Girl in the Shadow -- Hilath's Home Page

by Hilath

“Going for the jog?” The ritual question.

“Yeah, seven o’clock, right?” My ritual answer.

It never fails to amaze me why humans have to play this game. The game of communication. But then relations will be no more if this mode of communication broke down, right? Though there is a superficial tone to it.

So it is. Every afternoon at six o’clock sharp—just an hour before our jogging spree—my friend Nahid, will give me a ring to see whether I would go jogging that night. It is but of course a formality. He knows I would. That getting into shape—to get rid off all those fat in the wrong places—is my topmost priority. Not for health reasons. But to look good. To fit into those clothes that I see in the windows of hip clothing stores in Male. To look good in somebody else’s eyes. No one in particular. No one yet.

Actually, the Six O’clock Phone Call became more of a confirmation ring when both Nahid and I broke the habit of jogging each and every night. It was not that I was tired or anything. Even a long day’s work at my office desk cannot justify a tiredness that deserves my absence from jogging, exercise. Unlike popular belief, a public relations officer’s job is not harsh. Not in the way they show it in show business. For me it is part of my daily life. Like living. Like having breakfast. Or going to prayers. It was just that on some nights, I didn’t feel like going. No special reason. Maybe a little disappointed. Disappointed that I was not getting the results fast enough. Therefore I just did not feel like putting too much effort into this jogging thing.

Nothing unique about this particular night. At least not right away. Nothing seems out of the ordinary as I put on my Puma shoes and pedal on my dark green mountain bike. From Majeedee Magu to Sosun Magu. And from there to Lonuziyaaraiy Magu, directly heading east and onto the Henveiru Park. I park my bike next to the former High Court building, its walls dirtied with dust marks from a hundred other bikes parked leaning on them every day.

Orange light from atop the community police centre casts a haunting glow on the bushes that mark the perimeter of the park. No doubt the lights were put up to discourage couples from practicing their mating rituals in the dark corners of the park. They even got rid of some of the bushes because lovers were caught kissing—and maybe going a little further down the moral ladder—in those bushes.

But the efforts were to no avail. The light did not reach the whole park, and the perimeters further to the police centre were still engulfed in dark—made blacker by the overhanging, ever-present canvas of the night sky.

A few young people are doing stretches on the soft sand of the park, readying for their jogging, exercise. People of all ages exhibit the park. People with different motives. Old people who do it to escape the pangs of old age illnesses, be it combating rheumatism or fighting cholesterol levels. Middle-aged people, a bit of youth still left in them, trying to stay in shape, trying to ward of the old-age illnesses that they keep hearing about in the media. Young people, somewhat confused in their motives: Some of them did it for the hack of it. I still can’t figure out why. Then there were those who came for the fun of it. Like all other social activities—from hanging out at the artificial beach or the outdoor cafes on the southwestern harbour of Male to going to Star Cinema—jogging, exercising around the Henveiru Park is a leisure activity, a recreation, a place to hang out. A lifestyle.

And of course, there are the young people who had the same concern as me. Doing exercise to get into shape. To look good. Looking good made you worthy of admiring eyes. Or so it is said. It’s a false motive. But we believe in it anyway. For the fear of being ignored. Not been looked at by people of same age of opposite sex. Fear of being not looking good enough for a possible mate.

The fear of being alone. That was the worst.

I am going on 25, but no lovers, no. No one yet. Not even a proper kiss. Or was there any kissing at all? That sweet tender feeling of wet lips lubricating mine? I do not know just when it is that high point comes in our lives when a mate becomes the topmost priority. One thing I know is that the time has already come for me.

But I don’t have a clue as to when it was that this realisation struck. Sleepless nights—those were the first symptoms. Tossing, turning. Falling off the bed.

Then came the insomnia. Of course, I’ve read that human beings are social animals. Always on the look out for companionship. Loneliness is their worst enemy. And so it is that our cavemen forefathers lived in tribes, groups. Hunted in pairs, groups. Sat around the fires in the evening in pairs, groups.

They say that if you go looking hard you won’t find anything. You have to take it as it came. For me, it just didn’t come. Not yet, anyway.

