In a Nutshell

She carried it with her wherever she went. The smell of ink, old paper and the not-yet-callous feel of life. It was a gift from her brother who was leaving for Oxford that day. She had with eyes brimming with tears asked him, “What should I write, Adarsh?” Adarsh had smiled at her, held her close to his chest, patted her head and said, “Write what you love and love what you write.” Ten years had passed since that afternoon when the thirteen-year-old-she had watched, unable to control her tears, Adarsh pass through the guarded automated gates of the International Terminal. It was a hard-bound book with roses on the cover.

She was at the airport then, alone. Leaving for a foreign country sans the usual crowd of family and friends hugging and wailing, the exclamations of “look at her; she has become a big girl now!” A huge trunk, a hand bag and her book; this was her luggage. She had checked in. Her trunk had been name tagged and put away. There was still a good part of an hour left for the flight.

From among the usual clutter of keys, documents, id-cards, chewing gum, chapsticks and a pile of greeting cards which had been gifted to her years back, she took out a red fountain pen, another gift. She felt the need to write something before all that were here would become ‘back there’ and everything that was home, part of the wave of nostalgia that was sure to hit her on a rainy day. She poised her pen, ready for that feeling of pen gliding on paper, but it stuck like a lump in the throat. Refused to move.

The pedestal fan seemed to favor her at that precise moment and in that artificial breeze the pages flashed by in a flurry. Names. Some in bold; some crossed out and some others smudged by tear drops. Places, photographs, stamps. ‘Mine, his’, ours, home, vacation, school, college…’ someone seemed to whisper in her ears, spreading a warm sepia tint over the black and white.  Then long slanted sentences written in that sudden fervor. Couplets scribbled down quickly lest the emotion overwhelmed one. Words, the meaning of which she should have found out, but never did. Something that some high and mighty said. Damp pages where she had poured her heart out. Ten years and yet, these pages had not yet been fully filled. A deep sigh seemed to doubt if it ever will be.

28th June. How could she forget that day? Every time she sat down to write, the memories of that day would haunt her. Death, cancer, loss, tears, goodbye, daughter, dreams… these words reverberated in each line, every paragraph.

18th September. Forbidden love. Sweet sin. Guilt. The One. “… he took that duster and wiped the blackboard clean. There are no furious scratches and scribbles on that dark plane, a few specks of chalk powder still remain; but the wind of time will take it away too.” She smiled away the shadow of a sigh.

1st February. Passing out. Friends, sweet memories, broken promises.

Then without the pretences of form and structure, a tumble of it all, memories, pictures, dreams, loss, works.

Lost she was in this flood that pushed the hands of the clock backwards in one swooping motion. She had, for once, adhered to someone’s advice. Her brother’s. She had written what she had loved and she had loved what she had written. It had become a part of her and she was the hard-bound book with roses on the cover. The weight of all that was written made it heavier than her trunk which would soon be put in somewhere in that flight that promised to propel her to sunnier climes. Much more to write. Words, are there enough of them? Enough to fill in that book, the hard-bound book with roses on the cover? Impossible.

What you should’ve done all along.

You walk down the corridors of HSB. Black predominates, though rainbow shades too exist, transforming the dreary corridor into a beautiful canvas. You wonder why the mundane assumes so ethereal an appearance. Maybe the marijuana of the day before, you tell yourself, laughing out loud. It is a high pitched, piercing laughter. You are embarrassed. In that sea of faces not one turns to look at you reproachfully for your insanity. You wonder why everyone is so absorbed in their own little worlds. That is not usual. Something is amiss, you conclude.

Has she always been this radiant, ravishing; you wonder. Her hair ripples in the breeze. Everyone else becomes mere inanimate objects in the background. You smile at her, she walks on, her face reflecting the multitude of thoughts; the many weighty assignments needing tending to, the insecurity that seemed to call out to you. You walk to her side, whisper a ‘hi’. She still walks on, preoccupied but unperturbed, taking no notice of you. You are stumped. Yesterday night’s late night meeting for the usual cup of ‘quiz-time mugging’ coffee had gone well. You try to figure out the reason for this indifference. You are afraid, suddenly. Fear overwhelms you. Has she, could she possibly have, read it; the million secret poems that you had written for and about her?

