Haphazard

The first day of chilled of November, when I first stepped on to the city, I clearly remembered it was Calcutta then. A city of celebration, a city of political upheaval, a city of immense joy, a city of ' Pather Panchali'. I never wanted this life, my careless and slaphappy life of Delhi was interrupted, all of a sudden I came in the city where my bunch of relatives stay. So badly I wanted to get out of it! So badly I wanted to rebel everything that was going right in front of me. No, this is not me and NOT my city definitely.


Today after 4 years when I look back, I just smile. 


Snap! Present year in December!


"You MUST write tonight." - he said with a commanding voice. She sipped her dark caffeine and looked at him. All this while she was too happy bursting her colored bubbles. The entire act vanished in the thin air. No, she can't write anymore. The thoughts evaporate one by one, very slowly; she tries to catch each one of them and fail miserably. The Mortician, with a silly smile looked at the Dreamer and said, " Yes, I will. Only once you're gone." 


Here she is, sitting in front of the computer, cursor blinks, page blank and nothing comes out from her churned out, frantic brain. She scolds the monkey inside that never stops jumping and thinks, thinks about the time she spent with the teary eyed Dreamer.


She lighted another cigarette, took a deep puff and blew the smoke. She needs peace, she always wanted that. The Dreamer makes the Mortician secured, like a father to a child. And now everything went off like the candle flame on a breezy night wooof !


The Mortician sits alone and read cards, trying to figure out a future that is as dark as a grave of a scatted prisoner . She looks at the Dreamer's face and try to read his thoughts. The sudden chill in the air with a perfect dimpled smile, takes her worries way like those little Cherubs. My Dreamer, my little masochistic angel , my - naughty elf!




Come the later half of the month and the Mortician is already busy chopping the dead bodies fondly called the ghosts of the past. She has been betrayed and this time, she stopped bleeding. Someone, some day told her to have enough choices. Now she chose to be indifferent, she chose to remain a spectator, she chose to be a brutal beast. This time, the pain became a rage, the victim turned to be an oppressor, the person with the deadly claws suddenly became an ant of boredom!


She struggles to write and re writes, but fails. She can't write anymore - she stopped breathing. looks at her final draft and collapses under the winter rain.