of one and many...

It was a Wednesday morning. Sitting in an autorickshaw, waiting at the traffic lights, I was late for office. Constant glances at my watch didn't help abate the tension either. Frustrated, I looked out into the street. There, on the pavement, lay scattered some pieces of glass. Probably shattered from the window of some car, I thought. The rickshaw inched forward, a little, and the glass caught the sun. A flash of light. It was as if the glass had imprisoned the sun's brilliance, and trapped it into a smooth, luminous reflection. The immense light burst forth, enveloping the cruel, jagged edges of the glass in a softness endowed by illuminance. The rickshaw moved another inch. The vision shifted. A rainbow of colours now greeted every eye, but there were none to attend. Drops of colour were held still in an embrace of time, unknown, bizarre colours, one blending into another, so fast they were nothing more than a blur. The cosmos shifted by in that one frozen shaft of time. The...

He sees the hundreds of eyes, Watching him like a hawk, As if he is nothing but a prize, To soothe the hunger of the flock. He knows they will judge him, Flay him for any mistake, For he is at the mercy of their whim, and their juvenile justice. He takes a deep breath and steadies the mike, preparing for an onslaught of attention; he refuses to give in to fright, And the possibility of rejection. A half hour later, he stops, the lecture finished, the lesson done, Now he awaits the verdict, and drops his guard, vulnerable, nowhere to run. His fate is in their hands, As on his future they sit and decide, Will he in their respect stand, Or, in indifferent disdain, be cast aside?

The darkness isn’t complete, it is hazy. Outside, you know it is night, but in here, you can’t tell. It’s been hours and hours, but Einstein’s time is cruel, and it has been eternity. You are alone in here, your phone doesn’t work, your voice isn’t your own, hoarse from shouting, hollow, your fingers are deadened with spent effort, your legs gave way long ago. The air is stale with a million breaths, The mind is numb, thought turned sluggish by panic. The morning bathes the building with light, But the lift still stands in darkness, dead.