Day 1
Sumitha,
are you dead? I have finally finished reading hamlet, It took me six months to
incite the hamlet in me. I still can’t comprehend it completely, do I even
understand him remotely? Do I have the objectivity to evaluate my interpretation
of him or am I deluded by my vanity. Am I vain in saying that I can see my
world through his eyes, even if I believe it to be true. Are all my truths
contorted lies, have I spent all my life constrained in contortions. Is my hamlet
the truth or is it a lie?
Day 12
What
is it like being dead? Are you still self-aware. Do memories transcend the
barrier of silence. I feel that your absence from this realm is an indication
of your presence beyond the realm of my comprehension, as physics teaches us,
energy cannot be destroyed it merely changes its form. How do you identify
yourself in the absence of your physical form, is it the memory, is it the contrast
in consciousness, are the numerous indentations in the fabric of space and time
indicative of your absence and evidence of your existence. Is life after death
a play, in which you are the participant and the audience, you can see the play
through the eyes of the protagonist, but you cannot alter the plot or change
the dialogue, you cannot change the set or the order of events and experiences that
the protagonist goes through. When alive, we have the luxury of directing the
play and hence we can control the experiences we choose to have, but whose
choice is it, is it the viewer who is asserting his ideas on the protagonist,
or is the protagonist reacting to a situation on sheer instinct without
consulting the viewer. Both the situations will create an irrefutable dissent. A
dissent that will not only divide but eventually polarize the components of
self. This self will then live in perpetual discord. After death, do you merge
as a single being or are you still a collection of conflicting ideas striving
for unification? Is life just a collection of perspectives from different
points in time to gain a more absolute and unblemished impression of the soul, which
is studied by our dead self’s to decipher the intention of our creation. Have you
moved on to that plane, was I a unknown variable in the equation of your life
which when numerated will give you the solution or was I the solution through
which you were to numerate the unknown variable of your life.
Day
18
Sumitha,
I have receded to darkness. There is an unassuming comfort in its acceptance. I
always thought of darkness as the absence of light, but now I realize it was
the presence of fear. The fear of defeat, the fear of abandonment, the fear of
being seen for who I was, the fear of being understood and resolved, the fear
of normalcy, of mediocrity and the ultimate fear of understanding myself. When light would shine upon me I would hide in
the darkest corner of myself, and hence would fool the spectator with all the
superfluity of my attempted impression of myself. I wake up every morning to
grey skies and acerbic wind and then I walk towards the sea. The Road seems despondent
and yet everyday it safely leads me to my destination. I sit and watch the waves, toppling over each other,
competing ferociously to reach the shore only to be stripped of their ardour. I
urge them to stay, I urge them to stop their redundant and self-abasing actions,
but they carry on like a delinquent and appall me. I am starting to derive
invidious pleasure from their actions it is ironic how nature mocks humans. Ihavestopped
using electricity. I write in the candle light, which provides me with just
enough light to see and just enough darkness to forget. Sumitha, I can’t sleep
anymore. I can hear your voice coming from the void of uncertainty, the words
are muffled I can’t understand the conversation that you want to have with me
but I can discern the song that you used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep. Now
That song makes me anxious and it doesn’t allow me to close my eyes and give in
to your embrace, but please don’t stop singing. I hear the sound of waves leaving
the shore, I can feel the waves kissing my feet and sliding the sand from
underneath it. When I go out into the night I am greeted with deserted roads wreathed
in artificial lights. I feel nauseous at the thought of walking into the light so
I walk in the shadows where the despair of loneliness is not as debilitating.
Day
28
Everyone
on this beach is overwrought with despair. You can see a spectrum of mourners, some
silently brood in their angst and some wail like wounded animals. I approached
a man standing with a cylindrical plastic container full of sand and I asked
him who have you lost? He said “my father, he killed himself about a year ago”
I asked pointing at the plastic container, is that him? He said “I hope so” I asked
him what did he mean, he handed me a piece of paper that read
Dear Son, I hope this note
signifies my death. I have loved you with all my heart and you have always abided
by my decisions, you have never questioned my actions nor have you judged them
hence I ask you to regard me with the same indifference with which you have regarded
me all my life. There was never any warmth between us. We lived together for
almost 50 years and never did we share a word of kindness. I always knew that
this was the result of
your mother’s betrayal of me for which you hold me at fault, as why would a
kind, affectionate and radiant woman waste her life with an apathetic man who
is incapable of bestowing upon her the reverential love that she covets and
deserves. I am a failure my son, I failed to sustain the affection of my wife
and then I failed to obtain the affection of my only son. When you were on the
brink of your manhood, I was petrified of you, I was petrified of the
possibility of you asking me the question that tormented me everyday but you
never asked me why did I rob you of your mother’s love? You never did imprecate
me for being insufficient. If you would have said any of those things I would
have crumpled to dust at that very moment but it was your silence that made my
guilt unbearable. I was indifferent to your existence when you were a child in
your mothers care and I was scared of you in your adulthood and hence despite
all my failures as a husband and as a father my biggest regret that gnaws at me
as I write these words is that I never hugged you, like a father should have
hugged his son.
