Fiction: That man

The Maldives Independent accepts short fiction (or serialised longer stories) from Maldivian writers. Whether you're published or not, if you have a story that needs telling, we want to read it. Send submissions to editorial@maldivesindependent.com. Fiction runs on weekends. Nashiu Zahir’s previous story, Isolation, kept its narrator in a room; this one sends him out into the city.

I walk along the road with nothing on my mind, isn't that nice, nothing, it weighs nothing, it does nothing except make me feel very much at home, so in a sense nothing can influence a man's wellbeing. A good thing to have on your mind. 

And then I see him. This is inevitable, I think, because it has happened so therefore it had to happen. What do I find unpleasant about this man? Is it his appearance? It is wild - unruly beard, a wet moustache above his upper lip, clothes that have become too baggy for his body.

'Please, can I...' but I don't let him finish the sentence and hurry past.

I walk to my place in the park, by the fishpond. The sound of running water, the splash of the carps as they surface to the awareness of my presence, the luxuriant ferns in their neat little beds, the hulking trees with their sprawling canopies, a snug little oasis in a small, furious city - but his presence grows like mould in my mind, even in this placid setting. 

Why did I meet him today? What is it about him that makes me uneasy? What don't I want to see or understand?

Maybe I should explore this instead. 

I will first attempt to explain my worldview because I think the two might be related. I could be wrong. But here it is:

Everything that happens to a person is a matter of chance. You might see some design in hindsight, but it's a pattern we impose on a series of chance events. If I hadn't run into this man, for example, would I be having these thoughts? No, I don't believe that at all. 

Do I mean to say that there is no free will? Is that it?

I think some situations broaden my options, some constrict them. As long as I feel free, right?

So, what does any of this have to do with that man?

Is the connection not apparent? 

Yes, I must admit it to myself. 

I see myself in him, I see how a twist of fate can turn me into this person. I want to enjoy this most welcome of passages in my life without a crushing reminder of how weak my grip is on the mast that lets me see the palm-studded region beyond the brilliant sand.

Must I retrace my steps? Find him, give him food? Is that the appropriate outcome of this realisation? 

No, I will continue as before. Only if I see him again, I will look into his eyes, hear what he has to say, beyond hunger and the present. Yes, so that he does not seem as frightening. Yes, already these thoughts are doing their work, they are bringing me closer to nothing again, my nothing where I'm always welcome.

I see him that evening as I walk out of a restaurant. I go up to him and ask him his name.

Rahman, he says. Abdul Rahman.

I take him to a different cafe, whose interior is dim, where we may not look so conspicuous. Abdul Rahman is in a dirty shirt that may once have been fashionable. He smells like thaiymoodu. 

He wants some rice and chicken curry and I give the order to the seytu.

'Who are you?' I ask him. 'How did you end up like this?'

The man begins. I cannot make any sense of his story, it has no beginning, only events, the Tsunami, the loss of his first child (unrelated to the big wave), some time spent in Colombo, maybe before the Tsunami, where he ate crab for the first time.

'But where is your family?'

'Got none.'

Then he talks about a pigeon he trapped earlier in the day. 

'I ate it,' he says and grins, his teeth are even but grotesquely discoloured, his overbearing gums are black and yellow. I try to swallow my disgust. 

When the food arrives, he drowns his mound of rice in curry and plunges his unwashed right hand into the plate. He takes big scoops out of the rice and eats noisily. 

I tell him I have to leave, and go to the counter to pay. He seems not to have registered my departure. Just as well. 

As I walk home I realise I feel even worse than I did in the morning. I cannot befriend him. Even those who reach out to help cannot but loathe this person. It is a fallen man for whom there is no relief except in the gratification of his most immediate needs. 

And just what did I expect? 

I lie in bed. My wife sleeps in silence. 

And it occurs to me, the reason for my present uneasiness. 

It is because he has outlived his welcome in this world. In mine.

To think of nothing again. Nothing, I am here.

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