An extremely evocative, powerful depiction of a young man’s inner turmoil, Lochan. This is a beautifully crafted story about suffering and the human psyche.
Beneath this panegyric, in large letters, the teacher has added: Please at least consider reading this out in class. It would really inspire the others and would be good practice for you ahead of your presentation.
My curiosity aroused, I leaf back through the pages and start reading Lochan’s essay. It’s about a young man, an undergraduate, returning to university in the summer break to find out whether he has got his degree. Joining the throngs that crowd the display boards, the guy discovers to his astonishment that he has received a first, the only one in his department. But instead of elation, he feels only a sense of emptiness, and as he moves away from the crowds of students hugging distressed friends or celebrating with others, nobody seems to notice him, no one even looks in his direction. He receives not one single word of congratulation. My first thought is that this is some kind of ghost story – that this guy, at some point between sitting finals and coming back to find out his results, has died in an accident or something – but an eventual greeting from one of his professors, who manages to mispronounce his name, proves me wrong. The guy is very much alive. Yet, as he turns his back on the department and crosses the quad, he looks up at the tall buildings that surround him, trying to gauge which one will guarantee him a fatal fall.
The story ends and I raise my head from the page, stunned and shaken, blown away by the strength of the prose and suddenly close to tears. I glance across at Lochan, who is drumming his fingers on the carpet, eyes closed, chanting some physics formula under his breath. I try to imagine him writing this tragically poignant piece, and fail. Who could think up such a story? Who would be able to write about something like this so vividly unless they had experienced such pain, such desperation, such alienation themselves . . . ?
Lochan opens his eyes and looks right at me. ‘The force per unit length between long parallel straight current-carrying conductors: F equals mu to the power of zero, iota to the power of one, iota to the power of two over two pi r . . . Oh, for chrissakes let it be right!’
‘Your story is incredible.’
He blinks at me. ‘What?’
‘The English essay you wrote last week.’ I glance down at the pages in my hand. ‘Tall Buildings.’
Lochan’s eyes sharpen suddenly and I see him tense. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I was flicking through your English file and I found this.’ I hold it aloft.
‘Did you read it?’
‘Yes. It’s bloody good.’
He looks away, appearing acutely uncomfortable. ‘It was just taken from something I saw on TV. Could you test me on this now?’
‘Wait . . .’ I refuse to let him brush this aside so easily. ‘Why did you write this? Who’s the story about?’
‘Nobody. It’s just a story, OK?’ He sounds angry suddenly, his eyes darting away from mine.
The essay still in my hand, I don’t move, giving him a long, hard look.
‘You think it’s about me? It’s not about me.’ His voice rises defensively.
‘OK, Lochan. OK.’ I realize I have no choice but to back off.
He is chewing his lip hard, aware that I’m not convinced. ‘Well, you know, sometimes you take a few things from your own life, change them, exaggerate parts,’ he concedes, turning away.
I take a deep breath. ‘Have you ever—? Do you sometimes feel like this?’
I brace myself for another angry reaction. But instead he just gazes blankly at the opposite wall. ‘I think – I think maybe everyone does . . . now and again.’
I realize this is the closest I’m going to get to an admission and his words make my throat ache. ‘But you know – you do know you’ll never ever find yourself alone like the guy in your story, right?’ I say in a rush.
‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’ He gives a quick shrug.
‘Because, Lochan, you’ll always have someone who loves you – just you – more than anybody in the world.’
We are silent for a moment and Lochan goes back to his formulae, but the colour is still high in his cheeks and I can tell he’s not really taking anything in. I glance back down at the teacher’s scrawled message at the end.
‘So, hey – did you ever read this out in class?’ I ask brightly.
He looks up at me with a laboured sigh. ‘Maya, you know I’m crap at stuff like that.’
‘But this is so good!’
He pulls a face. ‘Thanks, but even if that were true, it wouldn’t make any difference.’
‘Oh, Lochie . . .’
Drawing up his knees, he leans back against the couch, turning his head to gaze out of the window. ‘I’ve got to give this damn presentation soon,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t know – I really don’t know what the hell to do.’ He seems to be asking me for help.
‘Did you ask if you could hand it in as a written assignment?’
‘Yes, but it’s that crazy Aussie. I’m telling you, she’s got it in for me.’
‘From the comments and the grades she’s been giving you, it’s clear she thinks pretty highly of you,’ I point out gently.
‘It’s not that. She wants – she wants to turn me into some kind of orator.’ He gives a strained laugh.
‘Maybe it’s time you allowed yourself to be converted,’ I suggest tentatively. ‘Just a little bit. Just enough to give it a go.’
A long silence. ‘Maya, you know I can’t.’ He turns away suddenly, looking out of the window at two boys on bikes doing stunts in the street. ‘It – it feels like people are burning me with their stares. Like there’s no air left in my body. I get the stupid shakes, my heart pounds, and the words just – they just disappear. My mind goes completely blank and I can’t even make out the writing on the page. I can’t speak loud enough for people to hear me, and I know that everyone’s just waiting – waiting for me to fall apart so they can laugh. They all know – they all know I can’t do it—’ He breaks off, the laughter gone from his eyes, his breathing shallow and rapid, as if aware he has already said too much. His thumb rubs back and forth over the sore. ‘Jesus, I know it’s not normal. I know it’s something I’ve got to sort out. And – and I will, I’m sure I will. I have to. How else can I ever get a job? I’ll find a way. I’m not always going to be like this . . .’ He takes a deep breath, tugging at his hair.
‘Of course you’re not,’ I reassure him quickly. ‘Once you’re free of Belmont, the whole stupid school system—’
‘But I’ll still have to find a way to get through uni – and work, after that . . .’ His voice quavers suddenly and I see desperation in his eyes.
‘Have you talked to this English teacher about it?’ I ask. ‘She doesn’t sound too bad, you know. Maybe she could help. Give you some tips. Better than that useless counsellor they forced on you – the one who made you do breathing exercises and asked whether you were breast-fed as a baby!’