When Saxena woke up from sweaty dreams one day, he figured waking up every morning wasn’t working out that well for him. His phone, which had been reading his mind all its lifetime, notified him of the new local store which had opened near him and how he was certainly missing out. The store was named A Wet Cloudy Morning and guaranteed happiness. There was a cloud of mystery as to what exactly it was selling, but as long as the advertisement budget was big enough, one was motivated to not care.
The store was at the edge of an upper class neighborhood. It was formerly a strip mall but now like other self respecting malls had turned itself abandoned. The store front was extremely vanilla and gave no indication of what was sold. There was a notice at the front door saying that the store specialized in emo-tech.
Saxena was familiar with emo-tech. It was mostly nostalgia porn — things like a canvas with wires you could hook to your brain to allow projection of a cherished memory (in B&W, color, or for something extra even your favorite film simulation); a candy which could bring back flavors from your childhood, a Walkman which could play lost lullabies and so on. It was a shopping mall for people with past worth remembering. Saxena knew he would not find anything here because unlike the target audience he wasn’t searching for any lost happiness. He looked around for someone who could help him. There was only one employee in the whole store and he was manning the cash register. Perhaps the storekeeper or the owner.
The storekeeper was in his 70s, or perhaps early 80s, had an angular face, protruding cheekbones, and glasses which were drooping down his exceptionally long nose. And had a head full of thick black hair, Saxena wondered whether this was his real hair or not, it was that astonishingly thick. He was reading a book whose front cover was so rolled up its own ass that the title looked like an obfuscated password.
“Excuse me, do you have anything for people like me?” Saxena asked the storekeeper. After he said that, he realized he hadn’t qualified the people like me. But the storekeeper seemed to know what he meant because instead of a cordial greeting he grunted his displeasure and asked Saxena to follow.
Through narrow alleys of items assembled on top of each other without any apparent order, and always in danger of falling down, Saxena followed him to a backroom. The room was so dusty it reminded him of his father’s office which used to store decaying paper applications of people. There were multiple cupboards and a desk in the room. Clearly looked like a storeroom of sorts. The cupboard storekeeper walked up to had one of those padlocks which could be opened by a tickle. It also had enough dust on it to create sand castles. The old man opened it with a very small key.
The cupboard was much bigger from the inside than from the outside. It would be perfect if a rabbit jumped out from it at that very moment. Compared to the rest of the shop, this cupboard had very common objects, and a lots of bottles. And it smelled like the next decade’s sadness was stored here.
“Here, take this soap.” The storekeeper picked up a scrub from behind one of the bottles.
Saxena had not even told the old man what he was looking for but he couldn’t let minor surprises come in the way of real questions.
“How much is it?” Saxena asked.
“Just take it. It’s promotional material. You are the first customer in the store who couldn’t find something for themselves on their own.” The storekeeper said tossing it in his hands.
“Well, is there a manual or something, what is it supposed to do?” Saxena asked finally breathing air into his system after the shopkeeper closed the cupboard.
“It will scrub off your home from you. It’s a donation from Prof. Mishra to the store. He would give this to his maids and servants to scrub off their accents, family, and culture before they entered his house. It lasts only a day so use repeatedly.” He said.
Saxena walked out of the store with the scrub wrapped in a paper. The shopkeeper refused to offer a bag for it. Back at his house, he took it out and tried to rub it gently on the arm. Nothing happened, he still remembered everything as it was. Perhaps this needed more effort than just a gentle rub, he thought.
He took a shower, filled up the bathtub and sat down with the scrub. It was much easier to scrub when he was all wet. Was he supposed to target memories to scrub? The storekeeper had said that this will scrub his home, so maybe it was best to start with memory of childhood home’s small courtyard, or the neighbors who shared a wall with them? Or perhaps his father?
He didn’t even realize but in no time he was scrubbing so hard his skin started to peel back.
When he got up from the bath, his skin was raw like a bird freshly hatched from an egg. After he gingerly dried himself with a towel he tried to judge the success of the scrub by testing his memories. Allowing the thoughts to think themselves in.
