Catastrophe. 

Catastrophe. 

“​I’m mad to the point that I am the creator of my own catastrophe!” ,I said.

“How?”, asked she. 

“I let myself to believe or to see things that are not meant to be seen or to be believed in. I let myself to see the light in the darkness that blinds me to an extent that I don’t hear the rhythm of colors; the pitch of red, and the lows of blues end up becoming the same to me. I don’t see the waves of sound anymore, the blend of notes cease to happen and they end up breaking me,  they etch on me and I’m not the same again. I am born a different person, not anything like who I was, not anything like who you expected me to be. I am like the Phoenix out of the ashes. I let myself walk over the fire of love and the water of hatred. I let the tranquility of silence deafen me. I am no more the same human anymore.  I create the destruction of my former self, the destruction to my soul. I let the universe take me whole and turn me into dust. Hence, I create my own catastrophe.”

Life goes on.  

Life goes on.  

Three years, just passed by in a glimpse.  I still remember how it all started.  The same seat, that I found myself sitting on today, the same classroom, the same professor;  just a different day and a different speech. The line that I remember him saying the first day still resonates at the back of my head, “You all are not school kids anymore…” This time, however, I catch on to something rather more etching, “Life starts from here…” 

I see the smiles on everyone’s face, which I thought to be ironical; everyone was sad. I too feel like a hypocrite, conveying my experience as though that day, the speech, meant something to me. But to be honest, I found the whole scenario to be phony, the students behaving in ways as if they would even remember any word of the speech, nodding their heads like puppets to every statement of the professor.  I hear someone behind me saying as to how he was overjoyed at the thought of leaving and was sad at the same time.  Being the sceptic I was,  I wondered how one could feel so many emotions at the same time whereas all I felt was baffled; baffled at the thought of how time turns so fast, seemed like it was just yesterday I took admissions. 

Finally, the speech ended.  The phony smiles on everyone’s faces made me cringe, for they did not in any way mean the expressions they portrayed. “Do remember us!” “Drop by sometime!” I heard the teachers say, to which again, I thought how many of the lot would actually remember them ten years down the line and how many would actually drop by. Everyone said they would. I thought to myself, how many of them actually meant it.  Intuition told me,  “None…”.  None would, being all engrossed in their humdrum affairs of life. None would remember this day, none would think about the first day or the last of college, people will have forgotten how it was like to sit on the respective seats during the speech, they will have forgotten who sat next to them and the conversations they had, teachers will have forgotten our names or the grades we had but life will still go on as it always does.  

I believe things end,  music stops, coffee cools down, lovers become strangers, people forget, cigarettes burn out but life? It goes on. Life goes on… 

Another day.  

Another day.  

A drop on my palm, as I hear the rain rush towards me.  The horizon looked foggy; a strange sense of contentment filling my veins, I found myself standing alone as the drops sent chills down my spine.  Drenched in my thoughts, I wondered how carelessly the drops fell from the sky, high above, higher than my thoughts could fathom. I wondered how, these drops of rain, without any fear or the knowledge of how hard they would hit the ground, just fell. The sensation of the drops hitting my bare face was profound. It made me think, why my fellow humans were trying so hard just to hide from the rain, while I could not find myself to deny these simple pleasures of life. 

Mental peace. 

Mental peace. 

The book shut close, as though the entire life of a person had come to an end. The cup of coffee untouched as though betrayed. She left.  I glared as she moved from the café towards the subway. My eyes were stuck. My senses revived as I lost her amidst the busy crowd of people or rather programmed robots who happened to be in a pursuit with time. She seemed unusual though, with that carefree nature, not bothered about how the world moved. She intrigued me, as she moved slowly through the hustle bustle of the city.   

Those few months, after my encounter with her, were more of a mental torture. I was restless. My mental peace was lost. I was in a trance. Everything seemed mind boggling.

 People say time heals everything. I thought so as well.  With time she left my mind. I felt, more to say, secure. Anxiousness just happened to have bid goodbye and a long lost acquaintance had just been found, the one you call sleep. But this friend of mine was not for long to stay. You know what they say, “The sun only sets, it never dies.” She happened again. But this time in a way someone could never imagine would happen.

Breaking childhood.

Breaking childhood.

I stood there, stealing glimpses of you; my face, being caressed by the coarseness of the cemented pillar; you walked past me, etching an image of red in my mind; the “lal teep” and your saree stripped in red, adding a contrast to your dark and pale skin, your lips chapped and faded. Your footsteps falling against the ground which lay ornamented with the dry twigs left a monotonous sound; you walked only to leave my ears with a different muse. 

That night, I found myself reliving the memory of you, only wishing I could’ve found a name I could christen you with. Drowning in lust, my hands found their way unentangling the knot of the “dhoti”, moving further down under. I could only imagine your face as my manliness felt the rigor form of my fisted hand. My body was virgin to the sensation I was going through, I was foreign to feeling; I felt elated. Ecstacy was soon over taken by the feeling of guilt. I felt terrible; my childhood was broken. 

Apartment.

Apartment.

The lot to which I belong, the lot being the writers, were a curious and an observant bunch. In my case, the observant part of my brain was overtly dominant, that too to an extent that even a thread lying on the floor wouldn’t escape my eyes. The apartment seemed to have musky aroma, the curtains holding back the light of the city as though a canopy holding back sunlight. The rooms were painted grey with an unarranged bed. The bed sheet and the blanket happened to be white, creased, with stains of coffee and paint. I was, however, grasped with certainty that she had an obsession of white and grey. It was mind boggling though; a bit of an oxymoron as to why a person with such a colorful or rather to say a vibrant personality have such a subtle taste of colors for her surrounding. As my eyes wandered around, I caught on to a few things, which to me, were stubbornly scattered. There lay a white mug on the rugged brown carpet, with traces of coffee I reckon seemed days old. The ashtray by the side of the bed held burnt out cigarettes; Marlboro Hard, few burnt to the bud and few left undone. The sweet smell of stale smoke that still lingered in the room however, made me nostalgic. I could remember flashes of my times in London; I remember the dorm, which shared the same smell of stale smoke and burnt cigarettes, I remember as I made my way through each novel I read. The nostalgia was broken as she called out my name.

Nightmare.

Nightmare.

Like the sleep full of nightmares

I wish to see every night;

Entangled in the depth of lies,

You are the truth I want to find.

Like the darkness before the light,

I see fear in me ignite.

The nearer I feel I am, 

The farther you seem to be;

Always too close but yet too far.

Living under the harmony of the thought of what was;

 The lust for breath… 

That never more will be.

Like the agony in joy,

The anxiety to find what never existed;

You are the nightmare mistaken for a dream.