But tonight was to change everything. Not in the way I expected. It was just the beginning. Of opening my eyes. Of opening me to a whole new world. Whole new experiences. I’ve always longed to belong to that “normal” group of people. Guys who just got their gals along the way. No major efforts. No covert operations. No stalking. No staking of homes in the cool evening hours, on their bikes, eyeing the doors or gates to a home of a possible catch. Just a phone call. In this age of technological mobility and of cellphones, everything is just a ring away.

I wanted everything to come natural to me. Like this. But I lacked assets. Cultural assets. Good communication skills. A persuasive tongue. Sweet talk. Good looks. Where do you buy those?

I look up at the sky. All clear. The sight of stars always cheered me up. And so I was heartened, for perhaps a fraction of a second.

“Let’s go.” Nahid starts walking to our “starting point” which is just the southwest corner of the park.

We break into a light jog. It is never sensible to start off fast right away. You increase pace with metabolic acceleration. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have the energy to complete the whole twenty minutes required for the warm-up that is then needed for the exercise session afterwards. You wouldn’t even have the psychological determination to go the extra mile, if you tired first.

The dhiggaa and hirundhu bushes keep passing by as we jog round and round the park. They sometimes give me the creeps. Give me the feeling of being running under overhanging black minions, with crooked arms reaching for me, to grab me, and send me into their netherworld. But they are trees. That’s all. Or are they?

We are on our third round. I am looking straight ahead, but can’t help noticing some of the visions that are caught from the corner of my eye. Is it the dark shadow of a girl I see sitting between the bushes, the light of the white lamppost casting an eerie glow on her face? There is no way to tell. I have already passed the point. Have to wait for the next round.

As I come up again, I am determined to shake the feeling that it is nothing more than an imagination of my mind. Surely, it’s just a bush. But no. The next time “she” actually moves. Or “the thing” has legs and feet, and make a motion of stretching itself. There is no way to tell, as I have passed the point again. Have to wait for the next round.

Five minutes, and we are going to pass the point again. I make up my mind to look directly into “it” this time. Not from the corner of my eye. That’s the point where imagination plays tricks in your eyes.

I don’t need to look at it this time. “It” proves to be a girl, in her teens, wearing a flowing evening dress, reddish black. She is crossing the road when we are about to pass the point where she sat, and just when we pass her, she turns sideways, gives me a look and there is a hint of a smile. Is it someone I know?

Our twenty minutes of jogging are up. It is time to begin the exercises. The exercise session is a three-tier programme of stretching, push-ups and sit-ups.

On the inner seawall just off the park, my mind is more on the girl than the stretches I am doing. Nahid notices I am not talking much tonight.

“Hey, did you know, last night I watched this movie…” He attempts to make conversation but my mind is more on the girl-thing that I saw. Was it really human? It looked human enough to my eye.

I believe in spirits. I believe they exist in their own world. Like the angels. But where does the line draw? I had heard stories of breaches in the veil that separated the human world and the spirit world.

Spirits were not all bad. There were the good ones, too. At least I heard of some when my late grandma (bless her soul) recited Saif Rasgefaanu’s adventures to me when I slept.

That was ages ago. But the memory lingers. And it helped instill a feeling of respect for the spirits, or moreover, an urge to meet those wonderful beings, who could help you in wonderful ways, than our mere mortal brothers and sisters could help us. The spirits, they could take you to the stars. Make the wildest fantasies come true. What more could one ask for?

I have no reason to suspect that what I saw tonight was a spirit. It could have been a girl, naïve, innocent, wantonly sitting, embracing the feeling of being at peace in the cool of the evening. Still the aura of something unnatural surrounding her keep nagging at my mind. I want to see her again.

***

Next day. Something comes up and Nahid cannot go jogging. All the better for me. Now I would be able to follow Her if She shows up.

Sure enough, she is sitting on the seawall.

I start off my exercises, pretending I am not looking at her too much. But the whole time, it seems, she has her eyes on me. And there is that mysterious smile. Or is it a smile? Or something resembling a smile?

She stands up. Starts walking in my direction. It gives me a little start to see she is coming this way. She sits right beside me. Bold.

I am out of words. Not even a Hi.

I am facing the ocean. She is looking up.At the stars.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it.” More a statement to break the awkward silence.

“Yeah…” I shake my head in agreement.