The experience was very analogous to using a bad eraser on a paper, it did erase things but also left a lot of residue — black marks. Things felt a bit hazy, but over the next few hours he got more clarity around the kind of effect the scrub has had. It made him feel like he had no people or rather people in his life were not real people but characters from a novel or a TV series. It wasn’t like their impact on his life had gone, but he felt the impact in a distant third person way. It seemed like everything that had happened to him had happened to that guy. He was a spectator in his own life, his life was happening on the screen and he was watching everything sitting on the couch with popcorn spilled around him. The plot still sucked but at least he wasn’t living and breathing it.
It just lasted a day like the storekeeper said. Even though it was a painful experience because scrubbing so hard hurt, he didn’t mind doing it the next day and the day after. But over the next iterations, the experience started to lower in strength. Maybe I should have rubbed harder, he thought with every passing day. That is when he started rubbing it twice a day, more vigorously each time. But there wasn’t any impact of the scrub frequency or the ferocity on the state of distant feeling he had. Each day, even though he scrubbed it harder and longer, brought him more and more back into his life, back into the screen.
After a week the scrub had lost its magic and it was just a scrub now and he was left with a lot less skin and arm hair. He knew he had to go back to the Wet Cloudy Morning, because he had to ask for something more, something stronger.
“This doesn’t work anymore,” he told the storekeeper. “It was amazing when it worked but somehow the effect has expired and now its just a regular scrub. Even after repeated use.”
Saxena looked like a roasted tomato. The shopkeeper sighed. He was not interested in improving Saxena’s life but Saxena’s peeled off skin made him feel pity.
“Well, what do you suggest we do?” the storekeeper asked.
“Do you have something better? Something stronger or longer lasting?” Saxena said.
The storekeeper locked his register, took his bunch of keys and signaled Saxena to follow him to the back room. This time there was some one else in the room too. He was a stocky fellow in his 80s with lush dark magnificent hair which would shame even the shopkeeper’s though the base skeleton felt the same but it was certainly the storekeeper’s hair on steroids. He even wore glasses similar to the storekeeper. His face was a lot more full and round though and had a long nose, just like the storekeeper’s. He was sitting behind the wooden desk and reading from a stack of papers. His shirt sleeve was rolled up and he was marking up stuff on the papers using a fountain pen. He was sweating even though the room was cool. Perhaps because of the intense pressure from whatever hard thinking he was doing.
The seated man did not even lift his head to acknowledge their entry into the room.
The storekeeper opened the same cupboard (it had been wiped clean, and not dusty at all), and even though Saxena was ready for it this time, it was difficult to escape the stench. The storekeeper picked up a razor blade from behind the bottles this time.
“Another from Prof Mishra’s collection. You all owe it to him. To use this, insert this blade into your skin while thinking about your stuff at 45°angle then turn it towards your face and pull it out at the first instance you feel the pinch.” Said the storekeeper pointing the blade at him through his instructions.
“That sounds very painful.” Saxena said.
“Those are the instructions from Prof Mishra,” said the storekeeper trying to remember if he was supposed to add anything.
“And this one is permanent?” Even though Saxena had a high pain tolerance he was mindful of death by a thousand cuts.
“What do you mean permanent? There is no such thing as permanent, kid. Except perhaps one and you probably know what that is.” The store keeper said and for the first time the man behind the wooden desk looked towards them with a reprimanding look towards the storekeeper. Saxena wondered if the sitting man was the actual owner of the store.
As a reflex reaction, Saxena also looked at him seeking a second opinion. The man looked like a wizard who knew of stuff nobody was supposed to know of. He nodded in approval to a question Saxena had not even thought of asking.
“Well, I just wanted to know if you could tell me how long the effect from this procedure is supposed to last?” Saxena asked the storekeeper but meant it for the other man.
The storekeeper also looked at the man perhaps seeking an input, then said, “As long as you could handle it.”
Saxena realized he would need to figure it out.
