The Congested Seagull

It sprawled there motionless, outstretched to the maximum length possible. The seagull, five minutes earlier, had been in possession of food, chewed down to almost every morsel. But the scraps of offal torn from its destined meal, for which it had once run a marathon for a chance at life, now formed a portion of rubbish with no material value. Yet how the victor slipped, or was pushed, into the same vortex of fate gave rise to certain possibilities. This piece of idle curiosity came to Ms. Mason, standing two yards away from the poor creature.

At forty, she had mastered the craft of forbearance well enough to endure both time and tide. It came as no surprise, then, that the news of her lover’s death that morning still left her as unshaken as the most indifferent creature. She remembered all those quiet caresses offered to her, the cosy hugs within his mighty arms, where she sank like a rabbit, half enjoying them, yet half suffocating.

That morning too, she had felt an urge to throw up as soon as his pulse ceased to tick. She had been guarding the ebb and flow of his breath, like the seagull waiting for its chance by the shore. But the tide never turned in her favour.

Twenty years back, she chose to share that very bed with her partner of her own accord. She had always been the sort of person to decide everything for herself, ever since she left home for studies. She remembered clearly the time when she had been in possession of just Rs. 500 as pocket money, six times less than her usual allowance.

“The queen needs attitude more than her palace,” she said to herself.

So, her slim legs obeyed the luxurious red gown and slipped into a pair of silk stockings and high heels copied from a model. In her princely attire, she spotted but one lack—her jewellery. No, it was silver. Her bracelet? No question; it was the best she could afford. Her earrings? A graceful half-dangle, like diamonds against her alabaster complexion beneath luxuriant curls. No, never…

It was her goggles that had accompanied her as the most faithful ally, but they seemed no match for her new look, her new life—for a day. So she wore her smile wide, picked up the purse containing the money, and shut her quarter with a thud. The goggles were left behind on the table inside the darkened room. She never forgot to flick off the light before leaving.

She ensconced herself comfortably between two chubby ladies carefully selecting jewellery at a nearby shop. But Ms. Mason, when it came to aura, was no less than the Marilyn Monroe of Goa. The receptionist quickly turned to her.

“The old Mughal diamond ring is still waiting for you, ma’am.”

Ms. Mason could barely suppress her embarrassment, remembering that it was her third visit merely to admire the ring she coveted. On the first occasion, she had forgotten to exchange the euros from her foreign trip into rupees. Another time, she had captured a photograph of the dazzling thing just to send to her lover, who was as real to the receptionist as he was fictional to herself. This time, she had come merely to enquire whether the ring was still waiting.

“I have grown tanned,” she exclaimed while trying on the ring for the third time, flexing her fingers.

She parted with a shallow smile, but deep down, she had an urge to scream.

On the other side of the street stood a magazine shop, which she reached tiptoeing on her heels. A few slim leaflets went in exchange for a stack of cash, without regret.

Not far off stood the restaurant, “Fat Fish,” where Thomas Pinto had once taken her after months of pure platonic friendship and had awkwardly let ooze all the tenderness he had buried for her. It was then that she first found his eyes vulture-like, carved into a flat face. They could penetrate beyond her goggles and make her feel grand, as though, were the goggles to shatter, nothing would remain hidden. And here she was again, dressed in her perfect attire, without them, feeling no less than an actress walking into “Fat Fish” once more.

On the table was served not Goan fish curry and rice, but a freshly garnished salad. She paid for it with pride and left a generous tip before departing.

One signal, and any cab would have stopped for her. Instead, her purse, with its scanty contents, led her towards a garden. Onto a bench she plopped, longing for a scream, but only silent tears came.

In half an hour, she was expected at her evening shift in an obscure international call centre. But while she covered her eyes with her palms, a furry creature came rushing towards her and licked her toes without hesitation.

“Sparko!” she exclaimed, taking him into her lap.

The old pug’s master came hurrying after him, handing her a handkerchief. She clutched Thomas Pinto like a wild animal, yet sank into his embrace like prey with nowhere else to flee. His touch was clammy; above her head, his breath wheezed like a rotten fish. Yet, at that moment, she learned to love that mushy affection and proclaimed him her worthy master.

For twenty years, she remained the most obedient slave to that master. His profession of archaeology, which had once seemed to her the occupation of a dead man, became her new fascination. Her craze for fashion magazines became a thing of the past. She mastered the craft of admiring senseless discoveries that bore no consequence for ordinary life. Every book Mr. Pinto authored on the past became, in her eyes, a treasure to be preserved for the future. His spacious house, where they dined among the decked skulls of animals, became nothing less than a dwelling of angels. Poor old Sparko, as he slowly slunk towards death, became another curious subject she shared with Mr. Pinto. In short, she became the perfect Ms. Pinto Thomas had ever craved. She was his most prized possession. And so, Ms. Pinto was treasured within his spacious dollhouse, cut off from all outer life, with never a scream, a whimper, or even the knitting of an eyebrow.

And when Thomas Pinto succumbed to a rare condition for which medical science had no cure, Ms. Pinto remained a faithful lover still. She would come to his bedside, attired in the finest dress of his choice, answer his frowns, read an excerpt or two from his most cherished books, eat from his plate and sleep beside him as poor Sparko once did.

Last night, Thomas Pinto lay in his bed, quite senseless, yet with his gaze fixed constantly upon Ms. Pinto, offering the final hint of love—a futile chase, she found. She took the glass of water away from him, switched off the lights, and lay silently beside him. The white wedding gown she wore to sleep still dazzled blindingly, pricking her skin as though waiting for its turn the next day.

“Tomorrow, let’s marry,” were the words Mr. Pinto uttered breathlessly before falling asleep.

But the next day, the tide turned, and with it Thomas Pinto was gone. Ms. Pinto rushed straight into the bathroom. But the fit to throw up vanished the moment she turned the shower on. Water washes away all sins, but she craved a salty bath.

“Mad woman,” one neighbour whispered to another as she rushed towards the seashore, fully drenched in her creased wedding gown.

The air ran sultry by the seaside, but she craved more and kept walking until she came upon the sight of the dead, congested seagull. A sudden realization dawned upon her. At that very moment, she declared herself Ms. Mason—the free Ms. Mason—the woman who decides for herself, unlike the congested seagull sprawled dead with a fat fish inside.

She recoiled from the sight, adjusted her gown carelessly and with her finger drew a girl in goggles on the sand. The goggles lay locked away in a box at the Pintos’. She could not go back for them. The glass of water bore her fingerprints. She was the tide-turner of her own life, but the neighbours would see her as nothing better than a sinner or a madwoman.

No… she could not go back to the dead Mr. Pinto.