She could not talk. That was her problem. And she could talk. That was also her problem.
Where the mindless noisemakers thronged in big cities wagging their tongues, she was silent. She did not laugh to their predictable jokes. She laughed at times. But she was laughing at them and not at their quips. She laughed at their absurdity. Where the power mongers debated on falsities, she did not talk. Where there were controversies on religion, politics and science, she looked at her toe nails and imagined other things. She did not listen and she did not talk. She switched herself off where the manipulators sprinkled cautious gossip around. She would dream of purple horses and non-existent ideals. They called her many names. She was the “dumb”, “lazy”, “psycho” who did not talk. Who did not know what to talk about. Or they imagined she was too haughty.
In private chambers where mind met mind, she poured her heart out. She laid her thoughts bare, teddy bears, crazy theories, songs, philosophy and giggles – merging into one another but undoubtedly ringing of truth. They laughed at her now. “What a simpleton!”, they thought. Why will she not talk about quantum theory and integral calculus? Why does she forever talk about people, animals, flowers, stars, poems, songs and love?
And then a glass bottle fell down and broke. They all ran around bustling and screaming. Somebody stepped on the glass and bled all over the floor. Someone else mopped the blood. Someone slipped on the wet floor and scraped their knees. Someone else boiled some water to cleanse the wound. Someone scalded their fingers with boiling water. Someone else went to get some ointment. Thus they leaped around with their complicated lives, brewing one problem after another. In the middle of all this she just sat. Like a stone frog.
How they hated her nonchalance! Why was she not anxious and panicking? Why is she not crying? Why is she not breaking down? Why? Why? Why?