when
I finished reading the note and looked at him with tears in my eyes he said “a
week before he killed himself he insisted that we go to the beach, we came here
and sat beside each other, a few moments passed in silence and then he laid
himself down on the sand and said “son are you happy?” I was shocked at his
question as we had never indulged in intimate conversation and I said nothing,
because I didn’t know what to say, words would have been insufficient to describe
the tempest of emotions that overpowered me and stifled the words before they
could have been uttered. Silence is generally perceived as a sign of apathy or
docility but in our case it was a malignant presence that possessed us and then
decimated us. Since then I come
here every-day to look for the grains of sand that embraced my father’s vulnerable
self, so that I can hug him, like a son should have hugged his father.
We
sat down next to each other and he asked me “who have you lost?” and I said, I
haven’t lost her, I just can’t find her. I can hear her voice in the dark but I
think that’s just my mind playing tricks on me. He said “if you can hear her there’s
still a chance, you haven’t lost her” then he asked “why do you come here
everyday?” and then I told him
the story that I never told you but you always knew didn’t you?
I
lived with my mother and our dog on the footpath outside churchgate station,
our dog “sheera” remained chained to the wall during the day while my mother
cooked and I begged, never loosing sight of my mother. When it rained we moved
on the steps of the exit of the
station with our food and clothes. Every-day at sunset my mother took a
bath in the stations toilet, she dressed in her nicest blue sari then she
unchained sheera and chained me to the wall me before going off to work. She
chained me to ensure that I was not abducted and she unchained sheera so that
no one dared to touch me or even hurl abuses at me. She returned at sunrise but
Every-night I was terrified, not of the silence nor of the strangers but of the
possibility of being left chained for the rest of my life in case my mother
never returned. My fears did come true and one day my mother left me never to
return.
I was chained to the wall for two days, when a
man came with a key and opened the chain saying to me that my mother was waiting for me on the beach and that
he was there to take me to my mother. Sheera started growling at the man, but I
calmed sheera down, I chained him to the wall and handed the key back to the
man, I didn’t want sheera to follow me because I wanted to prove to him that my
mother loved me more than him as she had sent for me and not him. I went with
him to the beach where first he fed me and then he took me to his house
promising me that my mother was there. Once we reached his house he undressed
me and asked me to take a bath as I was covered in filth, when I came out of
the bathroom I came across a man who was giving money to the man who had
brought me there. I found out that it wasn’t the house of the man who had
brought me here and that my mother was dead, she was killed by the man who had
brought me here.
I felt
weightless, like my limbs were snatched away from me, my head buzzed as if it
was housed by a thousand bees, but the weightlessness was soon dissipated as I
felt a hand on my head, the hand drew me near to a thing I had never seen in my
life, it was long and it
appeared hard, the hand forced me to swallow it. Its taste was disgusting and I
immediately became nauseous, I tried to spit it out but the hand wouldn’t let
me, I bit it as it slowly became wet and the hand violently pushed me away, I
fell on the floor and felt all my food rise up to my mouth, when two legs were
placed on either side of me and the thing that I had been forced to swallow
spit white fluid on my face as I vomited all my food. This was the first of
many rapes that I had to endure.
I worked on this beach till I was thirteen, I
wanted to leave, I felt disgusted with myself, but I had nowhere to go. Then
one day a middle aged lady came to me and asked me how much would I charge for
2 hours, this was my cue to call radhe my handler, the man who had forced me
into this life. Radhe asked the lady, what was she planning to do with me, she
said that she liked little girls and wanted to play with me. She paid radhe
2000 rupees, radhe told her to drop me off to the nariman point bus stop after
she was done and that he would pick me up from there. I was surprised but
relieved, I thought at least I wouldn’t have to use the entire bottle of
Listerine to get the taste of cum out of my mouth. This woman was sumitha, she
took me to her car and said that she had seen me working on this beach and that
she was taking me to the police. She said that they would catch Radhe and that
I would be free. I begged her not to do this as I had nowhere to go she
reassured me and said that I could live with her. She legally adopted me.
