Portrait #1
Sitting in discomfort at the Almora bus station because it's raining heavily. Slippers are wet and grimy and the spaces between my toes are prickly with grit. Sweatshirt is spotted with rain. Shorts are damp. The whole place smells of stale sweat and dead cigarettes and urine, but none of it is distinct. It just smells dirty and too settled in.
There is conversation behind the wall that separates passengers and staff. It's jovial and full of good cheer but the high ceiling and hard furniture makes it sound raucous and aggressive. There are intermittent streams of men passing back and forth through the room from the rain outside to the party behind the wall. When they pass by, the rain is more noticeable but it hasn't subsided; it's sounds the same. The men who appear from behind the wall are drunk and happy, and some of them need help walking straight. Some of them can barely see.
There's a stern door with a wire-grilled top half on the far wall. There's an official-looking light above it. No one goes through or comes out of that door. It's just there.
I'm sitting on a bench next to a pile of luggage, legs crossed, reading sections of Coriolanus every now and then. Glances come my way as the men pass by but nobody says anything. It is obvious who we all are in this space.
In a corner is a sackful of coal, or gravel, or dirt - I can't tell which - and a few empty pint bottles of various liquors, some of them fairly old and others quite recently drained. A little removed from this corner is a man, stretched out on the floor, drunk and asleep. I'm watching him, the shape and state of his body, his breathing, his face.
He's filthy. His natural colour has been thoroughly obscured by dirt and his clothes resemble tough dry grease. He seems like a grimy old corn-cob that's been rolled in muck and laid to dry. I wonder how he smells. He's sleeping on his side, his head cushioned by his right hand and a white thermocol helmet is perched on his head. His mouth is wide open but his breath is inaudible.
After a while, I think I notice a slight tremor in his limbs, a gentle wavering in his breath. He's shivering, ever so slightly.
The passing men, inebriated or otherwise, seem amused and embarrassed by him. Once they notice him, they seem nervous that I'm around and they look apologetic. And if normally they'd let him lie, now they seem to feel a need to interact with him.
One of them yells in his ear, trying to wake him. There is no response. He yells again, and then a few more times. He isn't disturbing the Sleeper at all, but he's definitely irritating me.
Another one nudges the helmet with his foot again and again. It quickly becomes a game. He gives the helmet one last hard nudge and dislodges it from the Sleeper's head. He quickly positions it again and shoves it with his foot a few times back onto the Sleeper's head, covering his face partially. He seems suddenly frustrated and gleeful. Then he looks at me watching him, meekly giggles and walks away. The Sleeper sleeps unmoved.
Most of the passing men notice the sleeper, then turn to me watching him and watching them, shrug their shoulders and grin in embarrassment, and walk away like from the scene of a crime. Sometimes they complain loudly to their friends about this damned nuisance.
Of course, some of them don't take notice at all. They bark happily and slap their friends on the back as they pass by rosy-cheeked.
Between the weather, the human traffic, the sounds from behind the wall, my active witness and the Sleeper in our midst, we're moving each other. Something is happening here. But I don't know what it is.
(Do you, Mr. Jones?)
There is conversation behind the wall that separates passengers and staff. It's jovial and full of good cheer but the high ceiling and hard furniture makes it sound raucous and aggressive. There are intermittent streams of men passing back and forth through the room from the rain outside to the party behind the wall. When they pass by, the rain is more noticeable but it hasn't subsided; it's sounds the same. The men who appear from behind the wall are drunk and happy, and some of them need help walking straight. Some of them can barely see.
There's a stern door with a wire-grilled top half on the far wall. There's an official-looking light above it. No one goes through or comes out of that door. It's just there.
I'm sitting on a bench next to a pile of luggage, legs crossed, reading sections of Coriolanus every now and then. Glances come my way as the men pass by but nobody says anything. It is obvious who we all are in this space.
In a corner is a sackful of coal, or gravel, or dirt - I can't tell which - and a few empty pint bottles of various liquors, some of them fairly old and others quite recently drained. A little removed from this corner is a man, stretched out on the floor, drunk and asleep. I'm watching him, the shape and state of his body, his breathing, his face.
He's filthy. His natural colour has been thoroughly obscured by dirt and his clothes resemble tough dry grease. He seems like a grimy old corn-cob that's been rolled in muck and laid to dry. I wonder how he smells. He's sleeping on his side, his head cushioned by his right hand and a white thermocol helmet is perched on his head. His mouth is wide open but his breath is inaudible.
After a while, I think I notice a slight tremor in his limbs, a gentle wavering in his breath. He's shivering, ever so slightly.
The passing men, inebriated or otherwise, seem amused and embarrassed by him. Once they notice him, they seem nervous that I'm around and they look apologetic. And if normally they'd let him lie, now they seem to feel a need to interact with him.
One of them yells in his ear, trying to wake him. There is no response. He yells again, and then a few more times. He isn't disturbing the Sleeper at all, but he's definitely irritating me.
Another one nudges the helmet with his foot again and again. It quickly becomes a game. He gives the helmet one last hard nudge and dislodges it from the Sleeper's head. He quickly positions it again and shoves it with his foot a few times back onto the Sleeper's head, covering his face partially. He seems suddenly frustrated and gleeful. Then he looks at me watching him, meekly giggles and walks away. The Sleeper sleeps unmoved.
Most of the passing men notice the sleeper, then turn to me watching him and watching them, shrug their shoulders and grin in embarrassment, and walk away like from the scene of a crime. Sometimes they complain loudly to their friends about this damned nuisance.
Of course, some of them don't take notice at all. They bark happily and slap their friends on the back as they pass by rosy-cheeked.
Between the weather, the human traffic, the sounds from behind the wall, my active witness and the Sleeper in our midst, we're moving each other. Something is happening here. But I don't know what it is.
(Do you, Mr. Jones?)
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