Apology

A personal essay by Malcolm Lamb

Shanti. That’s her name, the girl from the Jungle Book. It’s a name that nobody knows because it’s not in the movie, and it’s not in the movie because Shanti is not a girl. She is a girl being watched by a boy. 

I am Mowgli in the jungle. I wrap myself around coconut trees and feel warm aluminum against my naked chest. I climb by inches, hoping for the world to turn upside down so that I may fall to the top, pluck the glowing fruit, and drop into the clouds. My feet are bare that I may stand as an extension of the earth, that I may feel the burning asphalt like magma against my soul heating me up until I glow orange in the dark. Seconds bleed in the jungle, mixing with one another until time becomes indivisible, less the passing of a car and more the air I breathe. And I will breathe forever.

The only threat to my immortality is the man-village. I see it like a faded moon in daylight. It lurks in my peripherals. There is smoke on the horizon, a black infection against blue sky that rises from the man-village where they burn everything that matters. Pokémon cards, candy, Clue, and crying are gathered up and thrown onto the pyre to be consumed for fuel. Made useful.

Still, I cannot look away. Through the cracks in my fingers, I see the girl, the one with shoulders bare and pigtails tied with purple bows. Hers is a song I do not understand. Still, it speaks to me, draws me in, dries my tears. In a moment, the jungle grows cold. My knees rattle. My teeth chatter. The fire in the man-village looks warm and inviting as the girl continues to sing. I would give up the jungle for her.

***

Some would probably start with Erin’s teeth. They were big. Not enormous, but seemingly a size too large though the difference was perceptible only on an instinctual level. It was like she had stopped growing at 5’3” when her chemistry had planned for her to reach 5’6”. Of course, it is entirely possible that Erin’s teeth were not big, but appeared larger because her slight overbite thrust them into relative prominence. Others might mention her hips. Perhaps slightly too wide to go with her slender waist and shoulders, they often made Erin seem shorter and pudgier than she actually was. You could talk about her tendency to wear a little too much makeup or her unsustainable eating habits. You could say a lot of things about Erin.

I didn't see any of that. To me, Erin was chocolate strawberries and caramel apples. She was April 25th with the sun going down, fireworks in the Shire, and a solar eclipse with brown hair and ocean eyes. She was perfect, or at least I never noticed her imperfections.

Looking back, I sometimes think she wished I had.

***

Remembering is a case of color by number. Thinking back on my life always starts with an image of me as I am now pinned to a black canvas. Other people come next, each one traced and colored in a space relative to me and posed like a classical painting with shoulders, arms, eyes, calves and clothes composing subliminal lines pointing to the art’s subject. Environments follow, stock images mostly which give the impression of the location where the memory takes place. This is where most of the coloring happens. Say I’m remembering my grandma’s kitchen. I trace its shape in my mind with some accuracy, but there is plenty absent. I do not remember how many drawers there are nor which snacks were on the counter on a particular day nor the position of the microwave or the location of black scuffs on the tile. These things and more I fill in myself as if neglecting to do so would expose my memory as false and fading, not as an exact replication but as an incomplete reconstruction.

When I remember Erin, I see us in the dark. There is no setting, no other people. I sit cross legged, with a picture of her pinched between my thumb and finger. She stands beside me. The scene is familiar, one that I’ve watched play out over and over. A part of me remembers that, in reality, we were in my car driving at night between snowcapped sand dunes on our way back to Rexburg, Idaho after a night out, but I like us better in the dark. “I want to show you a song,” Erin says, “I think you’ll like it.”

I laugh. I’ve never liked Erin’s music and she has never liked mine. “You want to bet?” I say to the photograph. She looks so beautiful, I think to myself as music plays.

Got a tattoo that said "together through life" 

Feels like there's something broken inside

"Hey, you know what?" I tell the photograph, "This isn't too bad!" I smile and bring the picture to my lips. "This could be our song," I whisper as Erin looks on. She knows what I know now. Coldplay's "Ink" is not a love song, it's a breakup song. What she's suspected for months has just been confirmed.

I'm not listening.

***

Shanti. That’s her name, the girl from the Jungle Book. It’s a name that nobody knows because it’s not in the movie, and it’s not in the movie because Shanti is not a girl. She is a girl being watched by a boy. She is a symbol. For her, personality, faults, and emotions are forbidden. She is and must always be as Mowgli sees her. Perfect.

Don’t feel too sorry for her though. She is, after all, just a picture.