And I let them flow..

It was a Saturday. My afternoon siesta got prolonged till early evening. By the time I woke up from my dormancy, the sky had already hidden itself in darkness. Streetlights at the other end of our neighbourhood were glowing bright. Bereft of the luxury of being decorated itself with street lights, our sector had a composed bearing, shops lining up the street help keep the area illuminated. I got up from my bed with a shudder as if I had a bad dream. But I could not recall the faintest of impressions left behind by it, as dreams in general do. Perhaps it was too good, or too bad. But what was it? I asked myself. I had already started feeling weak, restless and hated the darkness enveloping the room. As a manifestation of that uneasiness, I ran to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. In between, I lit up the entire house by switching on the electric bulbs. I wanted to murder every sense of darkness residing in the deepest corners. The milk came to a boil on the stove and spilled all over as I was trying to recall my dream. Cursing myself, I started wiping the mess with a plain piece of cloth. That is when I could feel warm tears rolling down my cheeks. My eyes soon turned into a river and the vision blurred. The darkness within and light outside fought a mini-battle. I watched them with a sense of detachment. Nothing belongs to me. I am an intruder with limited time. I have nothing to do with either darkness or light. But tears, warm and frosty at the same time, are mine. I cannot deny their presence and something that I had released from my self-imposed imprisonment. It is not easy to give away your own possession, especially something that you have guarded so passionately for a long time. I wondered, are they mine? I started cleaning the sticky salty trail of tears from my face with the corner of my blouse sleeve with the same vigour that I had utilised a few minutes back to wipe out the mess staring at me from the stove. It was a strange feeling — the freedom to cry. I remember it well, it has been ages since I last shed tears. I somehow developed this stoic self, not intentional though. I don’t know what triggered the icy-cold behaviour from me, but it stayed with me for long, till that Saturday, which was just another regular day before the evening, until the embankments guarding my inner fear broke free. Like there is no answer to my stoicism, similarly there is no explanation to what caused sudden ruptures in my eyes. The days preceding that Saturday were usual ones. Nothing striking happened that could be used as an excuse behind the sudden outpour. Was it my past that was still haunting me? My past experiences, where I had cleverly hoodwinked myself to believe that nothing has gone wrong. “It is just a matter of time, all would be fine," is how I kept myself fooling for so long. But nothing changed much. I kept on encountering one hurdle after another, one mishap after another, one heartache after another, one gloomy day after another. However, that adamant smile in my face remained fixed. I thought I look beautiful with my smile. Now, in fact, looking myself closely in the mirror, I look more grotesque. Like the pale shadow of my own image. In the game of survival all I did was pretend and deceit, no one else, but myself, my soul, my whole existence. Realisation dawned late. During winter you cannot ask your body not to ache in pain, and that too, when you are audacious enough to step out naked in the open, ignoring a high intensity blizzard that has already created havoc in your town. Is this ignorance or high-level of understanding which almost translates to self-destruction? “When in pain you should cry." I remember how Montu with his crimson teary-eyed face had once told me about the benefits of crying. "But boys don't cry," I had winked. "Come on! Your feminine soul needs that balm, no need to cross dress," he wasn’t smiling while saying that. I am sure he would have remained the same till today. Even on the day I came to know Montu died of alcoholism, I did not cry. Strange, isn’t it, Montu? Now, when I look back, I feel I behaved strangely. I know, you, too, would have expected me to react with shrill cries. After all, nobody reacts so detached when one’s childhood friend dies in such horrible condition. I heard that you had almost lost your mental compass months before you died. Alcohol did that to you. You had lost your charming self. But they told me that even when you were dead and lying in that coffin, ready to be buried forever, you carried that inimitable smile of yours. All I did after learning your demise was to say a prayer. I still sing that prayer, Montu… almost every day, something like a ritual. I remember it well, how popular you were among girls in school. You had a host of girlfriends… end of one affair would be quickly followed by another. I can’t remember a single day when you had spent without the company of a woman in your life. You used to almost brag about your conquests in front of us, something that would invariably make a few turn red with envy. I used to laugh it out. It was you who told me that love letters are to be written from hearts and not with the help of a dictionary that lies open in front of you. It is the purity of heart that does the magic in love. Every "love letter" written by you, even if