THE LONELINESS OF THE FEMALE RUNNER

The red Puma head-band is plastered on my forehead. Hair tied back, I feel free and fresh. The shoes are soft and comfortable, the arm band tightly tied round my bicep. My feet start moving on the road. The same rhythmic movement repeated thousands of times over the past decade: the movement of freedom, pain, tiredness; the movement of loneliness in a crowd.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.