spilled ink: Cloying Roses

They say that writing is easy – all you have to do is open a vein, and bleed. It is hoped that with every word we spill, we are one step closer to the authentic self. The spilled ink series encourages everyone to reflect, ponder, and share – to tell stories. With these pieces, we hope to explore the art of writing collectively with BRIDGE and the Waterloo Architecture community.

This creative piece is a fictional short story, exploring people, place, and memory. The story is broken into three parts, each with a different focus: youth, beauty, and the art of space.

Cloying Roses
by Mayuri Paranthahan

I.

And so we drink in the cheap seats, find love between sets. Down your liquor quick darling – we don’t wait for anyone. Maybe that’s the problem.

When you’re young, there’s a tendency – a sort of pressure, almost – to do everything fast. We drink fast. We run fast. We chase girls, boys, even liquor fast. The moments become a blur – a set of scenes running past us. It is only in slight glimpses of self-reflection and deep thought that we truly take the time to consider our lives. Now I’ll tell you a secret: I’m no good at being young. No good at all. So while the others stumbled and fled along, hurling into the evanescent youth, I decided to live slow. I kept my tea strong, my music soft, my conversations hushed. And somehow, one night, I found myself in an array of flushed lights, watching the sweet smoke escape from my lips.

“Smoking a hookah is nothing like smoking a cigarette. Cigarettes are for nervous people, competitive people, people on the run. When you smoke a hookah, you have time to think. It teaches you patience and tolerance, and gives you an appreciation of good company.” It is almost humorous to say that I learned the most about life in a blackened-out, run-down, abandoned storefront on the East side. But I did. It was in a hookah bar that I learned relationships and practiced my senses. I saw smoke, I heard rap, I smelled and tasted fruit. I touched the pipe, the metal cold against my skin from the winter air. The story is set in December.

I was far from home that night, I remember, although the glittering moon above made me feel otherwise. One train, two subways, and a bus ride later – I had arrived. I was with a boy from my past for about five hours. We walked along the East side of Toronto at 4AM and it was not the least bit questionable, because in one night, through one space, I learned the human condition. And what I found was beautiful.

“So I’ll be seeing you, May.”
“You won’t,” I said, smiling. “Truthfully. Maybe we’ll run into each other years later in a coffee shop. You’ll be married or something. It’ll be beautiful.”
“Maybe.”
“I guess this is goodbye then?”
“Yeah. Can I just ask you one thing?”
“Anything.”
“What’d you write on the napkin?”
I laughed. “I wrote what you said.” I rummaged through my purse and pulled out the crumpled thing, setting it in his palm.

(We’re all just walking each other home.)

He examined it, smirking as his eyes met mine again. “Why this?”
“I wanted to remember it,” I claimed. “It puts everything into context, doesn’t it? We’re dying. All of us. And all this in-between stuff… it’s just keeping us busy. All these relationships and interactions and things. No matter what, the story ends the same way. I like it. It sort of… takes the pressure off everything. It reminds you that some things are not as important as you think they are.”

“You’re crazy.”

* * *

My throat was dry as sand, my tongue sickly sweet. I was wearing a burgundy knit, a flared skirt and my mom’s old overcoat from college. The underground wind swept the subway, sending a mass of opened peanuts and old newspapers my way. 11:00 PM. He said he’d be here.

He said he’d be here.

11:47 PM. I see a gorgeous figure standing at the end of the line, making way towards me. Only he would keep a pretty girl waiting. And he did more than that – he drove me insane. His absence lingered in my heart as he floated in and out of my life – days at a time, years apart. Yet, I wasn’t angry that he was late. As soon as I saw him, I had no care in the world. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and we were off. I’ve been to hookah bars before, but he promised me this one would be an experience.

He was right.

I remember thinking the outside was humourous. We were on a dusty strip in downtown Scarborough. Between a rug store and an abandoned joint lay a hunk of cement with a blackened-out swing door and a tiny window on the façade. The night was still. The air was frosty and the stars stood calm like hard chips of light scattered in the sky. In the lot were two cars and a group of old Arab men, lounging on the curb with their cigars. From the outside, you could hear the music blaring. The exterior was absolutely obnoxious. I was ready to turn back. And while I was delivered pieces of the building before even entering it, it was not until my palms pushed open that black swing door that I truly entered a separate world. A beautiful new realm.

