“I'll
never risk my neck trying to save you.”
“Like
I asked you to!”
“No,
I'm just saying, you should know that about me. See, I find life a
lot more bearable when I know that I can share a cup of coffee and
cigarettes with you, but... What I am trying to say is that like
every other love, this too is rational and conditional on
wish-fulfilment.”
Theo
looked at the cold eyes that stared blankly at him and braced himself
for the impact, for the realization to sink in. Iris is no more.
Dead. 'Suicided'. The only unsettling fact about that weighty
observation for him was its grammatical inaccuracy. “Committed
suicide”, he murmured as Miss Fey scowled at him. Could we read a
tinge of accusation into the way she regarded Theo? What does she
know, anyway? No one knew, except Iris and Theo, of the simple
promise (or was it an agreement?) they began their 17 year long
'romance' with. Reassuring! Never in these many years had he ever had
to rethink the choice of words, never did he think that it would
matter. It did not matter to her, for she had shrugged then, turned
away and went to sleep. Or did it?
History
is always in the process of being written and right now, in Theo's
mind several editors were highlighting lines in red, one kept
punching the backspace key over and over again with professional
boredom. Vinyl papers were being bought and imprints were being made.
The aim is to preserve the memory, to hallow Iris' hollow name.
Vintage filter, Monotype Corsiva, brown ink. Theo hated such
projects, but what could he do? He could feel the glare of every eye
in the room hit him only to be hastily averted. Theo, despite all his
convictions and surety was shaken too. How easily had she become
dust, like a bitter dispersible pill being ravished by water. There
is no doubt that she was mental, positively ugly, could not string
together a coherent argument, let alone creative writing.
So
Theo found himself obsessing over the one line that he chose to
utter, lying next to her, satiated, when it came crashing down on him that
from that point on, she would be part of his life. It is too
important to omit altogether. It would not be ethical to alter it. He
never had a penchant for lofty words or emotions, but how rash can a
man be? He could have sighed, turned over and slept. He could have
told her that he loved her? Theo scoffed. Nobody can love Iris. One
chooses to put up with her irrationality. You succumb to the fatality
of the filling up of her innumerable gaps and attempt to find peace
with the inevitable failure that accompanies every such attempt. A
slippery-slope if there ever was one. The ladle-shaped bruise on his
shoulder whined.
Witness
statement: “I solemnly vouch for the fact that Iris was an abusive
life-partner who could never get a grip on theory. In fact, my
origins can be traced back to the day when Theo tried to explain a
bit of Levinas to her. She made me his enmeshed other.”
Dumb
and ugly is a bad combination. You would feel irritated just by
looking at her frizzy unkempt hair, the unwaxed arms, the
wench-stache, the pitiful, dead grey eyes. What was her one redeeming
quality? Theo could only think of one – she never apologized for
being who she was. It is like how you never get used to a tablecloth
until it gets a coffee stain.
Yes,
Iris was the stain that signaled that Theo was home. The
unmistakable and near-lethal conflagration of odors – nicotine,
coffee, dairy, paint and deli meat. Theo could not think of a time
when she did not irk him. He ruled out proclamations of love and
admiration. “Thanks”? For opening him up to the possibility of
being wounded or for subjecting him mercilessly to all the whims and
fancies of a hysteric, manic-depressive sadist? Theo often wondered
what people meant by the 'wonderful journey that had embarked on and
managed to survive'. Survived, yes. Atleast he did. The month Theo
had been posted at Cairo, she had managed to send a mail every day of
the first week. The last one began as a lament on his neglect towards
her and escalated into a suicide note. (The emergency phone call that
pulled him out of the conference did not leave much room for
suspense, though.) He had cared then, to worry, to mop and plead.
Then he learnt how to tune Iris out until she became a shapeless blur
that emitted static.
'Coming
home to your wife'. It was not a rosy picture for Theo. Her recumbent
form would quiz him on his day at work, ask for things to be
explained, contested it with her half-wit and uninformed postmodern
blabber. Then it would become physical. She would tug at Theo's hair
in a way so crass that it was unbecoming of a human being. (Of
course, Iris would wail about how he had hit her first, but who can
tolerate such ignorance, such hideousness?) And her art! Ribot,
Rosseau Manet and Millet would bleed paint and die again if they were
to chance upon the atrocity that she termed art. Eighteen blotches of
brown- she called it 'Desire'. It all made sense to Iris, of course.
The pretentious snob! What killed her was the fundamental
contradiction in her- an egotistic praise-junkie who begged to be
critiqued. Theo could have saved her. Motivation capsules: dosage- as
frequently as required; to be administered with extensive suction of
the bottom. Theo had a dick, self-respect and a life. So he let her
paint her monochromes in burnt sienna.
The
rhythm of the tambourine-manacles and the accompanying chant “I'll
never risk my life trying to save you” That had always been the
truth and it would anchor Theo. That was his hope. He had to believe.
No, there was no element of coercion, it was his choice. Damn choice!
Why would he have to choose? The truth was essential and inherent, it
was not a question of believing, but of being. Being for Theo meant
drawing lines to guide Iris by. Those coffee and cigarettes
encounters where sage-like he would dispel her uncertainties, her
ignorance, transform the tabula rasa she was into a work-in-progress
masterpiece: that was the space he had excelled at, had come to define
himself by. A space that was factually hers but belonged more to his
prowess than to her agency.
“I'll
never risk my neck trying to save you”. Yeah, Theo stands by that.
But at some point, there was no Iris. Every explanation, every word
he uttered for her benefit was only enhancing his brilliant features.
Project Self-Actualization. Slaving away among molded books waiting
for someone to abandon their googling for a while atleast, Iris was
his only hope. Charity? No, it was more than that, it was the
excitement of living a life of informed mediocrity minus the boredom,
minus the angst and with the addition of the pleasure of seeing
something crumble in shame at the face of Intellect. A god-parasite.
Yes, that was Theo. Everything was him, all meaning was by virtue of
his existence which was incumbent on his exploitation and celebration
of her lack, her innocence. The vacuum that Theo perceived and
fancied to contain his boundless knowledge.
Iris
had to go for she had questions that he could not answer. Iris could
not bear the thought of being in a world that failed to fit in his
grasp. Even in death, she had no grace, Theo thought. Marble,
alabaster, snow... No. Pastel – that was her; an air of
sophistication which is just a bland excuse that makes stuff of
backgrounds. Iris would not contest nor question. The one favor that
she had done for Theo in 17 years, in exchange for his forbearance –
absolute silence. Theo was thankful. But there was something in the
silence that penetrated and lay him bare, pinned him and cut him
open, spread-eagled and flattened; a frog with a still-beating heart
waiting desperately to be sown back up. The chant that reverberated
now, choking him, was her last word - “Why?”