As you turn your eyes back to reality from the endless list of possible reasons, you see a guy’s stubbled chin right in front of you.  You let out a shout and screw your eyes shut. Blink! You open your eyes and he is gone, you turn around. Mouth agape in horror, you watch the guy walk on as if you were part of the encasing air. You touch your face, your hands, trying to inject some meaning into this madness. Then you realize quite painfully that you are dead.

Dirges ring in your head as you glide along the familiar path, retracing oft-taken footsteps. You see her inside one of the classrooms, her long slanted words overflowing from her pen.  You glance at her notebook and see your name etched in her ink. Your heart (if you still have one) skips a beat. This can’t be happening, atleast not now.  This should have happened when she sat near you in that sunny meadow. You could have clutched her hand lying on the grasshopper-green grass. You would have had an eternity of happiness, of fulfillment. You watch tear drops cloud her eyes, helplessly. You cannot run your hands through the auburn locks nor can you even wish for those slender hands gripping you in that moment of passion. You feel it, the air around you drowning you. The gasp, a sudden outcry of the solitary air as you sank into the depths of oblivion. Then you feel the impact, the hard feeling of a stone floor. You rub your eyes and suddenly stars appear, you blink and light falls. Heaven?!

Slowly your eyes focus on the face that looks concernedly at you and you realize that all this was a dream. Life has treated you well, so far.  There are material comforts all around you. All fruits of your hard work. Plaques and trophies talk highly of your achievements. Then you realize once more that you are dead. The dream, only that was real.  You tune out what your wife says, you blur the faces of your children to incoherent little spots. A new colorful picture zooms into vision.  The house is smaller, there is no car in the garage; just a bike.  In place of the laboratory where many colored liquids bubble and froth, there is a library and a small wooden desk with a wicker chair. A hard bound book with your name in golden letters engraved on the spine. A room of your own. The door opens and she comes in, a burning cigarette on her lips, pushing you to go make a meal for two. You watch her sit on the easy chair, reading the newspaper, cigarette still on the lips and smile. You have got it all.

Dreams, you know, are only escapes. A cheap sort of escape for which you pay a hefty price once you come back. What if you could just fast forward to the end, go on a long holiday, an everlasting dream, from where there is no coming back? Why live as if dead, why not die with dignity? There is enough cash in the children’s name, enough to give them the wings to fly on their own. Your wife will manage, you are sure, without you just as well as when you are around. You do not have dreams about them, only a sense of duty, which you feel you have fulfilled. Listen! There is no escape, no final death. Even of you go down the drain, you will wander about sustained and survived by those here. Your wife’s rage at your final and extreme act of cowardice will impart a good color to you. The desire your children feel for their father will tether you here so much that you will wish for the detached existence that you lead now. The money they draw will reek of your sweat, the gory odor of unfulfilled dreams, of compulsions, of heartless mechanical labor. The cane that stands on the corner will keep shouting orders and threats, long after you are gone. Every memory of yours will send sour, bitter tastes to them all. You will live on.

Two burly hands throttle you. They provide painful relief. At last, you will have your escape. The sweet taste of death. You find the grip a tad too hard to bear. You can see the depths you are sinking into. You know there is no coming back. Something beckons you to complete what you had begun. Something urges you to come back, the grip does not relax. Your hands tremble violently. The end is near. Oblivion is just stone’s throw from here. You tweak the little finger of the hand holding you. Yelping in pain, the hand disappears. Then it dawns on you that all you had to do all along was that. You forgot to tweak and twist a little finger whenever you found life stifling. Now, there is hope; there is life. Death is now a dead ember of a dying dream; devoid of its charms, dark.