After a year of therapy and homeschooling I was
admitted into a school where I discovered the wonder of novels. For the first
time in my life I was thinking in the words I had learned from books, I felt
cultured and respected. I started thinking about my words, my thoughts became clearer
and relevant not only to my existence but also to the world in which I existed.
I came across emotions that I had never experienced and I became eloquent in
the expression of those emotions. I could create a world with my words, where I
could lose myself for days, I started writing poetry, painful and tragic,
filled with horrors of sex and violence. I learned the implications of my words
when people started judging me on the basis of my poems, it is rightly said
that an author creates in his own image and I realized that I still identified
myself as a prostitute though not openly but internally, to me I still was a
woman who sold her body, a woman unworthy of what she had. I stopped writing,
afraid that my friends would discover my past then eventually I stopped talking
to them, the only person I talked to was sumitha. I never told her the details
of my past and she never asked. She loved me for who I was. I started having
nightmares about the rapes and I couldn’t sleep, sumitha would sit by me and
sing me my favourite song. When I started college sumitha had to go to the U.S for
4 years. I was paralyzed with the same fear, what if she never comes back. She
assured me that she will be back as soon as her work allows her, she said come
what may she loved me more than anything and that would never change. In
college I felt alone and alienated, I didn’t talk to anyone and no one talked
to me. Sumitha would call me on alternate days, but I didn’t want to disappoint
her anymore with my defeatist attitude so I never told her the truth about my
condition.
I started cutting myself, first on my inner
thighs so that no one would know that I was self-harming, but eventually I grew
indifferent to everyone and started cutting my wrist, every-day I would cut a
little deeper, every-day I looked forward to cutting my wrist, you know what
happens when you cut, the skin slowly falls away and a ravine is formed in
which the blood gushes. One day I made a cut that was too deep and I was
startled at the amount of blood I fainted and when I woke up the blood was
gone, since then I can’t find sumitha.
Day
55
Sumitha,
I don’t want to be like the sand collector. I don’t want to seethe in my guilt till
eternity. I don’t want to dissipate into the darkness of my own creation. I want
to exhume and accept my past because without it I am incomplete, I am an
apparition roaming the streets of mortals hoping to feel the delicacies of
nature against my skin when I lack a corporeal form. I don’t want to hide behind
the veil of despair, I don’t want to be the victim anymore. I want to be lucid
in my thoughts and actions, lucid enough to value the cost of my existence. Sumitha,
please come back I want a fresh start.
Day
60
Sumitha,
every-day I lose a limb only to regain it later, I can’t seem to find my
physical self anymore. I am scattered in
the deafening silence, I can’t find my voice, every-day I try to congeal myself
into a definitive form. The only thing I still posses is my left hand with
which I write to you. The rest of me is lost or perhaps misplaced. I can’t hear
your voice anymore, I don’t know what to think of it, maybe I have lost you
forever, or maybe the part of me that was receptive to your voice has been
overpowered by my disjointed state. This may be my last note to you, I can’t
find words to express my gratitude towards you, you gave me a new life. You made
me aware of myself, of my thoughts, of the beauty of cognition but sadly I used
this knowledge to seethe in my past eventually to implode. I can’t repay you in
anyway, I realize that your contentment lied in my happiness but I denied you
of that. In your case I am not the victim but the perpetrator and by disintegrating
into nothingness I deny you of your right to retribution. Forgive me sumitha if
you can, I loved you more than I love myself.
I
woke up in a hospital, sumitha was sitting on a chair holding my left hand, she
had aged beyond her years. She gave a cry of joy as she saw me looking at her
with bewildered eyes. I said, how are you here I have trying to reach out to
you, I have been writing to you, did you receive my notes, is that how you came
here, and why am I in a hospital. At this point sumitha pointed at my right
wrist which was bandaged and numb. I said, but the cut wasn’t that deep and the
blood disappeared. She said in her quivering voice “you have been unconscious for
6 days, why did you do it prachi, why!!!!!!, I though I had lost you forever,
please oh please don’t ever do this again” she dropped herself onto the floor
and started crying. At this point I welled up and moved my head to the right to
keep the tears from running down my face. I saw a face that I recognized it was
the sand collector, he laid on the bed next to me unconscious, an old man was
sitting at his bedside looking at sumitha, with tears in his eyes. He moved his
gaze to me, our eyes met and he smiled gently.
---------------------------------------------THE
END----------------------------------------
Points: 67548
Reviews: 1634
Donate