for your friends, never failed to do the trick. A host of desperate guys and gals struck by that menacing cupid arrow would turn up at your doorstep to help them write that "perfect" letter to win their love. They used to be hilarious, with lines borrowed from Bollywood flicks, "If you are the moon, I am the moonlight, if I am the sun, you are my sunshine....." A few I heard were written in blood, as lovers took their ultimate vow in the name of love and slit open their arms to let a stream of blood ooze out. Those were rivers. They still flow beneath the mountains of my childhood. It was again you who told me that love and hatred should always be kept apart from each other. We should never try to mix them. To prove your point, you would cite political harakiri committed on part of both Pakistan and India to have peace talks, and border skirmishes going on at the same time. "Either the political leadership thinks we (citizens of both the neighbouring countries) are fools to trust their efforts, or they themselves are fools," you had commented like an expert. "We should know how to love and hate grandly. Otherwise, both turn meaningless," you giggled. Hey, do you remember that girl? I’m sure you do, I have vivid memories of her — the one with curly locks and short gait. I thought she was the real love of your life as you had skipped many a meals to save money to buy the most beautiful and expensive birthday card for her. I thought she, too, loved you honestly, which you often demanded from your sweethearts. But then she failed you. She left you for another guy, a topper and good looking guy from our school. It was a massive blow to you. That is perhaps when you started drinking. I don’t blame the girl for deserting you, leaving your heart all empty, forcing you to take to alcohol. She is what the norm is — to love and admire the best. After all, you were the poor Romeo of our school who often used to flunk in his mathematics paper. I guess you could have been better, putting a little effort in your studies and making a life out of your little-know skills. It is no grand affair to die an alcoholic’s death, Montu. You know I was very critical of you despite being grateful to you for introducing me to so many beautiful things about life like that of the flamboyant game of legendary tennis star Andre Agassi. That time he was known more for his style quotient than his game. But you were convinced, like you were convinced about so many other things, that the long-haired guy with watery eyes is a legend in the making. "Watch him out. He is a true stylist of the game and would change its grammar," you had admiringly told me about Andre. It turned out to be true like a prophecy after a few years. I hope Andre comes to know about you some day. At times I behaved mean. So much so that I didn’t even greet you the last time we met. You were in an “inebriated” state near the town library. I was appalled to see you like that… a few friends were trying to hold you and help you find those staggering footsteps. I gave you an angry stare. But you still did not stop smiling. Why did you do that? I was expecting the same anger and hatred for me in your eyes as I had for you. But, all I saw was innocence of days gone by. I would have appreciated had you shown me some kind of malice in our last meeting. Today, I could have been guilt-free. Guilt has chiseled itself into a stone in me, Montu. It is the same guilt I encountered when I saw my beautiful aunt turning into an apparition of her earlier self, as cancer spread across her body. In her last days, she was forced to wear a wig that had replaced her long tresses. I would go and sit beside her as her son would try to feed her in vain. She would throw up every spoon fed in double the measure. The helplessness in her eyes still follow me everywhere. It has made me a prisoner of myself. All these and many more episodes just piled on me, left me what I thought is the making of a home of an alien inside me. He first came as a visitor, then without any reason decided to stay back. I did not raise any protest against his audacious behavior. Rather, made him a part of my existence. Slowly, he grew more powerful, almost overpowered me, like the tiger overpowering a fragile deer inside a deep forest, where probably human footsteps have never fallen. I just remained a witness, like those crowd that surround a dead body lying on a road, interrupting the traffic flow. Most likely the stranger in a pool of blood is an accident victim. Nobody knows, so curious onlookers make a beeline like flies over a rotten piece of flesh. They are the witnesses to the vulnerability of human existence. But the same witnesses turn into voiceless spectators who quickly return to their world, easily forgetting that a gruesome accident had killed another life. I became one of those witnesses, to witness my own life, as it moved two and fro. I never made tea I so hurriedly got up to make that Saturday evening… there was no milk left for it. I discarded the idea of having black tea as well. Strangely, tears swelled up again in the corner of my eyes. But this time I did not resist. I didn’t make any effort to wipe them off. I went ahead with my chores, washed the stained utensils under the running tap, and clearly saw both my tear drops and soap foam getting mixed and flowing down the gutter.