yet she could not feel any holy presence.

How many million times she had felt Him always with the same radiancy in her dull life! How often in her childhood days, as she lay by the side of her little brother; the discordant noise of fights, abuses of her parents would wake her up in the middle of the night. She would purse her lips and look at herself in the mirror- the self that was strong and good; pillar of strength for her family. She rose to her that self with some effort; always trying to be a good child to her parents, good sister to her brother; remaining forever so calm and composed, not giving into any vices, never showing her inner demons- faults, jealousies, vanity, suspicions.

Then wasn’t law of karma all balderdash, she thought, as she breathed in the earthy fragrance and wanted to lose herself in the moment, on this beautiful April evening in Pelling, with her friends, owning up to her vices.

ENDS


Meghna Maiti