The mannequin and the opium eater

Beauty is something that appeals to the beholder’s sense of appreciation. Thus, the concept of beauty depends on the perceiver’s judgment. Also, there cannot be any standards to measure beauty. What might be beauty to one need not be so to another. So also, different people see beauty in different things. The beauty of a tree, for instance, appears to me as imposing and impressive as that of a woman. It is only the way each one strikes me that differs.

I saw her for the first time while I was wandering on the city streets. She stood in a glass cubicle in front of what would be at best be called, a second rate apparel shop. The mannequin. I was simply struck by her beauty. There was something mysterious and incomprehensible about her that made me stop short and stare at her. She wore a smile that was at once both sorrowful and merry. Her painted eyes, I felt held all the passions a pair of live eyes was capable of containing. Beyond the tell-tale look in them, I actually saw a few drops of tear. The pain, the distress that had perpetuated on her wooden face, I felt, made her all the more endearing. I do not know how long I stood and stared at her.

The very same day, I saw her a second time—this time, in a dream. I could not recollect the dream fully. Yet I remember that she had let me kiss her lips in the dream. Why, I woke up with the saltiness of her lips still on mine. The first thing that I wanted to do on waking up was to rush to that apparel shop…and look at her. And just keep on looking at her. Yes, I had fallen in love with a mannequin. There was no doubt about it and there was nothing surprising in it. For I have never fallen in love with any real woman in my life.

From then onwards, I would sit on the road, on a concrete slab that lay across the road against that apparel shop. If I sit there I could see the mannequin quite well and nobody would easily notice me too. I would sit there and after ensuring that no one was looking at me, I would stealthily fish out a lump of opium from my pocket, roll out a pinch and surreptitiously stick it on to my palate. And the next moment, the machinery of my thoughts would change gears to another world…a forlorn, melancholy world of meaningless dreams and incoherent thoughts…a macabre miasma of purposelessness and endless nothingness. There I would be alone with the mannequin. She would come alive and haunt the corridors of my bewildered mind; the abandoned interiors of my heart would resound with her laughter and wails, she would scare me with her bizarre unpredictability, or amuse me with her unearthly charms. Sometimes she would bury her hard head in my lap and cry inconsolably.

Before long, I became so attached to and intimate with her that I would tell her the story of my life…a long miserable story of misfortunes, misdeeds, mistakes, failures, and futility. I told her every bit of it because she would listen intently to every word that I spoke. And sometimes I felt that she empathized with me so much that her painted eyes would brim with sorrow as she listened to me or that she was telling me that if hers were not a lifeless face molded to smile perpetually, she would have cried with me. At times, to console me, she would tell me that her own fate of having to stand in a glass cubicle for all of her life in spite of being lovely and loving was worse than mine. This would, in turn, bring tears to my eyes.

It might have been a fortnight after I had started this routine of sitting across the road and conversing with the mannequin when one day, I suddenly got a strange feeling that I was being watched. I fancied that a pair of unseen eyes was watching me closely. It was an unfounded suspicion; yet fairly strong. When I looked around, I found nothing disquieting; no one in particular was looking at me. The city just slithered on before me like an endless reptile.

The first day, I had dismissed the disturbing fancy as an evil manufacture of opium. However, the next day, I was almost certain that I was under the intense scrutiny of a pair of vigilant invisible eyes. Every moment of mine was watched. The mannequin, who sensed my fear convinced me that no one had an inkling of our affair and even went on to tease me for being so unreasonably cautious. But that did not alleviate my apprehensions. Among the crowd, I found an old man idly leaning against a wall and smoking a cigarette. Although his face was turned the other way, some intuition told me that this was the person who was watching me and that he had been, in fact watching me till the moment I had seen him, when he had suddenly turned his head away. Yet I tried to dismiss the thought by telling myself that an old man of his standing would have better things to do than spying on others wasting their time gazing at mannequins.

But the next day, my doubt was confirmed, for I actually found the old man staring at me. An intense, incisive stare and seeing it, I was immediately confirmed beyond all doubts that he has been doing it regularly…ever since the day I had felt that I was being watched. My first guess was that he could be an informer for the government department that catches holds of drug abusers and punishes them. But the next moment the old man proved me wrong. He smiled at me—a broad frank smile that bore the shame of having got caught doing something dishonorable. Still retaining that smile, he walked straight to me. I stood up almost in a reflex action and greeted him even before he greeted me. The old man gestured to me to sit down and as I did, he sat beside me.

