Beast of Burden

It was the last time he saw her. She had, for some reason, taken off to Burma. She was there in search of some long lost relative or something. He couldn't remember why exactly. It had been a month since she had last called him. It worried him, not for her safety or anything like that. He was worried she might have moved on, found someone new, someone better.

On the day she left, he had created quite a scene. He had hurled insults at her— " You good for nothing bitch, you go, GO find your dog. You twat just fucking go." He didn't quite understand why he had selected those particular set of words. He had always thought of himself as a decent man. He had called her a few times and had tried to apologise. She seemed to be done with him. It was his fourth attempt and he was frustrated that she hadn't yet forgiven him for the scene he had created in front of the whole neighbourhood. It was not the first time he had done that. Just before she went off to Bombay, the past winter or the time she went to Pokhara with her school buddies she hadn't met for the last five years or when she went to Thimphu to cover the coronation, he had seen her off with the same old goodbye.

Each time she had forgiven him. She avoided the first few calls, sounded pissed and sad for a few more, then all was forgotten, all was well. She had always come back to him. This time, however, she didn't answer the phone. He tried to reach her for a couple more days but she still didn't answer. He thought he should give her a few days of peace. A few days later, early morning, on a Saturday, he dialled her still rubbing his eyes, head still hurting from the bottles he had gobbled up the night before. If she did pick up the phone this time, he feared she would be able to smell the repugnant smell oozing off of every inch of him. He was afraid she could see, in his voice, the filth he had cultivated throughout his body. He feared she would no longer find him attractive.

The ring seemed to last for an eternity. Just as he was about to put down the receiver and go for a few shots, he felt as though someone was at the other end.
"Hello... is it you? I'm so sorry. I know I know I always say... I miss you. This is the last time. I promise. I do. I really do. I just want to ta..."
"Sir? How may I help you? Sir?"

He hung up. Another man had picked up the phone. He knew it. He just did. Oh, that Bitch! He had blood rushing through his veins. He was thrilled. After all this time, he finally knew for certain. He had just heard a man talk at the other end. He looked like a mad man. He was jumping with joy one moment and pulling out his hairs with anger the next. Hysteria had overtaken him.

That evening when he got sober, he decided to call her again, from the telephone at the bar. He had about an hour of quiet before the storm came again with guns blazing. He had to hurry. Good things were about to happen and that would begin with a call.

He took out a worn out leather wallet from his back pocket and from it what looked like a pocket telephone directory. He turned a few pages, waited for a few minutes, looked back at the diary, then looked around. He didn't know what to do. In the absence of the storm, he lost all his bravado. But he knew he was more than just what few drinks of booze made him. That day she left for Burma, he was as sober as a judge. In fact, each time he made a scene he hadn't had a drink for at least a couple of days. He knew he could do it.

He would call her and lay waste to her lying cunt. If the morning was anything to go by, he was right all along. She was not in Burma to look for a long lost "relative". She was there on monkey business. That man probably looked as funny as he sounded. This gave him a mild chuckle. Forty minutes to the oncoming storm. He had to call her and get it over with.

He took the receiver, put it to his left ear and bent his head to his left shoulder so that it wouldn't fall as he dialled the number. Again, the same voice answered his call.

"Is she there? Give the phone to her. I don't care who you are or what you do or what you are doing with her... give her the phone... all I care about is what she is doing. Just fucking give her the phone!"

"Sorry, sir. I'm just an employee here. Also, go fuck yourself. No wonder she left you. She had, in fact, told me to give you a message but since you've been a gentleman, you can kindly, sir, fuck off!"

What had just happened? Had she or had she not? Had he finally pushed her away as everyone had predicted back in high school? His swagger had died down after the call. Remorse was clawing its way back to him. And, as he hung his head in heartbreak and surprise, John Lennon and Paul McCartney were singing in the background–
"You're going to lose that girl
If you don't take her out tonight
She's going to change her mind
And I will take her out tonight
And I will treat her kind."

This song felt like an insult to injury. Any other day, he would have kicked the crap out of whoever was in charge of the playlist but today he just wasn't up to it. He was missing her and what the employee had told him had taken away all his lunatic bravado. He felt uneasy at the stomach. He was about to throw up. Hastily he dragged himself to the bathroom. He had only just entered the bathroom when he let a jet of vomit. It reeked of alcohol. Minute zero. The storm from all the days before had to be thrown out.

When he woke up, he was half naked. It appeared he had fallen asleep on the sidewalk. He remembered struggling out of the bar at midnight. He was certain he had his jacket on as he left the bar. A homeless must have taken it. He checked his pockets, his wallet was missing as was the phone book in it. His tie with her was finally completely severed. He was too tired to get up. So he remained at the same spot until noon. Some commuters even threw some spare changes to his direction.

A few weeks had passed since his day as a beggar. He had got back some semblance of his normal life. He still drank but never after ten and he always had someone on standby if things got worse. It was almost always a cab driver and occasionally he paid the bartender to arrange things for him. Although mad he was, he didn't want to end half naked in the middle of the street. He had married her. He had to have some dignity for that if for nothing else.

It was almost time for her return. If he kept track of the time he would know she should be back in three days. He would apologize, beg if necessary, after all, it was he who started all of it, reached to conclusions like always. That employee was probably nothing more than an employee. She must have transferred to another place, tired of his unruly calls. She was his wife and she always came back to him. So all his worries were meaningless.
***
Yet again, he had created a scene. The whole neighbourhood witnessed it like it was some sort of a spontaneous soap opera. Some of them were laughing, loud enough for her to hear, at them, at her, especially at her. She felt humiliated. She wondered why she kept up with him all this time. The boy she loved was long gone.
***
When one day he came back home at the dead of night, the room felt chilly. He noticed it because his house was always, always warmer than outside. Also, when the wind blew, the blinds fluttered and the room felt different, smelt cleaner, fresher. It did also, however, felt emptier somehow. When he would wake up in the morning he would realize, she had left him for good— the chilly freshness was her last gift. Hands on the head with a sense of defeat, of agony, of loss, of regret he fell helplessly on the couch. Each moment seemed to last forever, the day felt like years and years. He was just a husk, a shell, for the soul was gone.