“You know…” she begins, “I see you a lot here.”

“Yeah, I come here almost every night.” I nod. “Do you come here often?” I want to probe into her ways.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? Sort of makes you feel alive.” Is she dodging the question?

She isn’t beautiful but there is an intensity in her gaze that is sure to keep anyone under her spell.

My eyes take her in full. She has dark flowing hair, skin thin and tight on her delicate jaws. And then I do something I would never ever have thought of, much less done it. My right hand goes up and runs, all the way, down her neckline. She closes her eyes, doesn’t resist.

“That was nice.” Her acceptance of my impulsiveness.

“Umm…” I don’t know where to begin. “You live near here?”

“You want to come find me?” Warning bells.

“No, it’s just that, I want to see you again.”

“That’s not possible.”

“What’s wrong?”

She sits there, without a word. Thinking. Formulating an excuse.

“It’s my parents. They would never let me…”

“…date someone?” I finish for her. And boy, am I making progress. Here I am, talking about “dating” in front of someone I just meet.

“I will see you tomorrow. Same time. Here.” She stands up abruptly, and starts walking. Defensive?

I don’t follow. For some reason, I trust her word. She will come back.

I watch her disappear into the bushes.

***

I do come the next evening. Not in jogging attire. Just to be with her. See if she has an interest in me. And see whether I can develop an interest in her. Now that I know she is of flesh and blood. And not some spirit I imagined walking out of the woods.

It is remarkable. We just sit there. Without talking. In silence. For a full ten minutes.

My eyes are taking everything in full. Living in a small place like Male pays off, I think. No lights to blink out the stars. No pollution to blot out the blanket of the sky.

I stare off into deep space. Realise how insignificant a being I am in this vast cosmos. Is she having the same thoughts? She is looking, intensely, into the ocean. White foamy surf breaking onto the tripods of the outer seawall. A moment of peace. I don’t want to break the silence. The peace. Want to take it all in. Want to let her take it all in. It is a moment of tranquility.

I sit with my legs jutting out, my hands resting around my knees.

She makes the first move. Takes my hand in, and intertwine her fingers with mine. Rests her head on my shoulder. Looks at me with an expression that I could only describe as sweetness.

“Have you ever known what it feels like to be with someone?”

I am not used to this type of conversation. But I am determined to keep up. Maybe this is the ritual. That right of passage that makes someone make the transition into the adult world of longing, affection, passion—and love.

“To tell the truth, no.” Am I embarrassed to tell this? Being a guy and all. I look into her eyes. “Don’t be surprised. There’re many guys like us. Not all of us are sex-crazed, you know.”

“I know.” She turns once again, looking towards the ocean.

“I see that you’re like me. There’re of us who want to make it a special one, a unique experience. Something worth remembering.” She turns to me. “But we would be labeled crazy to admit things like this, right?”

“Right,” I agree. “But somehow, I don’t feel ashamed to admit it… to you. You’re being quite frank, too, do you know that?”

No answer. No need for one.

A few minutes pass. She breaks the silence. “I’ve always believed that intimacy is something that you can have only with a person you really care about.”

“And you feel that way about me? You seem to be OK with this?”

She sits straight. Lets loose my hand.

I realise what I must have meant.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” My mistake.

“It’s OK,” she says. “You must feel uncomfortable. We’ve only known for a little while, right?” Another moment of silence.

“I know this must sound weird,” she begins, “but I feel very close to you. Like I’ve known you my whole life. I don’t really know how to explain this.”

“I know,” I reply. “I felt attracted to you the first time I saw you that night. I guess everything doesn’t have a reason behind it. Somethings happen because they happen.”

Is it a good enough explanation? I don’t care. She seems to be OK being with me. And it’s OK for me being with her like this. We can decide later on what direction this thing between us will lead to.

“Have you ever been with someone?” My turn to probe into her life.

“No. Not in the way you mean.”

“I didn’t mean that.” I am embarrassed that she took it the wrong way.

“Time’s up. I’ve to go.”

“Where?” This time I am not letting her get away without letting me know a little bit about her. Something about her. Of where she lived. A little information that will enlighten me in which direction I am now headed in my life.

“My folks will get worried if I turn in late.”

Somehow I expect this. She senses this and tries to console.

