Facade – 2108

By Purna Chakrovarty

They were young and electrifying.
She – soft, supple, and serene.
He – boisterous and full of biceps.

We often crossed paths in the basement, in the parking lot.
No greetings, no nods, no introduction.
Thanks to individualism, privacy, and urbanisation.

Some days, for a few seconds, we would board the common elevator.
I would often try to befriend her,
Maybe pass a gentle smile while he was glued to the screen.
I would step out on the 20th floor.
They would continue to soar.

During the weekends, I would see them in the clubhouse, lounging.
In the pool, their golden bodies splashing against each other.
In the gym, squatting, lunging, and benching.
They were inseparable!

I guess they occupied the flat just above me.
Though I could not see them from my terrace,
I sometimes heard their familiar voices,
Found cigarette butts, Cadbury wrappers,
A laced bra dangling, or sometimes
Hurriedly disposed-of condoms.

Most of these would often sail and settle onto my balcony.
On breezy nights, I could hear the strumming of a guitar.
And I could also hear the stilettoes.

The seasons changed, and so did the sounds…
Frequent throwing of cutlery...
A whack...
A slap...
A knock...
A rattle...
A splat...
A clunk...
A clang…

Almost a year passed as I sat cubicled, wondering what was happening.
Every day, I promised myself to step up to flat no. 2108
And ask if they needed help.

On a sultry September evening,
I was sitting, sipping green tea on my balcony,
Looking out at the sprawling city that was heavily lit, engulfing the dastardly darkness.

The air brought in –
A sudden argument,
An accusation,
An abuse,
An assault.

And before my eyes could look up,
Something came hurling down, crumbling paper-like,
And landed with a thud, twenty floors down!

Moments of silence…
From my sky-high flat, I could see nothing in the darkness.

Hours later, in the wee hours of the morning,
The beeping of police vans, ambulances, and red and blue lights jarring the silence of the place.

Another accident?
Another suicide?
Another murder?
Yet another probe?

Like a mite in the dark, I lay quiet.
Not appalled (for I understand the human façade),
But curious.

My curiosity took a vow.
Today, in five years, I will climb up to see the survivor,
Of flat number 2108.