I’ve never been infatuated before. My older sister used to say to me when I was young, that when I eventually do experience infatuation, I’ll feel as though I’m in love. But “love and infatuation are different”, she used to tell me. “Love is blind, but infatuation is blinder. Love is caring, infatuation is selfish.” I trusted her instinct that I would feel infatuation one day. Little did she know that there was a third category she neglected to mention. And that was obsession.
“Dear all,
Someone has left a large red notebook in Chemistry Lecture Theatre 21 at 2pm. Please come to my office between 2-5pm any day this week to obtain it.
Regards,
Prof. Mandal.”
I flattened my long, red hair with the palms of my hands. I wore a pair of fitted jeans and a casual red jumper. Blended into my cheeks was a light amount of pale concealer, because I knew for certain that I would blush immensely in his presence. Clutching the thick strap of my bag as it hung lightly over my shoulder, I locked my room, and headed for his office.
*
“Thank you,” I squeaked, as he handed me my red notebook. I cleared my throat.
“No problem,” he replied, reaching for a mug of coffee on his desk.
I glanced at his large, dark hands, then at the photo frames containing his two young daughters sitting smugly on the desk. A larger, silver-framed photograph hung on the wall above his desk. There, smiling back at him was a striking Indian woman. She had naturally perfect eyebrows and flawless black hair. Her lips were scarlet, the warm tones brought out her deep wide brown eyes, which were ever so slightly distorted by the wideness of her smile.
His eyes followed mine to the photographs and he leaned back in his seat.
“My daughters are four and five. Beautiful aren’t they?” Professor Mandal asked, his eyebrows raising a little.
“Yes,” is all that I replied, not taking my eyes from him.
I could see that his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his masculine, toned forearms. His glasses were balanced perfectly on his high, defined nose, and the very lightest amount of stubble graced his lower face. His black, wavy hair only looked deeper in contrast with the whiteness of his shirt.
“How are you finding my lectures so far?” He asked, taking a sip of his coffee. I suddenly felt as though I was caught doing something that I wasn’t supposed to.
“I really enjoy them,” I replied. A little too quickly. I could feel my face beginning to flush. I looked down at the red notebook in my hands for a moment. I glanced back up. He was looking at me. With those intelligent, dark, knowing eyes. My palms began to sweat and my throat was as dry as concrete. I dared not gulp in case my embarrassment would be made more obvious.
“Thanks for my notebook,” I mumbled as I turned around and hurried out the door.
*
Lying in my bed later that evening, I tossed and turned. I could have made conversation with him. There were a million opportunities to talk to him about his family, chemistry, anything. I should have asked him for some help on this week’s topic. But that would mean admitting that the lectures weren’t clear enough, which would inadvertently suggest that he was a bad lecturer. It would also have given the impression that I was a forgetful, struggling idiot.
My picture collection of Professor Mandal grew greater with every passing week. So did my obsession. Taking photos of him with my mobile phone subtly during lectures was no easy task, but I managed. I could appreciate them better by printing them out and arranging them on the emptiness of my bedroom ceiling. So I did.
Instead of revising for a test, I would follow him to his home, just to know where he lived. It made me feel safe. Knowing more about him made me feel more in control, yet, I was losing control. I would do all-nighters, not to revise, but to use photographs of him as a prototype to what I believed were my greatest pieces of artwork that I had ever created. I would spend nights with my piano keyboard, composing music which mirrored my feelings of desolation and longing. When I showed these to my sister back at home, she said that the music gave her recurring nightmares so she refused to listen to any more of it. And the artwork apparently “looked like inside-out humans copulating”, which greatly repulsed her.
Each week I would anonymously send him a piece of artwork and music declaring my love for him, sometimes accompanied with a letter. I did not care that his wife would eventually know what I wrote about her. After all, it was all anonymous. I even admitted in one letter that I wished his wife and daughters would suddenly die so that we could be together one day.
I almost failed my second year because of him. After sending him the rest of my artwork and compositions that Valentine’s Day, he took some time off from work. He still didn’t know it was me who had sent him those presents. Sitting in my car, I looked through his living room window. I could see, and hear the arguments between him and his wife. It was perversely satisfying, seeing him almost out of control, reassuring his wife that things could continue normally. Pleading to her that her accusations that he was involved with someone behind her back were not true.
It turned out, that his time off work was permanent. Another professor took over his lectures, and I began to have a social life. Soon enough, the void that I so badly wanted Professor Mandal to satisfy was slowly being occupied with other things. The coursework and assignments began to increase. He moved house. I didn’t know where. But what I did know, was that I no longer had any way of relieving my obsessive compulsions. So I became immersed in my science projects and assignments instead.
I didn’t get the best grade at the end of my second year, especially in my chemistry module. But that was understandable. I could not turn the entire thing around in three months. It was acceptable though. I got an average score. Realising that I had almost ruined my whole degree because of him was enough to make me work my hardest to make up for it. I practically lived in the library. I even made a study buddy, Jason, who knew as well as I that I benefitted from his knowledge than he from mine, but we also became very close friends. He was the most hardworking person I knew. Jason helped me to attend every single one of my lectures, even the 9am ones. He rang my mobile on days where he knew I’d be reluctant to wake up. As the year advanced, my tutor told me that the quality of my work and my progress were increasing exponentially, and for once in my entire life, I felt as if I was prepared for my end-of-year exams.
*
Later that summer, after receiving the news of my first class honours, I was running up and down the house, announcing it to my parents and sister. I was dizzy with excitement. Everything I had worked for had turned out to be a success. Jason had rung me up that day and wanted to drive me up to The Isle of Skye for the weekend after graduation day to celebrate. He knew that I had wanted to re-visit my birth place one day. So I was more than willing to go, and also to have a well-earned mini-holiday. By this time, all thoughts of Professor Mandal just seemed like a very distant memory, as if it had all had happened in another life.
*
I didn’t even notice the congregation depart. I was still sitting in my seat, memories of the past vivid in my mind, as if it had happened yesterday. I stood up quickly. My mother smiled at me, and then to a spot behind me whilst steering the rest of my family away from me, as if I required privacy. I turned around, and saw “him”. He held up a “one minute” gesture with his index finger, looking apologetically at my mother. Then his eyes focussed on mine. My mind was so mystified that I believed he was about to kiss me. But all he did was give me that deep, omniscient look.
“I know what you did last year,” he said in a grave tone.
I just stood there, trying to recompose the mixed thoughts racing through my head.
“If you understand what kind of consequences your actions have had on me this past year, you would understand how I feel right now.”
I was not sure how to react, so I apologised weakly. “I’m sorry”.
All of a sudden, his knowing eyes turned into a look of contempt. I saw in his face, the effect that stress has had upon him. His once jet black hair had thinned, now banded with grey. The lines around his hollow eyes had become more pronounced, making him look much older. The illusion I had of his perfectly proportioned features faded away, as his expression turned from a grimace to one of pure vengeance. He moved in to whisper in my ear. A chill ran down my spine as I feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek.
“Oh you will be sorry. I’ll make sure of it.”