“You eat opium?” he confronted me with the question that I hated the most.
“I am not an addict” I negated an allegation he had never made.
“Don’t worry”, said the old man cheerfully, “I like you and I will try to help you. I feel sad when I see youth being wasted.”
“Oh,” I said indifferently “There is nothing to worry about me. It’s just an occasional trip. I do not drink, you see. It upsets my stomach.”
“I am at the fag end of my life, my dear boy,” the old man said patting me on my shoulder. “I go about this city looking for young men, who I feel need help of some kind or the other. It is not much that I can do, yet I talk to young man like you, Sometimes, you see, just talking can help. I have been watching you for the past few days and I just presumed that there is some way I can help you…”
“Oh, thanks”, I tried to remain aloof, “In fact, I do not need any help at this time. But it is really kind of you to have enquired.”
“Good,” said the old man “Do not misunderstand my intentions…but let me warn you…narcotics have ruined the lives of many a youth, it has driven many a young persons to untimely graves.”
“I know,” I laughed, “And that is why I use it just for an occasional high.”
The old man smiled, nodding his head slightly as if he fully understood my embarrassment.
“I am sorry,” he said, “But my intentions are good…I am speaking for your good. Don’t ever ruin your life, my dear boy!”
“That’s nice of you!” I said. “I promise you…I will take care of myself.”
As he picked himself up, the old asked me. “Now let me ask you, it’s just out of curiosity…I have been observing that you spent most of your time sitting here, on this concrete slab. Is there any particular reason that you prefer this place?” Although the old man sounded casual, something told me that it was just to ask me this question that he had approached me. In fact, I could sense that he was suppressing an intense apprehension as he waited for my reply.
“No,” I lied, for I wanted no one to know about my affair with the mannequin. “This is a comfortable place to relax…that’s all.”
“Well,” said the old man a surge of relief sweeping across his face. “I am leaving. And don’t feel bad about my intruding into your private affairs. I just go about meeting people. I keep meeting a lot of people. Why, I might not even recognize you if I met you somewhere else!”
“Oh, you won’t find me anywhere else!” I said without thinking.
This had a sudden unexpected effect on the man. He stared at me sharply, almost angrily. A dark shroud of fiendish indignation clearly swept passed across his face for a moment, which however, he disguised in a glowering grimace that soon transformed a cold smile.
“Not at any other place?” he asked. By then, he had completely succeeded in sounding casual. “But let me ask me why? Why not at any other place?”
Though I had first thought of not telling the old man about my affair with the mannequin, eventually I did. I did for two reasons; one I felt that my involvement with the mannequin had become so serious that I felt that I must tell it all to a third person, and secondly, the old man had by then completely won my trust and I saw a father figure in him. I told the old man that I was completely, hopelessly, and irretrievably in love with her; that she was what I lived for; my breath, my sin, the purpose of my life, and the destination of my spirit.

I felt that the old man was listening to every word that I spoke; completely absorbed in my narrative…and also that he was suppressing some sort of an extreme urge as he listened. In fact, his face had become drawn and tense with whatever he was trying to contain. Yet, I paid little attention to him and just went on with my tale. As I spoke on, I became so agitated that at one stage I found myself standing up and declaring with a frenzied fervor, “That mannequin….she is mine! Yes, mine. Right now, I am going down to that apparel shop and ask them how much money they want for her. And yes, even if it is a fortune, I will make her mine… Right now, I do not have enough money for a packet of cigarettes, but whatever money they want for her, I will make it in no time and get her. Mark my words for that!”

“But how?” the old man seemed almost frightened and as agitated as I was. “How will you make money?”

“Somehow,” I snarled “Even if I must do something wrong, well, I just don’t care! I want her and that’s all I know!”

As I lunged forward to cross the road, the old man caught hold of my sleeves and whispered into my ears.

“No, don’t do anything of that sort! Right now, you are going with me. Yes, You are going with me to the seashore…and there,” his voice suddenly dropped but I heard him clearly for he spoke right into my ears, “I will give you opium…”

“Opium?” I asked, surprised, but suddenly lulled by the very mention of the word. But by then, the old man had already waved for a cab.

