Keyhole

The rats sneak in and out of the tiny little cracks and open crevices. The sunlight, moonlight and the street light peep into the tiniest and most unreachable of corners. And yet she was quite oblivious to all of it. Living her own zone, she was quite happy to let those components be a part of her universe. It all started with her moving into my next door apartment.

I never craved for any sort of company whatsoever. But then, curiosity is the mother of all fuck-ups, I should have known that. On one more of those “just passing” days, I was busy being myself – nothing. And then a faint noise of a beautiful feminine voice shook me up from my drudgery. Driven by what sounded like a voice from the heaven, a transcendental, an ethereal voice, I was driven – driven enough to check out the bearer of such soulful voice. Manners, however, taught me a different thing.

Days passed by and passed by some more. Nothing much happened. Events kinda reach a standstill when your mind is too preoccupied with something or even nothing. All that stayed in my mind was her voice and this aching curiosity to see her, to catch a glimpse.

Then came that fateful day, or shall I say the fatal day! I guess these things happen when you let the curiosity get the better of you. I peeped into the keyhole of the connecting door. At first, I could only catch a glimpse of the TV that was playing some sitcom. I was transfixed to the keyhole like a desperate “down-on-luck” fucker wanting some kind of inspiration.

Inspiration for what, you may ask, but then that is for later. I stayed there hoping for her to make an appearance. And there she did. She appeared. Dressed in a short t-shirt and her customized denim shorts, she was visibly comfortable in her space. She was jiving across the room and she, from whatever I could capture, seemed like one of those, who desperate fucks like us fall for in the novels of Raymond Chandler and get wasted. But my mind was obviously not in the mood for any kind of rationale or logical reasoning. I guess I was riding too high on testosterone and it had taken control of my mind.

Nonetheless, who gives a fuck! So, yeah, there I was – pinned to the keyhole and savoring and drinking her existence. Time reached a standstill while I was at it and I spent hours by the clock; but just moments in my mind enjoying every drop of her that was visible.

As days seemed to move on, this became a fixation. I just waited for the sun to rise so that I could cater to my new found vocation. Thriving on her became my source to pleasure. The blank canvas in my room that was waiting like a virgin girl to be stroked finally felt some wetness embrace her as I started oscillating between the keyhole and the canvas. Gulping every drop of her serene body, I took the paint brush in my hand and started to put it out on the canvas. Incomplete in the tangible sense of the term; but beautiful nonetheless, in no time, I created many a paintings of hers over the next few days. Then one day, I happened to meet her at the alley of our floor and boy, did she look divine! I came back to my apartment and started painting some more. This time, I had her face to complete my imagination as well.

Days turned into weeks and then into months as my addiction turned into an obsession. There were moments when I would hear her moans. I felt a stream of current running through my spine every time I heard those loud moans. There is a price for every commodity, I suppose.

I withdrew for sometime as the frequency of those moans increased. I sat in a corner of my apartment with my ears still fixed to the adjoining walls; but eyes far away from the keyhole. My eyes were fixed to the paintings I had drawn and my ears were still throbbing with her loud and passionate moans. Strangely enough, I never made a conscious effort to shut that noise too. I was living it up on her screams and my imagination. Mind has this amazing ability to connect the dots and create a picture. Picture, I thought, wasn’t a bad idea. I could make a picture.

I went to my laptop and started typing.  Using the paintings as a reference point, I started to write. Now, this became my singular obsession. Her voices, paintings, and my computer were my vocation now. Before I could even realize, I had structure something that looked like an excuse of a story. I started looking through the keyhole again and was savoring her antics. Her escapades became not only a release for her; but for me too.

A few months later, I stepped out of my apartment to go out shopping when I bumped into her.

Hi, she said.

Hey there, I replied.

What’s up? Haven’t seen you around in long. Been busy, have you? She asked.

Ah, nothing much. I was just killing time.

I see. Do you wanna come over for a cup of coffee? She asked.

Sure, I said.

I felt a chill as she escorted me into her apartment. Strangely, there was a sense of familiarity with the place. I entered and looked for the keyhole which had been my window into her. As I continued to look at it, she asked from the kitchen…

Make yourself comfortable. Switch on the TV if you want. And yeah, sugar?

2 spoons, I said.

In a matter of few mins, she walked out of the kitchen with 2 mugs of coffee. We sat there right opposite the keyhole. I sipped the coffee and she asked, “So how’s it been?”

How’s what been?

Your experience?

My experience with what?

Through the keyhole?

Flummoxed is what I was.

Oh, come on. You think I didn’t know?

I tried to beat around the bush; but realized there was no point of it, so I said “It’s been good”

Just good?

Ah, no. In fact, it’s been great. I have made quite a few paintings. So, you really have been a source of inspiration, you know.

A source of inspiration? Wow, now, come on. Stop trying to flatter me.

No, really, I am serious.

Yeah right! So, show me your paintings.

Hesitantly, I took her to my apartment through the adjoining door. As she walked into my apartment, she looked at the keyhole of the door and “So, this is where you looked at me from, huh. I’m not sure; you would have really discovered a whole lot about me through this tiny hole.

I showed her the paintings and she said, “Those are incomplete. They are just fragments.”

Yeah, like you said, that was all I could discover about you through that hole. The rest is in my mind.

I see, she said and started to take a stroll around my apartment and saw my laptop screen open and the story I had written was there. So, you write too and she took control of my laptop. She started reading it and said “So, this is where your mind pours out, huh?

I didn’t know what to do.

Before, I could say anything; she said “Ok, now that the cat is out of the bag; why not talk about it?”

I really apologize for everything that has happened here. I do understand this is quite distasteful; but…

Well, let’s cut the bull shit out, shall we? You know you’re not one bit apologetic about what you did and I am not either.

And then…

I want you to film it…

Film what, I asked

The stuff that you have written…

You must be kidding me, I said

Well, you really think so?

Not sure of how to take it, I was blank.

I want you to film it. I want you to film me.

And?

And in return, you get to retain your keyhole. Is that a deal?

A pause filled the spaces for a few mins as I thought through what she just said and then…

Yes, I think that is a deal.