“I promise to see you tomorrow.”

She doesn’t add, “Same time, here.”

“OK.” I watch her walk through the bushes.

***

She doesn’t keep her promise.

I return home, feeling heavy.

There must be a reason for her not to show up. Overpowering parents, maybe.

The doorbell rings. She stands in the doorway of my house.

I don’t have words. It’s a total surprise. How did she find me?

“Come in,” I say.

Suddenly, I have an idea forming in my head. She is going to love this. If she’s the romantic type, that is.

“Wait here.” I offer her a chair in the sitting room.

I go into my room. Draw aside the window drapes. It’s a beautiful night. A full moon casting white faint light onto the couch below my window. Perfect.

She is sitting where I showed her, biting her nails. Nervous?

I take her hand. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“A surprise.”

I lead her into my room. Lead her next to the couch.

“Lie down,” I say. I am wondering what she will be thinking now. Surely, the thought must have crossed her mind.

But she lies down anyway. Regardless of whatever can happen in a situation like this. Maybe, she is expecting something from me. Or is it the other way around?

The moonlight streaming through the window paints a bluish outline on the delicate features of her face. She is exquisite, looking like this, drowned in moonlight.

“Alright. Open your eyes.”

She slowly opens her eyelids. Me towering over her.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I touch her face and run my fingertips, from her temple, down her nose, down her soft lips, under her chin, and down her neck. I slowly make rounding motions on that hollow part just below the neck. Her breathing rises. She runs her hand down the front of my shirt. A little trick there, and then I am barebodied, her hand freely running down the muscles on my chest, my abs.

What happens between me and her is pure bliss. No words can even come close to describing what we felt. And it wasn’t just the sex.

Afterwards, we just lie there on the couch, dampened in moonlight, soaking wet with the dew of early morning.

“I have to go.” She sits up.

“I know.”

“No.” She looks at me strangely. “I have to go.”

“I know,” I say it again.

“No, you don’t know. I cannot belong to you. I cannot be part of your world.”

I am confused. Whatever she meant? Everything is going perfect for us.

She hastens out of my room, then out of the house. I don’t pursue. I am thinking to catch her again at the park.

***

I can’t find her anywhere. Not to this day. No one even seems to know her. No one even seems to have ever heard of her. She just came. Out of nowhere. And disappeared. Just like that.

I got over it in the end. But it took a lot of time and pain. It was an overwhelming experience. Something I would treasure for the rest of my life. The joy she gave me. The magical feeling of being with her. Of having that feeling of being in the arms of some who really cared about you and whom you really felt intimate with.

I don’t even know her name. It doesn’t matter.

You might ask: was she real? She was real enough for me. The thing we had was real.

(This story was published in the Monday Times, Maldives' only English language weekly newspaper, in December 2000)

Your comments and criticisms are most welcome. Email me at: [email protected]

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@ "After reading some of the comments in your guestbook, I was compelled to read Girl in the Shadow. I have to admit that I enjoyed every minute I spent reading the story. Maybe I should have seen this back in 2000, not in 2004. Keep up the good work."--Shathif, 4 Jan 2004

@ "Well done! A fantastic short story. It shows the great skills of a 100-percent Maldivian."--Mohamed Sobah, Malaysia, 25 Jan 2003

@ "This is a smoothly written and engaging piece. I particularly like the way the author explores the needs of peoples of all ages with particular emphasis on getting into shape, and how he describes the experiences and emotions of the protagonist. But the story falls short in terms of focus. It’s amazing how little we know about the title character. I think it would’ve worked better if you revealed more about the girl through more conversations and then leaving us to decide whether she exists or not so that it doesn’t sound abrupt. Right now it’s like a couple of encounters, a little exchange of words, she turns up and makes love and she disappears. End of story. Their association could’ve been developed better, exposing different facets of her life, giving the protagonist (and readers) more and more food for thought. Maybe it’s intentional of the author to provide as little as possible and leave the readers craving for more…."--Sharif Ali, Maldives, 28 Dec 2002

@ "You know, I agree with Ali Rasheed on your story: exactly what I would have said -- just phrased better."--Mohamed Hursheed, Maldives, 21 Sept 2002

