memory

Ronny wakes up to realise it’s a dream.

Flames rose from the ground, consumed everything that he could see. He’s Bengali, and so he thinks, Gelusil. He thinks it’s acidity. There’s nothing in the night to suggest that it could be acidity. Except the acrid taste of smoke that’s set in the back of his throat. He wonders if this is hallucination, but he hasn’t smoked in over twenty four hours, so it could well be a craving. He gets up, and his fingers look behind the books on his shelf. Nothing.

Wonders, he does, whether he finished it all. Suddenly, his throat wonders what the Classic Mild tastes like. He looks again behind the books. He can’t fine the little Goldflake packets. God bless Indian cigarette sellers. He rations cigarettes, our Ronny does. Pulling one out of a little box every time he can’t fight that feeling. Running into the toilet, standing on the commode, his face inches away from the exhaust fan. God forbid they find out. But maybe they did. He can’t find the little box anywhere.

Ronny tries and tries to remember what box it was. If it were the Goldflake box, it’d be small. And if that were the case, maybe he’d look through the bookshelf again. Slipping his bony fingers as far as they could reach behind the volumes of Kafka and Camus. Not that he’s read much of either. He read Metamorphosis, and considered himself the guru on Kafka. He read the Cahiers, and wondered if he was Albert Camus, living on the colonial French sea shore, wondering about the weather and life. It’s summer, and nearly 5 AM. The dogs on the streets are getting restless, and rickshaws and cars pass, puncturing the silence of the night.

Ronny’s bony little fingers, they grope into the depths of his bookshelf. And grope at nothing but air. A little sliver of doubt passes his mind – he passed out drunk. Did his mum get to the books before he did? Mother,when she sets her face with a disapproving frown. Her brother, Prakash, is a drunk. When Ronny visited them three summers ago, him and his cousin emptied the bottle of whiskey halfway, and filled it with water. His uncle, the psychological drunk, got drunker than ever, and laughed at Ronny’s attempts to be invisible the whole time. When Ronny left their house a few days later, it was the end of all cousinly summer vacations.

Wondering if 5 AM panic is justified, Ronny tries to think of something else to ease his mind. He thinks of his cousin Shreya, the one who’s wanking his elder brother. He wonders if he should feel sick, but ends up feeling nothing. He remembers a tented sheet over his brother’s waist, and small, almost inaudible gasps that his cousin makes as his brothers hands do god-knows-what to her. Incest is necessary, Ronny thinks, and laments that he has no younger cousin to help him pass through adolescence or teenage. Then, as if remembering why he woke up at nearly 5 AM, he rummages around one last time behind the bookshelf. Nothing.

He looks under his pillow, inside the pillow cases, under and in-between the mattresses, and through his drawer. And there’s nothing. He tries his best to remember what packet he was smoking out of. He wonders if it’s a pack of Classic Milds or if it’s Classic Milds pretending to be anything from Goldflakes to Davidoff to Marlboro. He can’t remember. All he remembers is his cousin passing him the smallest bottle of Old Monk. 180 litres. Rupees fifty three. And the sound of breaking glass as he threw it out after he finished it. And stumbling into his bed, trying to fall asleep to soft but ecstatic sounds his cousin makes as his brother’s hand does things to her. He looks over at them, but they’re sleeping now. He doubts his brother knows he has been drinking. He’d been talking to his betrothed while Ronny was getting drunk. Ronny blushes a little thinking of the word betrothed. But that’s better than fiancé. He hates fiancé.

He looks around, trying to plot a route over the sleeping bodies of his cousins and his brother. He needs to find his cigarette packet before the 6 AM alarm on his mother’s annoying UFO looking alarmclock rings. The route he plots is circuitous, though he knows he can as good as walk over them, and they won’t budge. Summer vacations are excruciating. He does his little balancing act and reaches his drawers. His hand gropes once again, blind in the darkness. He finds a matchbook. He wonders if he should light a match to help him look, but just then, his other cousin mumbles in his sleep. Something about being James Bond and wanting a strong tea, and he nearly drops the matchbook. The Bond cousin mutters just once more in his sleep and turns to his other side, facing Ronny. And continues muttering. A courier service van passes outside, and Ronny curses the fates under his breath. And matchbook held tightly in his left fist, continues to make his way to the bed, and peers into the darkness under it. He stretches out his right hand, and paws at the floor, as if the accursed cigarette packet will show up if he paws hard enough. Sure as the earth is round, it doesn’t, and Ronny takes it in his stride.

Gingerly, he uprights his body, and shoves his fingers through his slightly overgrown hair. God bless summer vacations – his mother hasn’t mentioned a haircut yet. He retraces his steps to the feet of his sleeping cousins. By now his eyes are accustomed to the dark and they’re looking wildly for the elusive little pack, and now that his brain is awake, he remembers vaguely that his cousin hands him a big-ish box, Classic Milds. Filled with five Classic Milds. And a copy of illegal music downloads. He smoked it at the window. Three out of the five sticks of Milds.