The Bridge

! T.W. Su*cide!

Readers should use caution.

---

Based on the short story With the Beatles by Haruki Murakami and "true-ish" events.

----------------------------------

Except for global warming and booming high-rise buildings, the Kolkata I left behind hadn't changed much in the last decade. I was standing on the Howrah Bridge, which was still standing proudly and withstanding the weight of pedestrians. The roughly 700-meter-long bridge built over the Hooghly River had no relevance to my stay here, but something told me to spend some of my remaining 24 hours in this city on this bridge.

Global warming had already taken its toll on almost every part of India, so the fact that the temperature was still quite high in November came as no surprise.

With my clouded mind and heavy feet, I lazily covered half of the bridge when a woman passed me, and a second later, I heard my name being called.

I turned around, perplexed, and stared at a woman my age and a few inches shorter than me, dressed in formal pants and a suit. I saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes and half-hoped she had the wrong person. But she knew my name.

"You are..... correct?" She was correct.

I was even more perplexed than before because I was sure, I had never met that woman.

"You used to date my sister almost a decade ago,"

"Your sister?"

When I was in my twenties, I had a long history of dating, and many of them had multiple siblings, but I can't remember them all.

"Particularly, my cousin. You two met in a book club."

I looked at her, and my gray cells pulled a rusted file from the back of my mind.

"I remember now," I said. Your conscious brain tends to store away not-so-required information at the back of the brain, but it does remain, in the nooks and crannies.

"I can't imagine recognizing you in this crowd. You've certainly changed a lot. My sister predicted that you would have changed."

"Yes, I have changed. Yes."

The girl she was referring to was my first girlfriend. I wasn't at my best when I met her, and I'm not sure if I changed or if adulthood simply took away the zeal I had in my twenties. My recollections were still hazy.

"Would you like a cup of coffee? Only if you're not in a hurry," I explained.

"Sure,"

We went to a nearby cafe with a wall lined with used books and the opposite wall designated as the reception area. We took our seats. She ordered coffee, and I couldn't resist a cup of spicy tea.

"How have you been?" I inquired to break the silence.

"I've been well. I'm here to see my husband," She wrapped the cup with her fingers.

"Oh,"

"My office is in Bengaluru. He lives here with his parents. And how about you?" She took a sip of her drink.

"I live in LA with my wife and son. I was here for a business meeting," I explained as I sipped my tea.

"How long is your halt?"

"I have a flight in the next 24 hours," I said, an obligatory smile on my face.

"So, how is she?" I added.

She abandoned her cup as a shade fell over her eyes. I sat there, biting my inner cheeks and attempting to judge her expression.

"... passed away," she said, an awkward smile on her face.

"She passed away," I repeated to double-check whether I had heard her correctly.

"She died 7 years ago,"

We were the same age when we met, which meant...My mind went numb, and the aftertaste of the tea burned my throat.

"How?"

"She had committed suicide." She stated. "She was twenty-five. I'm not sure when it started, but I believe her depression from high school never left her."

I remember thinking about her a lot in my early twenties. But as studies and life took over, she faded into obscurity.

"Toward the end of her life, she would bury herself in her room and read for a long time. Obsessively. To the point where our communication was reduced to twice a month; five minutes on the phone."

"How did she... die?"

"Sleeping pills. I got the details from her brother. My mother received a phone call from her mother one day. The call happened two days after her death. It only took her family two days to recover, it seemed. You know, she was right after all; she used to say that," She let out a sad laugh.

We parted not so long after.

After all this time, it was our promise that drew me to this bridge. I remember falling in love with her. I remember being overjoyed at the prospect of finally having a girlfriend. She used to delight my mind as much as she did my body. She was the one who taught me about the female body. We shared a lot of experiences and explored a lot of things that we could only do when we were young.

I recall her fascination with serial killers and sex. When I was with her, nothing seemed illegal. She made everything moral and acceptable. To the point where, a few months after our breakup, I felt downright chastened. I know it was strange to forget such a girl, but I did. I used to swear I'd never forget, but I did, just as she had predicted.

All those memories flooded back, and I knew exactly where I needed to go. With the traffic I had to deal with, it only took me 40 minutes. After receiving a cheap glance from the cab driver, I exited the vehicle and blended into the prostitute-clogged streets of Sonagachi.

