Bench 24

I first saw her staring at me from an alley along Jawaharlal Road. It was daytime then, and I didn’t consider it flirtiest, as I was a sweat soaked white man obviously looking lost. Her dark eyes had pierced the shadows and seemed to clutch my weak mind. That was yesterday. Now, twelve hours later I am sitting here on a rusted metal bench watching sleeping ferryboats floating in the polluted waters of the Hugli River.

The note that arrived at my hotel by bicycle courier, simply said, “Meet me. K.” I sat on the edge of my bed letting the noisy window air conditioner attempt to lower my body temperature and turned the note over twice.

“Meet me. K.” Why did I know it was from her? It had to be the eyes and an unspoken message from earlier. I felt it in my soul.

Last night I dined alone. The crisp service, however, couldn’t break my mood. I had scanned the room so much that my waiter approached and in broken English asked if I had lost someone. My dinner of tomato kashundi, bekti meuniere with lemon butter, and rice pudding arrived with the elegance of royalty and I dined like a King. My thoughts though were consumed with the shadow, the eyes, the perfect face in the darkness. Although, various humans crossed my view, I didn’t see her, and sat for an hour with a foiled expectation of an encounter.

I stood on the curb and waited for the valet to hail a rickshaw for my return to the hotel. I had about determined that the note was misdirected and I had let my imagination rampage like a 1920’s “B” movie. The rickshaw ride would be slow and allow my digestion to settle from the spiced food. My transportation arrived and I settled in to the wicker seat for my journey. We started moving and eventually slid into a sea of other rickshaws. There was a bump on the carriage and I tipped my hat back to see a bicycle rider holding out a slip of paper to me. At first I thought he was another beggar; however, he dropped the note and rode on in the opposite direction.

“Bench 24. 3 AM meet me, please.”

I tucked the note into my shirt pocket and when I stepped up to the security gate of my hotel I asked the guard, “are there numbered benches somewhere?”

He looked at me like I guessed I must have sounded—totally confused. Finally, he said something to another guard and they laughed. Then he turned back to me.

“Many directions are given by locations of benches along the river—distance from the second bench to a market and the like.”

That was the first time I had even noticed the benches. Indeed, I had only once crossed the busy thoroughfare and that was to take a picture of the crowded boat traffic. I guess the benches had been there, but invisible to camera toting tourist.

“Bench 24.” The guard scarcely noticed my out loud thoughts as I made my way through the gate.

I made my way to the bar and ordered a bottle of Himalayan bottled water. I have always tried to order local products, avoiding the Coke and Pepsi battles for simple pure water; perhaps it was my connections with similar industries that were causing the clandestine plans.

I strained to think about the bench, and the notes. I had to follow though, just to find out.

I dozed only moments in a overstuffed chair, sitting along a wall in the hotel lobby, before the desk clerk alerted me it was 2:30 AM I rubbed my eyes and pulled my raincoat around my shoulders. Minutes later I stood on the steps of the grand hotel and counted as many benches as I could see along the river’s edge. I finally decided to walk to one end and count, at least there would be a 50/50 chance I would find number 24.

From the right side of the hotel I guessed it was about a kilometer walk to the first bench, which butted against a jetty. I counted the benches as I walked. The 24th was directly in front of my hotel. I plopped onto the damp steel; my coat will have to be cleaned.

And, here I sit waiting.