Independent Goa Observer

THE BOX OF MATCHES

A light hearted look by BALRAJ MANRA at the agonies of an obsessive smoker when he runs short of matchsticks.

HE DIDN’T know what time it was when he opened his eyes.

With his left hand, he reached out for a packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. He drew out a cigarette and placed it between his lips.

Tossing away the packet of cigarettes, he reached out again for a box of matches.

The box was empty.

He threw it away.

It hit the ceiling and fell to the floor.

He switched on the table‑lamp.

Four or five match‑boxes lay scattered on the bedside table.

He examined each of them.

They were all empty.

Throwing off the quilt, he got our of bed and switched on the ceiling light.

It was two o’clock.

The floor felt like ice beneath his feet.

It’s two. I didn’t know what time it was.

I ‘d thought it was almost dawn.

Why did I wake up suddenly at this god-forsaken hour?

Once one’s up one can’t go back to sleep.

He began rummaging through the room, through the bookshelves, the wastepaper basket, his trouser and jacket pockets. He couldn’t find a box of matches anywhere.

He held each book by the spine and shook it, hoping some matchstick he’d once used as a bookmark would fall out.

The room became a mess. Books and clothes lay scattered in disorder. The trunk stood open.

Suppose someone were to turn up,

To see a room in this state at two in the morning

The cigarette between his lips shook.

A lit cigarette is so like a beating heart.

Where’ll I get a light at this hour?

Suppose I don’t get one.

Then?

My beating heart may go out too.

Why did I wake up at this godforsaken hour?

I didn’t know what time it was.

Once one’s up one can’t go back to sleep.

Where’ll I get a light at this hour?

He pulled the sheet off the bed, threw it over his shoulder and left the room.

It was a cold December night, very dark and silent.

Before starting out in any particular direction, he paused in the middle of the street.

When he did begin walking he didn’t know exactly where he was going.

He looked as far as he could into the cold black night but there was no one in sight.

The dim light of street‑lamps only seemed to deepen the darkness and silence around.

He stopped at a square.

There was better lighting there: milk‑white fluroscent tubes shone on it, but the silence remained unbroken. All the shops in the square were shut.

He went over to a sweetmeat‑stall.

It’s possible I’ll find a live coal in the oven, even a dying ember will do.

A figure lay asleep on the pavement in front of the stall, a quilted bundle.

He was peering into the oven when the bundle fell open.

‘Who’re you? What’re you doing here?’

‘I’m looking for a live coal...’

‘You daft or something? The oven’s stone cold.’

‘So?’

‘So? Move off, that’s what.’

‘May 1 have a light?’

‘A light?’

‘Yes. 1 want to smoke.’

‘You’re mad. Move off. And don’t disturb me again.’

‘So you don’t even have a box of matches.’

‘Only the boss has one. And the oven’ll be lit only after he gets here. Now move off.’

He went back on to the road.

The cigarette between his lips shook.

He walked on until he left behind the square, the bright lights, everything. He left behind a whole world.

He walked fast. One street‑lamp, another, then a third ‑ they seemed endless, their dim lights deepening the darkness and silence around.

Suddenly he stopped.

Someone was coming towards him.

He went and stood in front of him.

‘Do you have a light?’

‘A light?’

‘Yes, for my cigarette.’

‘Sorry, can’t help you. Smoking’s not one of my vices.’

‘I thought...’

‘What did you think?’

‘That perhaps you had a box of matches on you.’

‘But I don’t. It’s not one of my vices. I told you. I’m on my way home and I suggest you go home too.’

He moved on. The cigarette between his lips shook.

Tired, he began dragging his feet. He didn’t know what time it was.

The street‑lamps went by repeating the same dreary sequence of street‑lamp, a dim light in the darkness, then darkness.

He walked slowly now. The cigarette between his lips shook.

He badly wanted to draw on it and fill his aching lungs with smoke. The need grew. He felt his body was at breaking point.

Dressed as he was in just a pair of pyjamas and a sheet, he felt cold.

His legs shook with the cold as he dragged them forward. He didn’t know what time it was. He stopped noticing the street‑lamps.

He stopped again.

There was a lantern ahead of him, wrapped in red cloth, to indicate a bridge under repair. It was hanging in the middle of the road from a wooden board which said DANGER.

He began walking towards the lantern, intending to light his cigarette on its flame when...

‘Who’s there?’

He didn’t answer.

A policeman jumped out of the darkness towards him.

‘What were you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I want to know what you were doing.’

‘Do you have a light?’

‘I ask you what you were doing and you ask me for a light. Just who do you think you are?’

‘I want to light my cigarette. If you have a box of matches...’

‘You were up to something a moment ago. What was as it?

‘I was going to light my cigarette on that lantern’s flame. If you have a box...’

‘Who are you and where do you live?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Where do you live?’

‘At Model Town.’

‘And you want a light?’

‘I live at Model Town.’

‘And where’s Model Town?’

‘Model Town?’

He turned and pointed vaguely as though to indicate it wasn’t far away. Darkness had massed all around him as far as the eye could see.

‘You’ll have to come with me to the police station. It’s ten miles to Model Town from here. Looking for a box of matches, were you? Well, they’ll give you one at the police station. It’s full of them.’

They policeman gripped him by the arm and began marching him off to the police station.

The police station was on the same endless‑seeming road.

They entered one of its rooms together.

Several men sat round a large desk.

They were all smoking.

Boxes of matches and packs of cigarettes lay strewn on the table. ‘Found this one near the bridge, sir, Says he lives at Model Town and he’s been going on about a box of matches.’

‘What’s up, you?

‘If you don’t mind, please, could you give me a light? I want to light my cigarette.’

‘Where do you stay?’

‘At Model Town. Could I take one of your boxes of matches, please?’

‘Got a job?’

‘I’m a stranger here. May I?’

‘How long have you been living at Model Town?’

‘Three months. If I may... the matches...’

‘Enough! Boxes of matches ... I’ll show you, son of a box. Stranger, my arse. Cut it out and go home or I’ll have you locked up, you hear? Matches...’

He felt very tired when he left the police station.

Slowly, at snail’s pace, he began walking down the endless seeming road.

The cold made his nose run. He felt his body was about to break into pieces.

Smoking’s a vice.

Why didn’t I ever try to stop smoking?

Where’ll I get a light?

Suppose I don’t.

He didn’t know what time it was. He was blind to the streetlamps, ignorant of the direction he’d taken and numb to all sensation.

He began walking unsteadily, like a drunk.

Day began to break and he held his breath.

Held his breath and tried to compose himself.

Composed himself and was about to start off again when he saw a man walking unsteadily towards him.

The man came and stood before him. There was a cigarette between his lips and it shook.

‘Do you have a light?’

‘A light?’

‘Don’t you have a box of matches on you?’

‘But I myself was...’

Without waiting to hear any more, the man moved on. In the direction he had come from. He moved on. In the direction the man had come from.

Courtesy:Govapuri

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