@ "Excellent. Very true to the human emotions and great in putting what everyone feels inside, in words. "--Tyler Jones, US, 21 Sept 2002

@ "That the narrator is discontent is evident. His relationship with his jogging partner is mundane and predictable. He is desperate to put some spark (back?) into his life. Girl in the Shadow opens up some avenues, but leaves many questions unanswered. The description of the seduction is highly idealised, and to some extent cliched, with hints that it was probably drawn from romantic novels and films---moonlight seeping through the window, instant physical and spiritual
compatibility and gratification. There is no awkward fumbling and unfettered lust that might characterise a more 'realist' first-time sexual encounter. One way to look at it is that the event did not take place at all, but is actually an articulation of the narrator's longing for a heterosexual relationship, which in turn will make society accept him. But if this is what he wants, is he not going to end up in the predictable, routine, rut that he was trying to escape in the first place?

"Girl in the Shadow is highly ambigious, personal, and brave. As the story of a young man struggling to understand himself, his sexuality, and most of all his place in society, unfolds, the author does not offer any easy answers. The language summons images that have a surprising cinematic quality. What I like most about this story though is that it seems to have been written as it 'flowed out' and not been subjected to the rigourous editing and re-editing process that might have produced a more 'standard' work. Excellent stuff, Hilath, I'm sure there's more where that came from!"--Ali Rasheed, Maldives, 20 Sept 2002

@ "This is a great story. And if this is something that happened to you in reality you better let me know. I must say that I am speechless and I will write more when my vocabulary comes back; now at the moment I cannot say a word -- it's just perfect, absolutely great!"--Zarana Khaleel, Australia (18 Sept 2002)

@ "Girl in the Shadow terrific. I just finished reading it. What was it that made you write that story?"--Wadde, Australia (10 Dec 2000)

@ "Damn I liked the story Girl in the Shadow...could there be a SEQUEL to it? I guess you have no problem in talking about your personal life to the public... Hope to read more fantastic stories of yours."--Shahyr, Malaysia (24 Oct 2000)

@ "This story is great! It talks about reasons for jogging, about sexual preferences, about expectations of one towards one's own self...I liked all the issues it raised. And how you used words like, "Bold", "A little trick", "I know." I like it when just one word or a couple of words bring in a big impact. The story was very vivid and the seduction scene was nice. The guy was you in a way right. I mean the bit about the writer not meeting the right one and about not meeting up the criteria that would make up the hot guy (we'll talk about that later). And about being new to the whole thing. I don't remember anybody mentioning you ever having a girlfriend. That must have been hard for you (sorry no pun intended). I guess that must be the reason why the tongue tied-ness and the awkwardness and the nervous excitement seemed very real. I really enjoyed that. I mean a guy not acting all macho and ultimate stud."--Mariyam Nadhrath, Maldives (7 Oct 2000)

@ "I have read this story and I think that as far as the language is concerned there is no problem that I can point out. I can see some of the themes in the story are told quite effectively and some them are quite personal to you. The need of young people to attract attention of opposite sex, the efforts made to stay fit and healthy, the exercises and jogging etc, are told quite well. But the story ends with more emphasis on the relationship between the narrator and the mysterious girl. While the mysterious nature of the girl is portrayed quite effectively - the story had hints of things to come even from the beginning - the relationship between the narrator and the girl was not told very convincingly. The narrator seems to be moved by the girl and treasures the moments he had with her but the attempt to explore these feelings is rather weak. Frankly what I think is that you did not intend this to be a spiritual story in the beginning. I think that it is too personal to you as if it's an analysis of your own life that you wanted to make it less real-life-like by making it superstitious. Anyway, the mixture of those personal matters, jogging, relationship with friends, attraction to girls, with a supernatural being does not deliver very effectively. However, this story proves that you have the talent and that you can do it quite well. Personally, I do not like this romance with supernatural beings that the local writers are so regularly using in their writing. Maybe it's the overdoing of it that makes that such a boring theme. Nevertheless, Moosa Latheef proved that even this theme could be explored well with good story telling in his Hiyani."--Saffah, Maldives (6 Oct 2000)

@ "Your writing style is really good. But it was fast-paced --the story ended too fast!"--Mabel Teoh, Malaysia (4 Oct 2000)