Man, Woman and Upholstery.

The man was the author. Covered with raw nerves! The woman was careful not to touch any one of them and cause the pain of impulse. She was extremely careful. She felt maybe it was because of her. But she was just incidental: waiting to happen. And it happened. The upholstery was varied.

An author is one who writes and hopes to be written about after his death. And it is this latter part wherein his triumph lies. But the realization of this triumph is an intermittent experience between the former and latter part of his work. It may be as well transient. When he writes he doesn’t hope and when he hopes he can’t write. Flitting between writing and hoping he creates innumerable tracks and in due course these tracks rise like snakes and engulf him, enmesh him, entwine him: covering him with raw nerves. Don’t touch him for he might feel the pain of impulse. The woman was careful not to touch him.

She changed the upholstery. It seemed as if rainbows have become kaleidoscopic or the coign of vantage was drastically changed. Transience was all. Yet fixety was all that was needed. And the upholstery was all sundry.

He did not mind the change of upholstery everyday. He was more or less an invalid and since he couldn’t go out to see the ever-changing world, it was good that he saw the curtains and covers in front of him change everyday. It was flowers today replacing the urns and maybe a la Matisse tomorrow. At least it gave some food for thought. Better than being tread upon- on raw nerves.

The room was not big enough to hold much more than his bed and a couple of sofas but was also not as small as the hospital rooms. The room had two windows, both on the western side. But they were always curtained. Whenever the wind wished for him to look out, though not always at pleasant sights, it blew open the curtains. He just had to turn his face towards the right-hand side and there was his oft-visited world of the outside. That ever-changing world!

The woman entered the room from the left and saw the curtains blowing. The world entering the room through the windows. But it was not the real world for it was not the whole world. It was its dismembered form. A limb or an arm cut-off. It looked ugly without its body. Yet it was imagination that produced beauty out of those bits and pieces. And the upholstery aided the process. Sometimes the arm of the world held the flowers, sometimes the urns and sometimes its beauty hid and was sought in abstraction. The woman knew and the man also knew for they have realized it.

Also the upholstery was like a barrier- a blockade. It prevented that room from being the centre of the centripetal motion of the outside world. It barred the outside world from intruding too much into the room- into the inside world. Doing the upholstery was like mending fences daily. It was good. Wasn’t it? Good for safety and security.

Then one day it rained. The wind brought the drizzle in. First the windowsill got wet. Then gradually the floor got wet. And then there was the sprinkle on his face. It continued. The rain continued. Drizzling! Showering! Pouring! Sprinkling his face. The droplets started accumulating and formed narrow streams as they descended down his forehead- entering uncomfortable caverns below his neck.

In due course the upholstery was also wet. But it had tried its best to prevent the rainwater from entering the room. Until itself becoming wet. The wind, so long the pleasant friend, proved to be the nemesis. It brought in the cold sprinkle of unfrozen snow. The man lay helpless.

The woman was not there. When she came back the rain had stopped. The man had stopped breathing. He lay a bundle of dead nerves. He lay in the chill. He had passed away. The wind was still blowing in gusts. She could feel the wetness of the floor on her bare feet. She also felt the wetness of the covers. She saw a remnant drop of water struggling hard on the man’s forehead. Struggling to join one of the streams flowing down his neck. Hampered by its presence on dead meat it waited in inaction. Stilled! When suddenly some water sprinkled on the woman’s face! No, it wasn’t the rain. It was just the curtains fluttering in the breeze. She decided to change the upholstery.