I stepped in the space. The lights beamed. The colours swam. The smell of cloying roses absorbed my lungs. A haze of smoke blew my way, blocking my vision for a while. I could feel that the place was warm, dark – intimate. And when that haze of smoke cleared the air, I took a good look at the people. Their faces shined. Their eyes lit up like no starry sky I had ever seen before. That night, I saw youth in its most exquisite form – through patience.

All of a sudden, nothing was fast anymore. The hustle and bustle of drinking quick, making deadlines, needing to be anywhere at anytime – it all disappeared. I watched them grab the pipe gently, sway their heads softly, let their smoke come out slow. The mere act of anything was appreciated in that space. And I truly saw youth for what it was meant to be. It is because we are young that we are passionate, loving life and all it has to offer us. And for the first time, I felt in unity with the strangers that sat before me. We knew the unspoken. That we are careless, crazy, making the same mistakes night after night – but we are here, and we love it here. We are cherishing life one step at a time. Because our only secret is to move slowly and live with people.

II.

“Lastly: kill all your darlings (the sexual especially). Make it unbearable.” – William Faulkner

Immediately, he took lead. Lightly clasping fingertips, we headed to the counter. A man about forty-five or so stood behind it. He examined the place with a pen behind his ear and a thoughtful finger on his lips, bouncing his bald head to the beat of the music.
“Clay!” he shouted in a strong accent. I couldn’t tell of which descent. “How are you man?”
“Not too shabby, and yourself sir?”
“I’m good, I’m good. Nice to see you round’ here again.”
“Always my pleasure.”
The man looked at me invitingly and shot Clay a knowing look, accompanied with a smile.
“So, what can I help you loves with tonight?”
“I think we’re going all-fruit tonight, sir.”
I glanced at the menu behind him. It was lit in neon colours and had only four flavour options. It was just like him to choose the most expensive on the menu.
“Ah, the special. Sit anywhere you like.”
Clay slid over a clean fifty and winked at the man. “Come with me, darling.”
After a walk down the aisle and a short flight of stairs, we reached a sole table that mimicked a balcony. It was significantly darker than the rest of the space, yet the lights still swam over his face from time to time. It was absolutely stunning, the way his face was washed in pink – then white – and then pink again. Dreamy, in a sense.
Our seat looked over the entire space – all the separate tables down below. My eyes hopped table to table as the two of us sat, overlooking the space. In one seat was an older couple – the woman mysterious, the man grungy. He’d lean back in his chair and watch her smoke seductively. And the next table over was a completely different scene. It was a group of high school boys, no older than me, in their snapback hats and varsity jackets, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Not even looking for pretty girls because they were so involved in their conversations. So present with each other. And as my eyes jumped, group-to-group, the sound of film rolling entered my mind and I began to see everything as a set of scenes. All our separate movies playing in the same room. Our various companies and struggles coming into one space in which we are now united. Tonight, we are all here as one, with our darlings. So what do we do? We kill them.
“So,” I smiled.
“So?!” he laughed. “How long has it even been, May? I’ve missed you.” He tightened his grip on my hands.
“I miss you too.” I said, somewhat distantly. I was too occupied by the tapestries behind him. I traced their ornate patterns as he spoke, watching them weave in and out of each other, letting my mind wander. It was all a power game with him. Once I’m out of his control, he cares.
“This place is beautiful,” I whispered, looking up at the ceiling with my hands gripped.
“You always loved buildings, didn’t you?”
I smiled.
“Enlighten me. I want to see what you’re seeing.”
I was ready to explain until I spotted a figure from the corner of my eye. The man from the counter was heading to our seat with an extremely tall golden hookah, decorated in fruits of all colours and vibrancies. The first word that came to mind was ‘lavish’ and I knew it’d arise when associated with Clay. The boy loved money and didn’t understand it.
“Thank you, sir,” Clay patted his back.
The man nodded. “You two enjoy yourselves now.”
I gave him a polite smile and fiddled with the mouthpiece between my fingertips, finally handing it over to him for the first hit. It’d be better if he smoked while hearing this.
“Alright, continue what you were saying.”
“Okay, well, think of everything at once. Take it all in: the music, the smell, the taste – everything. They all compliment each other. Everything is in unison in this space. Now let’s break it down. Let’s only look at the music. Rap. It’s loud enough to liven up the place, but quiet enough that I’m not shouting right now. Perfect for conversation. Everyone around us can’t hear what I’m saying. Only you can. Now let’s think about the fact that it’s rap in the first place. To be honest, from outside, I was a little turned off by it. But now that I’m inside, I get it. It’s poetry. Rap is poetry and right now, we’re listening to stories in music-form while speaking of our own stories. Man as the storytelling animal. That’s all we do if you think about it. We tell stories.”
He sat there quietly, just examining me as I spoke. He always made me so damn nervous.
“Go on. Tell me more. I love your voice.”
I froze for a bit, just watching the smoke escape his mouth, thick and milky.
“No,” I replied. “Now you tell me. You know the owner so you must come here a lot. What do you like about it?”
He looked down, clearly in deep thought, and smiled, the golden mouthpiece still in between his teeth. “The light.”
“What about it?”
“I love… that it’s dark.”
I felt the word when he said it. Dark. I could barely see him when the lights moved and the smoke rose. He chose the dimmest spot in the space.
“You like the dark?”
“I do. I don’t know it… it’s dark enough for mystery. It’s dark enough to feel like we’re in a whole other world. That’s why I love coming here.”
I remained silent, simply absorbing his sentences. I remember thinking it was absolutely beautiful, what he said. It stuck in my mind for months. Perhaps I was using the space to figure him out – to understand him. Because I never could, and I never completely will.
But in that moment, sitting there with him, I truly understood beauty. I saw the space as beautiful, I saw him as beautiful. Even the strangers below us occupied my mind. And it’s mind-blowing, because man is evil. Man is ugly. Man is messy, harmful – doomed. Yet it wasn’t until then that I saw the glory in it all. I was unable to see people as ‘beautiful’ until I saw them in a beautiful space, in beautiful context.