Back home in his bed, with the blade unwrapped, Saxena thought of things he needed to forget. He wished one day someone would create a painless delete all cookies button for memory.
But it was not today. He took out the blade from its paper wrap. First he checked for any rust. Satisfied with the state of the blade he then put it next to his skin.
Think something, insert blade, 45° and out.
An hour later he had cut himself in so many places he felt like he was on fire. His skin burned and bled, but the pain had not set in. The adrenaline was still kicking in. He even took a shower before collapsing on his bed. He thought about applying some betadine but almost immediately a thin veil of sleep fell over him, as if he had taken a long run in the sun. When he woke up a few hours later, his cuts were ready to dissolve the memories.
He made himself some tea to kick him back into consciousness after sleep, but today what he felt wasn’t just run of the mill caffeine gains, he felt like he was in resonance with the surroundings. He was able to listen to the wind like it was the fifth symphony, the lizard on the wall was now a soprano, and he knew which way the leaf on the money plant was going to turn. He had been transformed into a meditator with 20,000 hours of meditation under his belt.
Moreover, his sadness was not abstract anymore, it was an object he could see and touch. His memories and sadness were packaged neatly together as a globe now, no sharp corners, rounded, and sitting outside his body. They were not very happy in that globe and were trying to push out, perhaps finding it hard to breath. He was still aware of their existence but well, they were in a fucking globe, he could just walk away.
At least for the next 10 days or so.
Unlike with the scrubber, he didn’t lose the ability but each passing day brought him more physical pain (well he did need to cut himself to re-up) and an unexpected side effect — his cuts were gaining consciousness, they were becoming more and more alive with each passing day. Each with their own backstory and a previous life.
And they talked non-stop about their life. They were moaning about it, they had it better before, they were longing for the past they said. As if the cuts were from his alternate reality where things had gone right for him. He started wearing long sleeves just to not have them chatter all the time. But they invaded his head thinking and talking constantly, even when he was asleep.
They would whisper in the day and scream at night. They were depressed and sad. They were not ready to spend the lifetime in darkness, they said.
He stopped showering, took more and more sleep meds to avoid any nighttime chatter. Ultimately he stopped cutting himself, thinking that may relieve him of these nostalgia freaks, but they were like a djinn out of bottle.
Maybe the store would have something to dull them out, he thought and decided to go back.
The storekeeper was checking out a customer at the cash register when Saxena walked in. The customer had purchased a ring, and seemed very happy with it.
The storekeeper thanked the woman for her purchase and sighed at Saxena.
“It works, but there is an aftereffect and it is very bad. And please don’t ask me to explain.” Saxena told the storekeeper by rushing to the register as soon as the woman was done.
“You have a strong memory.” The storekeeper said. “You saw the woman who was here before you? She bought a ring which is supposed to reignite memories of her marriage. I guess it is falling apart. I didn’t ask but I think it is for her husband? Maybe he has the same finger size as her. Anyway, unlike you, people come to my store to remember. In fact that is what I thought I would name it initially — The Remembrance. But then the others didn’t agree.” The storekeeper rambled on as he fixed things with his cash register.
“You have been very kind, Sir.” Saxena replied.
The storekeeper walked to the same old backroom with Saxena. Saxena briefly wondered as to why the storekeeper was interested in helping him at all. He had already seen that the store had a steady flow of customers (compared to other emo-tech places) plus Saxena never looked like he would be much help with the word of mouth publicity anyway. Perhaps the storekeeper felt some odd connection with him? It would be the first time so Saxena didn’t mind.
The man from last time was here again today seated against the same desk and he again didn’t register their presence.
“Here, take this.” The storekeeper offered what looked like a nail gun.
“This is a nail gun. Another one from prof Mishra’s collection from Allahabad University and he called it his …sorry I forgot. Perfect for my use as a history scholar he said.” The storekeeper said.
Saxena gingerly held the gun, he was still seething from the cuts and the thought of injecting nails into his cuts made him shiver. The other man glanced at him from his reading.
“Does it hurt?” the man asked after putting the papers down.
