I will break into another house today.
I have been living in this apartment complex for the last eleven years. I’d have called it a society had it behaved like one. It’s just four buildings with ten flats each. Nobody really knows each other by names. We all are just house numbers roaming around with distinguished faces. Oh, that’s the bald guy from 3B, hello, how are you, all good, cool. Truth be told, nobody really wants to know each other. It’s too much. Pretending to care about neighbours. My apartment complex is located in one of the poshest areas of the city. The people who live here play golf every Sunday. And then they go for these fancy lunches in their fancy cars. Filthy rich they are is what I mean to say. I am not as rich but back then I was rich enough to get a house here. Anyway, I have identified people who live alone in my building. So whenever they go out to travel, I break into their houses and sleep on their beds. I don’t steal. I just walk around in their house, check out some stuff like paintings or books or whatever and once I get tired, I crash on their beds. I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know how it started. I don’t know when it will stop. I just do it. I hope that’s an explanation enough.
It’s around 11 in the night. People in the other houses are getting ready to sleep. All the Alexas are dimming the lights of everyone’s living rooms. The bald guy from 3B is leaving with his bags. I am taking my routine walk. He spots me and smiles. “Where to, now?”, I ask. “London again, will be back by Thursday”, he replies. “Oh nice, later tonight I will break into your house then”, I tell him. He laughs and leaves. Years ago, when I first shifted here, my building was fairly unoccupied. Mostly because construction work was still going on and rich people hate the sound of construction. Even the people who were already living in my building, vacated their houses for a few months and started living in rented houses nearby, just to not get bothered by the sound. If you ask me, the sound wasn’t that much. I think they were overreacting. Or they had too much money. Anyway, one day I got an idea. I called a key maker to make a key for 2B. I live in 2A. I told the key maker that I live in 2B and have misplaced the key. The thing about key makers is, that they don’t ask many questions. He made a key, I paid him, and he left. For the next eight days, I called eight different key makers and got the keys made for all the houses in my building. I never wanted to break into anybody’s house. I just got the keys made. I don’t know why. I hope that’s an explanation enough. It wasn’t until five years later that I broke into someone’s house. And since then, I haven’t stopped.
I unlock the bald guy’s apartment and close the door as gently as possible. The apartment hasn’t changed a bit since I last came here three months ago. Use your imagination, bald guy. I roam around his house, looking for something new. Even the fridge is stocked with the same stuff. What a bore! I go to his bedroom. At least the bedsheet is different. I like what he has done to the walls: nothing. It’s like he doesn’t have any memories. Or maybe he has too many that he wants to forget. I don’t know. He always seemed like a loner to me. I lie down on his bed. There is something under the pillow. I check. It’s a book. The bald guy is reading Flaubert, how erudite of him. I read a couple of Flaubert’s books many many years ago. Even though I have forgotten most of that Bovary shit, one sentence has stayed with me. “She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris”. I remember it because that’s how I used to feel back then. If life has to get over, then please get over; if not, just make all my dreams come true. There was nothing in between. I never wanted to be a Sisyphus. Who wants to? Only later in life you realise that in not wanting to end up becoming like Sisyphus, you keep doing different things over and over again, and then one day you spot the similarity of it all, and oh the irony. This breaking into the house thing, I wanted to do just once. To see how it makes me feel. To feel different from what everyone feels. One feeling that should just be my own. But now that I have broken into houses more than a hundred times, it has just become another thing. Like brushing my teeth.
I remember a couple of years ago, I broke into 7B. An old lady used to live there. She had gone to visit her son for a month and for that entire month, I practically lived in her house. I’d come back from the office, make dinner, clean the dishes, and then go to her house to sleep. One day, I noticed that the medicines on her bedside table were untouched. Like they were sealed pack. I don’t know why it bothered me. So I checked the drawer. And to my surprise, the drawer was full of those same medicines. All untouched. Sealed pack. I concluded that she had stopped taking her meds. The next day, I went to the security guard and asked if 7B had any packages to be delivered, as the old lady has called and asked me to keep them. The good thing about security guards is, that they don’t ask many questions. He gave me multiple packages. Same medicines. I didn’t go to her house that night. She wanted to die. But I hope she is living in Paris now. Flaubert.
Anyway, I read a couple of pages of the bald guy’s book before falling into a deep sleep. It’s morning now. I wake up and leave the key under the doormat. I don’t think I am breaking into houses anymore. It’s not as fun as it used to be. I enter my house and get ready for work. I come back from the office. I sleep. I wake up. Office. Come back. Sleep. Repeat. It’s Thursday. I see the bald guy again. “So you didn’t break into my house, then?”, he asks with a smile. “I wanted to but I was in the middle of a really engrossing book”, I reply. “Hahaha. Which book?”, he asks. I don’t tell him. I want to, but I resist the temptation. I complete my walk and go back to sleep. Wake up. Office. Come back. Walk. I am just waiting for the day when I will feel like living in Paris. Till then, sleep.
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Should have named the book. The bald guy would be perplexed whether he rellay broke into or it was just a conincidence. And also looks like the protagonist is also a loner and nothing to lose what worse could have happened if he named the book.
"I like what he has done to the walls: nothing. It’s like he doesn’t have any memories. Or maybe he has too many that he wants to forget. "
This line felt so relatable.