PEER E KAMIL

Untitled Part 15

He emptied the entire contents of the paper bag into the grinder and
turned it on. The cook entered just then.
̳Chote Saab, let me help you,' he offered but was waved away.
̳No, I can manage. But get me a glass of milk.' He turned off the
grinder. The cook got him the milk. To half a glass of milk he added the
contents of the grinder, stirred briskly, and gulped it down.
̳What have you cooked today?' he asked the cook, who started to tell
him what he had cooked. A look of displeasure crossed his face. ̳I won't
have anything. I'm going up to sleep; don't disturb me,' he said harshly
and left the kitchen.
He looked unkempt with a stubble, and except for one or two buttons in
place, his shirt front was open. Dragging his slippers on the floor, he
went into his room and locked the door behind him. Then he walked
over to the huge music system and began to play Bolton's ̳When a man
loves a woman' at full volume. He flung himself face down on the bed,
remote in hand, and feet swinging to the music.
Except for him and his bed, everything in his room was in order. There
was not a speck of dust anywhere. The audio-video cassettes were neatly  arranged on a shelf by the music system and on a shelf on the wall.Another shelf was filled with books and the computer table in the
corner reflected his organized nature. Posters of Hollywood actresses
and various bands adorned the walls, while the bathroom door and a
few windowpanes were decorated with cut-outs of nudes from Playboy.
Anyone entering the room for the first time would be startled because
the nude pinups in the windows were life-size and lifelike and placed in
special order. Along with the audio system, there was a keyboard, and a
guitar, a piccolo and an oboe hung on the walls. It was obvious that the
occupant of the room had great interest in music. In front of the bed
was a television cabinet on the shelves of which were several shields and
trophies. In another corner of the room cricket bats and racquets were
artfully slung across posters of sports stars. It looked as if a tennis
racquet was in Gabriela Sabatini's hand, while the other was held by
Rodney Martin, and the squash racquet was in Jehangir Khan's hand.
The double bed where he was lying on the crumpled silken sheets was a
mess. A few pornographic magazines, mostly Playboy, lay scattered
about with a paper-cutter and snippets—evidence that he had been
cutting out pictures. Chewing gum wrappers, an empty coffee mug, a
packet of Dunhill's and a lighter, an ashtray and scattered ash littered
the white silk sheet that had holes burnt through. Somewhere there was
a wristwatch and a tie, and a cell phone by the pillow where the young
man lay face downward, perhaps half asleep as his hand mechanically
but unsuccessfully searched the bed when the phone rang. The beeping
went unheard and the remote in his hand fell to the floor as his grip
relaxed. Michael Bolton's voice continued to fill the room with the lyrics
of ̳When a man loves a woman'—the knocking on the door became
persistent and louder, but he lay motionless on the bed.
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