The Shadow in the mirror, By Kulpreet Yadav

It is five in the morning. My head is aching. My breath is labored. My spirit is contained, chained. I am alive, but dead. Another person sleeps beside me. The bed sheet under her is crumpled. I look at her face. Her eyes are closed. But her face still seems to look at me. Her mouth is closed too. But there is a hint of a mild smile on the edges of her lips. She looks beautiful. She looks desirable.

It has been two years now, we have been meeting like this – spending afternoons in a hotel room. Weekdays, it is possible. Weekends it is not. Sometimes it feels good, almost great, and superbly addictive. But more often now-a-days, it looks like a useless exercise. She wants a child. I want an escape. The difference is too huge. How do I tell her?

There is someone at the phone. I pick up my cell. It is the office. There is a meeting in an hour’s time. I have to go in half an hour. I drain the remains of the beer from the glass at the bedside table and get up to dress. But the clothes are gone. How can this be? I nudge her. She moans in sleep. I push her hard. She opens her eyes, finds herself, perhaps, looking at an alien, smiles with a frown, and rolls to the other side. Clothes? Where can I find them?

I must rush to a shop. But how? The question is a self inflicted slap. I sit down. Sweat drops appear on the forehead. I call up the room service and ask for another beer. I must think now. Maybe the room service guy can help. I sure can tip him for the favour. There is a knock on the door. I jump up and open it. There is a stranger facing me. He is smiling excessively. Do they send salesmen in the hotel rooms also?

“Yes?” There is more alarm in my voice than the question. His smile is more even more effusive now. He throws his head back and laughs. I see him now better. He is wearing my clothes. I look closely at his face. My jaw turns that of a crocodile. My eyes pop out like fresh popcorns and forget to blink. My legs are shaking now as if I am dancing. The sweat is like a rain, each drop merrily jumping on my white-haired chest.

It is ‘I’ facing me. “Shit’, I somehow shout. The word echoes in the corridor and returns back to me in cascading whimpers. After a while it collectively crumbles down at my feet.

“I am the mirror”, he says. Now he peers at me, and his forehead wrinkles in furrows. He looks like an intellectual, eagerly awaiting the final call for a big award, maybe an Oscar or a Booker. I gather courage, somehow and look at him. There are bags under his eyes. Whiskey, I know. There is an ashen smear on the face. Cigarettes, I know. There is less hair falling on the forehead. Dandruff, I know. There is a glint in the darting eyes. Greed, I know.

“What are you staring at, my friend?” The bags push up the eyes.

“Nothing”. I am embarrassed. I look down.

There is a paunch. Beer and restaurant binge, I know. The hands are spidery. These crawl on the bare bodies of many women, I know.

“Why nothing?”

Now he has a pistol in his hands. I stare at him. I am frightened. It feels like a deer in front of a lion, waiting for the final assault. The bullet feels as it enters the body. There is now no fear. It feels less painful. Death could be such an easy escape, I never imagined. I am smiling, happy at the easy death.

I wake up. It is a dream. She is shaking me. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I am sad at being alive.

“I have good news.” She is blinking her eyes. Her head is tilted. I try to ignore her. But she is defiant in her declaration, “I am pregnant.”

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