The Old Man at the Entrance

 As soon as he reached foyer, which was relatively empty and properly lighted, Harris recognized the entrance of the apartment that he has come to visit; a faint smile returned to the old man’s freckled face. The apartment was on the fifth floor, had three bedrooms and other important facilities as expected in a modern, chic place for living.

He was slightly upset after getting no response from inside, despite his ringing the bell two times in the past fifteen minutes; he has clearly heard the piercing sound of the bell. He pressed again the switch fixed beside the entrance door. Yet again, there was no response from within, not even a whisper or the faintest hint of movement. Anger simmered within him as he pressed the bell again, the chime resonating loudly and clearly. “Perhaps nobody’s home,” he pondered. “The landlord must have gone on a business trip. But it’s not the usual time for the owner’s wife to be out of home. I’ve encountered her every time I’ve visited at this hour before. What could possibly be the reason?” Despite these thoughts, he reminded himself it wasn’t his place to pry into others’ affairs. Nevertheless, restlessness gnawed at him. For the past half an hour, he has stood and waited; now his initial agitation was slowly giving way to a subdued unease.

Glancing around, he observed the marbled and polished staircase that ascended and descended, along with three additional gates leading to other three apartments on the same floor. He glanced down at his own attire, noting his worn-out summer coat that was nearly eleven years old, and his leather shoes showing signs of age. Apparently, he paid little heed to his appearance. Determined, he leaned in to peek through the keyhole; inside, he only glimpsed the opposite wall adorned with framed photos, a shoe rack to the right, and an empty space to the left, allowing the gate to swing open freely.

With a resigned sigh, he turned away, preparing to return to where he didn’t know. As he descended the stairs, his face shook violently, his hands deeply furrowed, traced over the railings—“Many people must have used these stairs.” He thought as he pulled out a stained handkerchief to wipe tears off his face.

He was again on the road to his small abode that he had rented few months back. After a few minutes’ walk, he stepped off the road, touched the earth, and the nearby trees, pebbles strewn on the ground, probably trying to figure out reality. While inside waves of emotions soared high, touching the limits of his imagination, tainted with memories of his struggles as a young man. His middle years were all lost in meeting the needs of the family. He tried tracing everything on the scale of time—the scale itself seemed endless, and only he would be stopped, maybe very soon! "Only we travel on this imagined scale, though it doesn’t say anything about anything, just placed there to fool us.” His thoughts also kept pace with the scale.

Either he could stand still or walk in any direction; the path in every direction would have flowers, then rivers with bridges over it, then rivers without bridges, flowers to smell—filling his lungs with fragrances, or just a dry and arid land, every region with seasons; but walk and walk and be nowhere. He could tell this after traveling almost all of it. The path might show up variations to keep us trapped. “Where am I right now, just at this moment?” he questioned himself. “I don’t find this place any different from where I was many years back. In fact, every moment I have been at the same place. How did the traveling happen? What has tricked me into this?”

He was again back on the road; he must reach his place before very late at night because the owner of his abode closed the gate around midnight. It is necessary to reach the gate on time. Otherwise, he would have to spend the night sitting outside. The late entry was simply not allowed. He desperately needed to rest his body in a comfortable place. Of course, without this specific need, this place with stones and edges and thorns was as good as his rented abode. He looked at his watch. “It’s already past eleven,” he muttered while making an effort to speed up his walk. 

He reached the place just in time, and collapsed onto the square bed, its torn and dirty sheet spread over the old thin mattress. He took a deep breath and closed his damp eyes.

After a long pause, he got up, feeling very hungry; he pulled out a crumpled packet from behind the rusted iron table; pieces of moist biscuits slipped out and fell onto the pocked cement floor. He slumped down to sit near them and eat the pieces while cursing his stomach for demanding so much so often. After sometime, he looked up, seeing only walls around him, realized walls always surrounded him, some colored, and beautifully painted, others plain and white with ants crawling over them. As a kid, he had thought of roof also as a kind of wall that protected him from evils of the sky, and god wasn’t an exception, the cause of his birth and misery. He stared at the chipped wall in front of him before falling asleep with his mouth wide open, his toothless hole exposed, the sidewalls of his mouth stained with yellow marks.

The owner of the place was taking last stroll of the day around his property before going to sleep. Always suspicious of the old man’s behavior, he often checked on him, paused near the entrance, and poked his head in, grimaced at the scene, and left without saying a word. His any other reaction had been of no use in the case of the old man, perhaps because he foresaw impending death in this situation.

