Saturday, 26 March 2016

Nightmare on Borobagan Street

It started off like an episode of a television series, with a sneak preview of what was about to come. By the time that was over, I knew that I was going to be brutally murdered by the end of it all.

I was staying at a hotel, which seemed more like a B&B, with a collapsible gate cutting away the common staircase passage to make the living space private, much like my own house in Siuri. My parents were there too, at different points in time. I remember people fleetingly passing by. Psychology says that we never really see complete strangers in our dreams.  By that definition, they were all faces I should have recognised, and in some cases I did.

The walls were painted in the lightest hues of beige and green. Even then, I thought of how weird the combination was. That night, as I walked back towards the collapsible gate to go back to my room from the in-house restaurant after an early dinner, one of the young girls working in the restaurant managed to drop a whole pile of plates on my feet. Apologising profusely, she started picking up the pieces. Perhaps a zillion things were running through her mind then, starting from the harsh words of the owner and the excuses she might have to come up with, but the next thing I knew, she had managed to cut her hand. The nurse instinct kicked in and I asked for a roll of bandage, or atleast a clean piece of cloth and some cotton and antiseptic liquid. As I washed her hand with water pouring out of the bottle I usually carry around, a man in his late 20s came to me with a roll of bandage, some wads of cotton and a small bottle of Savlon. He hovered around as I bandaged her hand, all the while exchanging stories about who we were and where we came from. He hovered around when she started laughing at the way I managed to screw up the bandage knot. He hovered around as I vowed to set it right with utmost concentration. He hovered around and remained in my peripheral vision. Standing near the collapsible gate that separated my living space from the rest of the establishment, when we were about to exchange numbers on little slips of paper she had fished out of her pocket, I remember him inching closer, looking curiously at the slips of paper. I looked at him and asked him to back off. He didn’t listen. There were people standing around, watching him as he inched threateningly close, and no one said a word. It wasn’t a new experience though, so I knew not to drop my gaze. Both of us stopped what we were doing till he decided to back off. He stared back, reminding me faintly of an eccentric man who had once stalked me all over a train station, and my heart skipped a beat. The defiance changed to fury mingled with frustration, and he hit the collapsible gate with his bare hands with such strength that its very foundation seemed to rattle. He didn’t disappear, but he did move a couple of inches back. In hushed tones, the girl and I wrote down each other’s numbers.  She took one look at the man still standing a few inches away from the gate, and with a final tight grasp of my hand, asked me to stay safe and bade goodnight. I still remember his gaze as I locked the collapsible gate, the steely demeanour with which he refused to budge. As I lay down on my bed, with the night lights on, I could hear the sound of his shuffling feet outside the gate. As the night wore on, the pacing became faster and more determined. Many a times I thought I could hear him rattling the bars of the gate. I could hear him banging on my window. I could feel his presence inside my room. I could feel him standing at the foot of my bed. I could feel him reaching for my blanket.


When I woke up, I realised my blanket was lying on the floor and my bed was soaked with sweat. As I heard sounds of feet shuffling outside my roadside facing window, I prayed feverishly to the God I didn’t believe in for a simpler explanation. It took me what felt like a good fifteen minutes to realise that it was daylight outside; that I had been dreaming; that I was safe. It took me an hour of trying to shake off the fear to realise that our nightmares are a manifestation of our deepest fears, and this particular nightmare doesn’t exactly speak highly of how I view the society.

Sunday, 20 March 2016

The day you left

When Death took you, the sky was all sorts of red.

I sat and watched as each drop of your cold, dead blood painstakingly fell on the ground, and it sizzled on touching the soil. The sky, that day, was the darkest shade of crimson, and the most tragic shade of maroon.
The rivers ran green, sickened by the bile oozing out of your corpse, as you lay with your arms bent at an unfathomably awkward angle. The whole image was so strange that it almost looked normal, giving a casual passer-by the illusion that you were merely sleeping.
The air was swirling around you, slowly turning a brilliant shade of yellow, as gases started seeping out of your decaying body, mixing with the columns of steam on the hot summer day.

That day, as I sat and watched life leaving you, little by little, I realised how chaotically beautiful colours could be. Never, since that day, have colours looked that beautiful.

Saturday, 19 March 2016

Death and all his friends

"At times, I sit and look at myself in the mirror. And I wonder how it would feel like when I am finally dying. And it scares the living daylights out of me, so to speak," she pauses to take a sip from the cup of coffee threatening to shed its spiralling heat. "I feel myself choking up. I can't breathe. And I feel hot tears stinging my eyes." She looks up at me with eyes which seem half-curious, half-doubtful. "How do you speak of death so easily?"

I look down at my cup of tea, and smile.
"Death? Death doesn't scare me, love. The idea of never knowing how certain people are holding up does."