“What?” Saxena replied.
“Whatever used to hurt?” The man said.
“Have you used this?” Saxena questioned him back pointing to the nail gun.
“Yes.” He replied.
“Does it hurt?”
“I guess not, no one told me so.” He replied.
“Is this the last stage or the final thing you have to offer here?” Saxena didn’t want to come back again and again and go back to chop himself up in smaller pieces.
The storekeeper didn’t reply.
“I am ready to pay if there is anything better.” Saxena added.
“You already are.” The man in the chair said with a smile that Saxena didn’t appreciate. Just by speaking he had lost that wizard’s aura. Saxena was getting irritated by his presence. The man’s eyes met storekeeper’s and the storekeeper sighed.
“I don’t have any product for forgetting things. They don’t sell well. That’s why I am offering you stuff for free. The idea is that you will bring them back though.” The storekeeper said.
The shopkeeper caressed his hair back with his hand and left the nail gun out of the cupboard for Saxena. “Let me know if you don’t need it. I will lock it up. I have to attend to the register now.”
Saxena tossed the nail gun in his hand, trying to guess how much pain it could inflict.
The man on the chair took a sugar cube from a bag he had kept hidden so far and then dip a corner into the coffee to watch it soak it up over next five seconds. He then discarded the soaked cube in the dustbin.
“Focus on the sugar cube. Watch it soak it up. Count the grains and the seconds. Don’t think of anything else.” The man said.
He pulled another chair next to him and signaled Saxena to sit there. Saxena picked up a cube from the bag and fiddled with it. Then he lowered it into the coffee like the man.
The storekeeper produced a kettle full of coffee and kept it at the table. As soon as Saxena dipped it in the coffee, it became the center of the scene, quite literally. It became bigger and bigger and soon there was nothing else in the room. The surroundings just vanished as the cube’s sides filled up the edges of what he could see.
The coffee started to climb up the cube like a building crashing down in reverse. The world was a sugar cube now. Except his cuts, they were still trying to say something. If he paid them any attention, he would realize that they were drowning. Something very similar to coffee was oozing from them. His shirt was wet and smelled of coffee. It wasn’t because he was sweating rather it was the cuts bubbling and gasping for air.
Half an hour later one could mistake Saxena for a life sized drinking bird toy. A big pile of used cubes were melting besides him. It was half an hour of not thinking about anything and just disappearing away. His fingers had pruned but he showed no signs of letting up. The cuts were silent, dead now.
The man on the chair got up and stood behind Saxena. He had placed some bottles around Saxena to collect the liquid oozing out from his cuts. He rubbed Saxena behind his neck like looking for a vein. Then he marked a small circle using a sharpie.
“Did you feel that?” the man whispered to Saxena. Saxena continued to pull sugar cubes from the sack and dip them into the coffee.
It was a feeling Saxena had not felt before with the previous two emo-techs. It was different than magic. Magic could wear off. And it did. This felt like it could go on forever.
The storekeeper fumbled at his register and continued to look away from them. The man had picked up the nail gun from where the storekeeper had left it. The man rolled up Saxena’s shirt a little to reveal the cuts. He then squeezed and milked Saxena’s cuts like a lemon to collect the final drops of the coffee like thing in bottles.
He placed all the bottles in the cupboard. Saxena was unmoved, he was still very much working through the cubes. The man stood right behind him with the nail gun. He saw the storekeeper watching him with an almost unmistakable melancholy in his eyes. The man moved the nail gun away and packed it behind the bottles in the cupboard.
He moved out of the room with one of the bottles. He sat in a chair next to the storekeeper at the register, took few drops from the bottle and applied it to his hair. The storekeeper also used some to massage his scalp.
“He will thank us if he grows old,” said the man.
The storekeeper looked at him questioningly, perhaps wondering if the man was actually serious about it.
The man absolutely believed in what he said.
The storekeeper picked up a tiny hair oil bottle and kept it inside the backroom before locking it from the outside leaving Saxena to work through the cubes.
