I knew that the urge to write would die down before I sailed through all the traffic and reached home.
I go to the seashore nowadays and come back without so much as a glimpse of the sea. I pet some strange dog named Ramu and Lakshmi by two different boys and feel the softness of its velvet ears. I brim with tears on hearing the orphan boy’s story. Yet my own child has told asked me to go away. I have created an orphan out of a child that was given to me wrapped in loneliness.
I stand in the middle of Mount Road waving a cluster of mosquitoes off my face with “A Room of One’s Own”. I cannot read more than two pages of that book at a time. It is punctuated with underplayed anger which angers me in turn.
I watch strangers to see if I can find a familiar face. Sometimes everyone looks like someone I know. Men under helmets are all alike. I am trapped in a spider world.
I remember to be in love. I have half forgotten what love is. Maybe my mind is too full of nothing, to remember love. I star gaze over and over again at the same place though it is devoid of stars.
A dull pain constantly lives on my body and off my body. It has become a friend now. I need someone to put me to sleep. Nobody sings lullabies any more. I still sleep a half sleep.
I am a criminal. All of you should know that I betrayed my friend for which I will be punished till my death. With silence. With absence. With a void. With many many objects that have stories attached to him.
I laugh. I never forget to laugh. Everything makes me laugh the madman’s laughter; The cynic’s laughter; The philosopher’s laughter; The saint’s laughter; Condescending superior laughter. It echoes my own emptiness like a reverberating cavern full of darkness.
He imagines I am happy. Poor fool! I am too sad to be happy and too happy to be sad. I escape having to react. Escape emotions. Sometimes in sleep. Sometimes in crowds. Sometimes in noise. I escape into a choice.
I have grown beautiful. I brush my hair a lot. I wash my face a lot. I was rejected for being unattractive. I see many women who are pretty. Perhaps if I had been like them,then he would not have rejected me. At least a bit like that girl I saw on the road. Had I been like some pretty actress, he might not have discarded me. I am just a bag of organs stitched together; new organ stitched in; heart mended with patchwork and innumerable stitches..
I am just a heap of earth in clods meaningless and unnoticed. Who cares how many nights I spent praying, who knows how many times I cried for a dead dog or a lonely cat, who remembers the nights I spent listening to tales of woe crying my heart out for love, who knows.
I am defined. I am a liar. I am dishonest. I have never played other roles before. I have been categorized. I am a genre.
Nobody remembers the songs I wrote, the feathers I stored between the pages of my book, the tears of blood I shed to water love, the kisses I rained on scrawls of writing, the photographs I embedded in memory for eternity to see, the pain that drenched my pillows at nights, the blood that oozed from my body, the trembling cold, the hours of misery, waiting, the pleading, the slavery, the self-effacing sleeplessness, the thorns that remain stuck to portions of my heart… nobody remembers. Yet, there is one thing that will remain etched in stone. I am a betrayer.
My mistake has outweighted all the love. I have been judged. Dissected. I have been marooned on an island for the savages to eat pieces of me.
Love has been defeated by hate.