The Living Mannequin - Sreelekha Chatterjee
Whenever I touched my body, I experienced the warmth of life—throbbing of veins indicated its existence, fingers pressed against the skin felt an inexplicable movement, perhaps of the cytoplasm, cells, tissues, organs. I wondered whether the living cells sensed emotions or carried out duties mechanically. A dead man lacked the affection of life, whose touch was ice-cold, scary, inviting a dread that humans weren’t immortal. In death a human became a mannequin who didn’t need to cover up the naked body nor struggle with the stings of emotions. Was a body without feelings equivalent to a dead entity?
I’d actually become like one possessed, standing in the community park, with the sky above me and hundreds of living souls around me waiting to get a glimpse of their favorite politician. Were they all living mannequins like me—excited voices roaring out of dead souls? I had been present there with a purpose that wasn’t my own, fed with an unremitting sense of a responsibility, an assignment to destroy the environment, the peace, the faith that the people gathered there had for their leader, for one another.
I could feel the ticking of the time bomb that was attached to my belly. A cold shudder ran through me when I imagined that my body—a twenty-year-old woman’s body—would be lifeless on a single push of a button, the one that dictated my death, my inevitable end. I’d be thrown away like the naked mannequins in the glittering showrooms when they looked shabby, lacked the luster even after draped in expensive clothes that was needed to attract customers. But after the blast I wouldn’t be a mannequin in a single piece—my hands, legs, or any other body part could be missing. I knew I was beautiful, resembled Greek goddesses known for their beauty, at least that’s what I was told over and over again, and didn’t wish to appear mutilated, ugly after death. But what else could be done. I had chosen this for myself.
I’d proved to be more acquiescent than was expected by my husband who convinced me that it was necessary to protest against the wrong-doings of those alien to our views, ideologies; who played with our feelings and never agreed to give us our promised land. We were reminded innumerable times about being deprived of the privileges enjoyed by the fortunate class. Perhaps our demands were infinite, always focused on the prejudices, ignorance, iniquities of life—faced by every living being—rather than the abundance of happiness that was already present and waiting to be recognized. We’d reached a deadlock over our repeated expectations; our uncontrolled desires; reckless aspirations, devoid of consideration, sensitivity, and empathy for others, as the never-ending game of survival demanded aggression, opportunistic approach, disregarding the needs of fellow human beings. My husband said that I was the blessed one who had been chosen for the supreme sacrifice that would lead me to heaven. On remembering my husband, I looked around to search for him. He was somewhere in the crowd, maintaining a safe distance from me, so that he could run away and didn’t get hurt when the bomb blew off. A man who’d vowed to take care of me, to stand by me, and save me in moments of crisis had schemed my death. After all, women were not respected, they were treated as mannequins that could be raped, mauled, tormented, sacrificed at any instant to fulfill the horrendous desires of dark souls.
I recalled how I dodged the security check at the entrance of this park. The security personnel thought that I was an expecting mother, and allowed me to pass without checking the murder weapon that I was pregnant with. Most probably women were still trusted, respected, barring a few who maltreated them.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden announcements that came from the stage at the center of the park. A few yards away from me was the famous politician who was campaigning for the elections, whom people loved or pretended to love for their own selfish means. I couldn’t tell for sure whether they were all living beings beaming with enthusiasm or machines like me that were charged with a particular sentiment. Was it possible for thousands of people to share the same passion? Was it possible to look up to someone like this political leader with uncontested faith? I took a closer look at the grey-haired politician clad in white kurta–pyjama. An inextinguishable radiance was all over his round face, a glitter of intelligence in his eyes, a strange sharpness mingled with child- like innocence in his unanimated features. My eyes at length dropped to his hands—where his power seemed to be concentrated—that moved with an unusual vigor as he waved at scores of people assembled there.
The whistling and cheering of the spectators went louder and louder but the sound couldn’t surpass the noise of my wild heart—burdened with an insincere purpose—beating faster and faster with every passing minute, as though someone was hammering my chest with fists, nullifying the treacherous ticking of the time bomb. Was it the prick of conscience?
Within a few minutes, something drastically changed within me as I rose from my lifeless state and decided that I couldn’t be a murderer influenced by my husband’s choice. I cleaved a way for myself through the crowd, determined to reach a policeman who was standing near the stage, oblivious to his surrounding, his attention solely fixed on the leader. Battling against the surge of people providing resistance to move ahead, I reached him. Sensing my presence beside him, he glanced at me with his eyebrows knit in a frown. Suppressing the multitude of emotions that were struggling within me, I pulled him closer to me and almost put my mouth into his ear with an intention to disclose that I was carrying a bomb and wished to surrender myself, my views, my emotions, my confused sense of living. A vague yet faithful need to start afresh, to believe in humanity, to rejoice on seeing a great leader, and above all, to respect people distinctively transformed my self, as I sensed a relief from the dutiful determination of performing a sinful act; an independence from the shackles of lethal prejudices forcefully infused in me.
“Please arrest me.” I said nervously without any introduction, rising above the rumble of the excited voices around us.
“What?” His face was livid with anger as he made a curt gesture of annoyance by momentarily averting his face from me and then turning back at me with arched eyebrows. Perhaps he couldn’t hear me clearly, I thought. Without further ado, I pulled the kurta above my belly so that he could get to see the red-colored bomb, with multiple wires attached to my body like a belt around my waist. He closed his eyes misconstruing my action to be indecent, walked a few steps ahead in that state, so that his back faced me, and said, nodding his head vigorously, “I’m not that type of man…”
I pulled the kurta back over my belly. I didn’t know how to motivate him to turn his face towards me and make him realize the gravity of the situation.
“Listen…” I shouted with an unnatural desperation which forced him to look at me.
“No, just leave, you mad woman…” He commanded vehemently, his body shaking with an uncontrollable tremor.
Without giving up, I moved towards him and said softly, “Please try to understand…”
My words triggered an unexpected response in him, as he waved his right hand in a bid to shoo me away from there. In the process, his hand accidently touched my belly, and his fingers landed on the fatal button, followed by explosion of the bomb. Next, it was my worthless shadow mingling with my body, in midst of violent screams and incomprehensible turmoil; my senses failing me; and then everything plunged into impenetrable darkness.
A fraction of seconds afterwards the park was like a battlefield where life lost to death and disfigured bodies of thousands of mannequins crowded the floor. Among them was the mannequin of a beautiful woman.
“That’s how it’d happen… The whole ground would be devastated just like these dolls.” A cheerful voice was heard from nowhere.
Was I still alive? Or, was it possible to hear human voices even after death?
A dark, starless sky had veiled the environment, radiating an evil aura. The day had lost its physiognomy while night took its place forever. Amidst the remains of the lost souls enshrouded in the dense, grey mist of failed values, ideals, clouded in self-centeredness, a group of five men stood roaring with laughter, clapping their hands, and shouting in ecstasy. They were the ones who violated the rules of living, facilitated in devastating humanity. They lived within us, their unending, irrational expectations congealed into implacable hatred and frustration, thus obscuring the necessary dictates of the living.
Originally published by Indian Short Fiction 2015
Sreelekha Chatterjee’s short stories have been published in various magazines and journals like Indian Periodical, Femina, Indian Short Fiction, eFiction India, The Criterion, The Literary Voyage, Writer’s Ezine, and Estuary, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies such as Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series (Westland Ltd, India), Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), and several others.
You can connect with her on Facebook at facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1/, on Twitter @sreelekha001, and Instagram @sreelekha2023.