And it was glorious.

III.

He hands me the pipe. It’s been a while since I’ve smoked the stuff, but just the smell of it brings me back. I set the mouthpiece to my lips, gently pulling in the air. He’s watching me carefully now. The water ripples and bubbles, swishing together. I inhale strong, tasting the flavour on my tongue, letting the music rip through my ears. It reminds me of African daisies and blood milk and I am in love. I watch the coal flicker, sparks flying. Dusty ashes pile up on our table now. Finally, I let the smoke out, opening my mouth wide as it exits – thick and full. When the smoke clears, he is still staring intently. There is a long pause of silence. I squint my eyes and look at him.
“In our… year or so, of absence… have you thought about me?” I ask.
“All the time. I always think of calling you but I usually stop myself.”
“Why?”
“Because… absence is good. Absence is necessary. It makes you appreciate one another more. Look at us now. Right now. This night is special because it’s rare.”
“It has been a good night,” I admit.
His lips break out into a smile.
“I’ll always remember you, May. I’ll think about you and all of this.”
Our hands enclose and I can feel his fingers locking together with mine.
I stare back at him, knowing that this will soon be a memory, like all the others. That he will be gone – absent from my life for another year or so. I remember it making me sad just thinking about it, knowing that he’d only be there now, across from me at that table. That this moment would only exist for a night.
But I wasn’t bitter about it. I never had been. Because in the midst of it all, I knew what the night had meant to me, what it did for me, and what it was creating for my character as it played out. It was this place that he brought me to that is stuck in my mind. Every time I recall it I think of all the things I’ve learned here – youth, beauty, patience, time and art – and ultimately, the importance of space. All the things I love and value now. But right there, in that moment, I was so present. So present with the people, the sounds, the touch, the taste and look of it all. I was invested in the dialogue – conversations of my own and those overheard. I breathed connections here. Through the wonder of people, I found love. And in the words of Raymond Carver:

“I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mayuri Paranthahan is an eighteen-year old with an affinity for literature and the city. Her passions lie in digital collage and writing. Mayuri contributes photography and writing to Eternal Remedy @ eternalremedy.com. She is currently a first year student at the University of Waterloo School of Architecture.