Suddenly the old man woke up, twisted his legs, put his hands flat on the floor, his mouth about to lick off whatever grains and pieces of remained stuck to the floor. He slurped and panted while he cleaned off the floor of pieces of biscuits with his tongue before falling asleep again.

The next morning, the sun was fiery, yellow, and hot, and made everything simmer with its appearance on the horizon. Chunks of rays slipped through the window and kissed the old man’s face. His lips pursed, and his eyes squinted as if something had pricked his whole body. He opened his eyes and stared at the roof, his mind rolling, bumping, and excitedly frolicking within the confines of his head, pushing at the edges. He felt the slight pain taking hold of his head, raised his hand, and pressed his forehead with his fingers. Then he got up to clean and wash himself before dressing up for the visit to the apartment again. He was bored and tired of visiting that apartment repeatedly, especially when nobody responded from inside, and he had to return empty-handed. He found it strange that his survival was so emphatically linked to such a petty act of visiting that apartment. Like planetary systems, he was supposed to repeat the same act, follow the same route, push the same doorbell, and wait for a response. It seemed strange to him.

He squinted out through the window at the small patch of open land where kids from the owner’s family were playing with a football-sized plastic ball. The ball was soft and fluffy, and in an effort to hold the ball up to the ground, they took turns falling over it. A sad smile came to his face, perhaps tinged with nostalgia. Then he imagined kids growing up and leaving the place—for him, the future with grown-ups or kids always looked dark, bleak, and fearful.

It was already late in the evening. He mustn’t delay now; otherwise, again today he would have a fate similar to yesterday. He was determined to knock and ring the bell of the apartment on time today, perhaps the only way to ensure that the door is not intentionally being left closed, that they wanted him to drag himself to death, and that the soil and dust would take better care of him, maybe embrace and caress him wholeheartedly.

A flash of shiver ran through his body at the remembrance of death. He was jolted back to life, suddenly feeling the beat of his heart, the warmth of sweat on his forehead, and the rush of air through his nostrils. Reassured of being alive, his mind focused on the only important task ahead—somehow meet the family of the apartment owners. Even meeting with the owner’s kids at the very least would give him satisfaction and the hope that news of his visit would reach the ears of the owner.

He hurriedly ate the two pieces of bread provided by the owner of his abode. There was nothing to carry, and even if he had something, it would be difficult at his age. It was pitch black outside; not even the moon was visible today. Many times moonlight had helped him make journeys to and from the apartment to his abode and from his abode to the apartment.

The road looked familiar to him at first glance. But he also knew that every moment brings slight changes; workers might have dug holes, or a large vehicle might have broken down, blocking the entire path. Then surely new travelers had joined it, and some were very reckless. He thought, “I can’t risk getting myself killed to avoid death. That would be sheer foolishness, a ridiculous thing to happen.”  He sighed, realizing he had no one to accompany him. The journey would have been a little easier with someone by his side. He thanked everyone for ensuring that the streetlights were working today. For some distance, he counted the pools of light from one lamp to another, but soon realized there were endless pools to count on a road stretching into the far distance. Today, he decided not to lose track or veer off the road for even a moment. He checked his silver-dialed watch, a gift from his companion who had passed away long ago; he still had enough time.

There was a large crowd near the main gate of the apartment building. Guards meekly kept an eye on all the people who had assembled outside. There were cops also present. Guards always behaved as a side hustle whenever cops were around.

There was an expression of shock and excitement on his face. He tried hard to contain the bursts of happiness for reaching the place before time. He was sure to get the apartment door opened today and hear the noises, in the worst case, from the kids. If fortunate, they may even serve him hot steaming tea and tasty snacks. He was feeling a rare kind of joy.

From his many visits, he knew the way comfortably, and he was about to climb up the old stairs. A sense of pity and guilt filled his tired heart that his plight will change before the next morning, whereas the stairs would continue to suffer and erode for the long time to come, unless they were hammered down, bombed out, or destroyed in a severe earthquake. The night got deeper, and ghosts hanged from everything around the place. He tried to steer himself out of the way of the crowd, quickly reach the entrance of the apartment, but with every step forward, the way got more crowded, somehow he managed to push himself up the steps, however, when he was just few steps away, there was no space even for the air, he took a deep breath, and lunged forward—today he can’t afford to miss meeting them—but staggered and fell down after hitting the wall of people.

He felt breathless, and unable to pull himself up; few from the crowd walked over him. The old man had no business there, and nobody cared. He lays there almost unconscious.

The crowd were cheering and shouting over the dead body of the apartment owner.