The man wakes up, soaked in sweat. He pulls the sheet off the pillow and wipes his face, neck and hairy chest. He perceives the damp odour of the sheet, but he is used to it now. The room is quiet, so quiet he can hear his heartbeat – now he hears anything, notices everything. If he pays attention, he can notice the hairs on his chest swoosh when the mango tree outside carry in some breeze in the evening. He listens, longing to hear more.
He looks up. The roof is made of concrete. It is painted white, but it now has damp patches. When it rains, water permeates the concrete decking and drops on the bed, and he has to move the bed about, which is difficult. There is a spider on top another spider on the wall. He thinks they are mating. He wonders how they mate. The thought gives him ideas, but he doesn’t want ideas. They are not good for a man like him, in a room, locked up. It’s a shame to think that the thought of spiders mating can make him hard. He scratches his itchy bushy hair. He stands. His legs wobble, as he holds the bed and shuffles to the window like a wounded soldier escaping his enemies. He peeps.
It is quiet outside. He waits, hoping for a vehicle to pass, a motorcycle, a bicycle, anything. He waits, but nothing happens. He watches the sun shimmer, sending out mirages on the tarred road in front of the house.
Why is the road tarred when people don’t use it?
He wonders if they use it when he is asleep. It’s a possibility, but it's difficult to know things these days especially as a lot of things are confusing. First, he does not see those who drop his food. He wakes up to find the food there, once a day, at irregular times. He has learned to stop worrying about the food and who brings it and why he hasn’t ever been awake when the food is brought or when they take away the bucket he defecates and urinates in.
He stands for long minutes, staring at the empty space stretching beyond the tarred road and green grasses on the wide expanse of land without trees or plants. The only tree around is a mango on the land where the building is situated. The day before or was it many days before or months – it's difficult to tell – he had attempted to count the leaves on the tree, finding it a good sport.
He watches a bird perch on the tree. He listens to the bird chirp and tweet. He is sure he can decipher the tweets. He talks back to the bird, telling it that he is alive but doesn’t know where he is. He wonders if the bird can help tell him who he is and what he is doing in the room. He asks the bird about the outside world – if it knows anything that is happening. The bird responds. He imagines he understands what it is saying or he wills himself to believe what he wants to believe. He thinks the bird is saying that everything is the way everything is supposed to be or that the world is the way it has always been. He inquires if people are still allowed to go about their businesses. The bird tweets yes. He is infuriated. He holds tightly onto the steel protective railings on the window.
He is covered in sweat again even though the window is open. He tries for the umpteenth time to put his head through the protective rails; he knows it's useless though he tries anyway. He hears the bird laugh. He grimaces and looks further down the road. He asks the bird why no one comes around or walks past or if they do at night when he is asleep. The bird tweets that people are passing even as they are conversing. He wonders why he can't see anyone. He's sure the bird is joking, messing up his mind. He is angry. He turns back and faces his bed. The bed is huge and can take four persons comfortably. There is no chair in the room, and he wishes there is one. You never know how you'd miss everyday stuff until you are in a room with just a bed and nothing more. Nothing. He looks around for the one millionth times. He is sad that the wall is bare, no almanacs, no paintings, no artwork, no clock. He wishes there is a clock. He doesn’t know the time of day, but he has been able to gauge that the time when the breeze comes and lifts the hairs on his chest is just before twilight, he is not sure. He sits on the bed and places his head on his chest. The bird is still chirping like an old typewriter, talking about this and that, and he is happy it's keeping him busy with stories of what's happening in the bird world.
The man pays attention now as the bird talks about its friends – there is a friend whose wife just hatched her eggs and one of the little ones fell from the nest. It chirps of how they went to commiserate with this bird and that that's where he's just coming from. The man hears it tell him that the leaders of birds are negotiating with humans, so they stop laying eggs in nests at the topmost parts of trees but in verandahs and windowsills. The man walks back to the window and asks the bird how the negotiation is going. The bird says humans are considering the request but making unscrupulous demands. He asks what humans are requesting. The bird says humans want two of the eggs every bird lay while under their hospitality. It says birds are not comfortable with this request, but humans are being adamant; they are being as wicked as they've always been since the beginning of the world. It says they are lucky humans no longer eat birds else they wouldn't have even considered making the request in the first place.
The man believes his fellow humans are wicked and inconsiderate, and he tells the bird so. The bird moves to a branch extending towards the window, and the man asks the bird to tilt the branch so his hands can reach it. He strains, extending his hand to see if he can reach a leaf, at least, but it's too far away, he realizes, over fifteen feet. He is breathing hard. The bird laughs and tells him he is stupid. The bird says that even if there are one hundred of them it's not possible to tilt the branch so he can reach it. The bird says he would think of what to do but wants to know why the man wants to reach the branch. He says it's so he can feel and smell a leaf, but it is a lie. His intention is to pluck and eat it.
The man tells the bird that even if humans agree to allow them nest on windowsills and verandahs, there is still the danger from the cats and dogs that live with humans. He wonders if birds have figured out how to avoid those animals. The bird talks excitedly, thanking the man for the reminder and says they haven’t considered that. Then, it talks about how cats are becoming a problem – rats have been meeting to find a solution and now birds have to look for alternative too? It's better to nest on top trees and risk an egg falling off than serving prey to cats. Cats are motherfuckers, the bird says. The man agrees; but deep down in his heart, he doesn’t. He wishes there is a cat at least to keep him company. He would love rats and cockroaches, but he hasn’t seen any for God-knows-how-long.
The bird says it must leave and thanks the man for the advice. It says it needs to meet with others and include the issue of cats and dogs in the negotiation with humans. If they must give humans eggs, humans must ensure they keep their dogs and cats on leashes.
The man asks the bird to wait, but the bird doesn't hear or possibly does not want to stay any longer. The man watches it stretch itself and flap its wings this way and that, then majestically, it lifts itself into the sky and in one with the winds, carries itself up, up, the man cranes his neck to see, kneels on the floor and gawps in awe and envy.
He looks around him, there is nothing to think about or talk about and there is no one or thing to talk to. He remembers the spiders, goes back to the bed, climbs on top of it, and peers at them. They are still entwined, in the protection of their beautifully made web. The man studies the web, then the spiders. He thinks again that they are mating. He feels himself hardening. He wants to think of a woman, but his memory is empty – he only knows that the feeling he is having can be assuaged by a woman. He climbs down and sits on the floor. He searches for tiny bits of crumbs he had scattered about in the room to attract ants so he could have some company, something to talk to. The crumbs are still there, but there are no ants. There are no cockroaches. He wonders why this is. He looks around the room, searching for a wall gecko – he thinks it's said that any building that has no wall geckos have evil living in them.
Why are there no wall geckos? Is this room cursed?
He goes to the window and counts the leaves till the time of day when darkness appears farther down the horizon and gentle breeze dries the sweat on his body and lifts the plenty hairs on his chest. He is grateful at least that the mango tree is there with its leaves to keep him company. He is grateful that the bird came and for the first time he had a conversation with something else aside himself. He is deeply grateful. He turns to the bed and climbs on top it, but the spiders are no longer there. He follows their web, searching for them. He finds one by the left corner of the room. He follows it, counts its legs, studies its head, and searches for its mouth, ears, nose, genitals; he can see all these things. He can and he is grateful his mind is now sharper and can decipher things considered too minute or inconsequential.
He is tired. He lies down and watches the ceiling, imagining the damp patches envelop him. He falls asleep again.