It was a short, swift drive during which none of us spoke.

Once we reached the beach, the old man pointed to a stone bench under a tall shady tree.
“This is a great place to relax,” the old man said, “have you been here before?”
“Many times,” I replied impatiently, “You said you will give me…”
“Ah, yes!” Said the old man and digging his hands into his trouser pocket, produced what I readily recognized as being the largest sachet of the purest opium pedaled in our city. I almost grabbed the sachet from him. My practiced fingers undid the sachet in the flash of a moment. I smelt the stuff. It was incredibly strong.
“Great!” I remarked joyfully “So you too eat opium?”
“Never,” said the old man “I bought this one especially for you.”
“For me?” I asked a bit surprised.
“Yes,” said the old man “But I want this to be the last time you ate opium…the last time. Promise me that it will be.”
“Oh, I promise you!” I said disinterestedly as I emptied the content onto my palm and started kneading it.
“Would you eat it whole?” The old man’s question sounded more like a suggestion.
“Of course!” I replied, “It’s quite some time since I had a good helping. And also this one…as I promised you is my last trip!”
“You might fall sick…or?” He asked guardedly.
“Die?” I laughed, “Twenty times this much of opium cannot kill me.” I reassured him.

The old man looked on with a curious look on his face as I rolled the drug into a lump and stuck the whole of it onto my palate. Within a moment, the mellow started spreading all over me. It is like a journey in a dream. It is like the embrace of an inebriated maiden.

Although I had wanted to discuss my affair with the mannequin in further detail with the old man, somewhere my mind crossed over the boundary and slid into the world of fantastic dreams.

When I woke up, I found myself lying all alone on the hard bench by the beach. It was dark. The hangover was gripping me. The withdrawal of opium is veritable hell. Every inch of your body aches. You feel that your skull would explode; that your eyes would fly off the sockets tearing off the nerves; that acid instead of blood flows in your veins. My hands dug into my pockets. There was a small lump of it in my pockets. The moment it hit me, the seashore came alive…so did the old man, and the mannequin. Yes, the mannequin, she was beckoning me…with the perpetual pain on her lovely lifeless face; with the unfathomable sorrow in her still, painted eyes; with the wistful smile that had frozen on her dainty lips…she was beckoning me to a forlorn magic world of illusions…a lost melancholy world of meaningless dreams, incoherent thoughts, and futile passions; perhaps the only world that exists for mannequins and for unfortunate men like me who have been trapped in the ruthless stranglehold of narcotic drugs. My immediate urge was to go to the apparel shop and take a look at the mannequin.

I learnt from a passer-by that the time was a quarter to nine. That meant that I had enough time to see her, if I hurried. I took the local bus and was soon standing before the apparel shop…in the greatest shock of my life.

The glass cubicle in which the mannequin had stood was empty. The mannequin was not there. She was gone!

I rushed over to the apparel shop in a frenzied state. A man sat at the counter, leisurely turning through the pages of what looked like a bill book.

“Excuse me please!” I said trying my best to contain my feelings.
“Yes?” The man looked me straight in the eyes.
“I just wanted to know about the mannequin…the mannequin that was here in that cubicle.”
“Let us know why and what you want to know?” The insolence of the man was intimidating. I smiled at him stupidly as if that would make him friendly to me. But the man was relentless in his intransigence. He only assumed a graver look.
“I…I wanted to buy that mannequin, you see.” I said in a small, defeated voice. “She, you see, she resembles my fiancée…I mean the girl I am engaged to…you know. She has gone to the US and will be back; well, only after a year….you see. But, don’t you bother about all that. I will pay for the mannequin. You tell me the price. Any price…”

My lie was bare by itself and the diffident manner in which I presented it might have rendered it even more obvious. The man appeared not to have believed it at all and I found myself embarrassed; speaking eyes with him. Something like sympathy or pity crossed past his eyes before he took his eyes off me and went back to the bill book.

Turning its pages over deliberately, he said slowly and clearly.

“We are not interested in money... And tell me why we would not have given a mannequin away…if an old man comes here and tells us that he wants it very badly because it exactly resembles his young daughter who died a year ago…from narcotic poisoning.”

V K Rajan