The hyena gaze of scantily clad ladies and the peeling walls of the many houses greeted me. I was walking aimlessly, almost blindly, but I knew I wasn't. I noticed women looking at my body after I was sucked into the deeper section of the area. I was an outsider dressed in foreign garb and not resembling a commoner. I realized I didn't belong in my hometown anymore.

A slim young woman in her early twenties approached me. Her bedroom eyes were bright enough for me to pick up on the signal.

"How old are you?" I spoke in their native tongue.

She was stunned for a moment, but quickly regained her composure.

"22." Her response was brief.

I didn't waste any time and let her lead me into one of the many run-down houses filled with women dressed similarly.

She led me to a room no bigger than a storeroom. A single bed was pushed up against a wall, and a cloth drying line ran above it, holding clothes and bed sheets in haphazard clusters. The walls of the room were a generic sky blue that was peeling everywhere. My attention was drawn to the ceiling, where I noticed the typical water damage. I felt sorry for her. My first girlfriend would have agreed. She had always wanted to help them. Educate them. Safeguard them. That's why I had to come. But what was I to do? How do I help?

I removed my shoes while she assisted me in removing my coat. I took a couple of bills from my wallet, a few extra, and placed them on a small table next to the bed. She eyed them and then complimented me on my neat appearance and offered to give me a blowjob for that amount. Money was no longer an issue. I remember my first girlfriend being obsessed with money. Buying all kinds of books and recklessly spending whatever money she used to earn doing various part-time jobs.

I was made to sit on the bed, and my zip was expertly undone. The moment the woman's mouth touched my flesh, my mind drifted toward the lewd things we used to talk about. How my brain could procure such details, I had no clue. But my penis grew in response to the memory. The woman between my legs seemed impressed with herself, and I let her be.

I was 21 again and back in my old house in Kolkata. Slowly, her voice penetrated my mind, and I allowed myself to think of everything about her. Her average height, her thin black hair, her spectacles sitting large on her face, her distinct cupid bow, her long slender neck, her dark brown nipples...

The woman abruptly stood up and ripped off her blouse, leaving her skirt draped around her waist. I moved away from her so she could lie down on the bed. I then kneeled between her legs and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. I took out a condom. The woman lying before me appeared surprised. It was evident that she had never seen a man like me in this part of town before, someone who carried condoms on him.

I slipped on the condom and quickly slipped inside her. It wasn't anything special. But it began to feel exceptional when I imagined my girl instead of the woman. I remembered her soft body, her gentle voice, and the way she used to call my name. I remembered how her voice would drop when she said something perverse. I recalled her talks being either perverse or sad, and there was no in-between. And I could not help but chuckle.

I had to grunt because the woman was.

I fondled and touched the woman's breasts. She clenched her fists around the bedspread and closed her eyes. She was assisting. I imagined my ex-girlfriend once more.

She used to hate medications, as far as I could tell. She won't even take medication for her cramps while menstruating. Imagining her opting for sleeping pills as her way to leave this world came as a shock.

I imagined her sitting on the edge of her bed, a glass of water in her right hand and a slew of pills in her dominant left. I imagine her swallowing one pill at a time and making a terrible face while thinking about how stupid medications are. Take one pill at a time. One pill at a time, until her face was devoid of expression.

I stopped dead and ran as fast as I could away from that filth. I thought my tears would dry up and I would never cry for her again. But what was I doing? Crying? Howling for a girl who I used to love.

I hailed a cab and was dropped off at my hotel.

~

"What is something that will make you hate me?" she had asked.

"Nothing." I had answered as resolutely as ever.

"Come on. Don't be cliche. Tell me," She pushed me.

I gave it a long thought. She liked it when I spoke after thinking thoroughly.

"Nothing," I said.

Her brow furrowed. She was disappointed.

"There is nothing you can do that will make me hate you, but I'll be angry if..."

She interrupted me with puppy eyes.

"Yes? Yes?"

"...if you killed yourself," I said.

She sat for a while and then laughed.

I imagined the empty glass falling from her hands as she fell into her eternal sleep.

While on my flight, I realized why my legs had dragged me to that bridge.

"Let's meet on the Howrah bridge someday," she had mumbled.

"When?"

"Sometime in November,"

"Why in November?"

"It's my birth month, you idiot," she had laughed.

-----------------------------------

Thank you for reading.