of one and many...

I watched a movie trailer this afternoon. Poignant, exciting, teasing Promising the thrill of a two-hour sabbatical. I read of an author writing a trilogy. He’s just starting on the third book, Promising an epic, nerve racking climax. A new game will be out soon on Xbox. Sometime next year, probably. I like games, I want to play this one. I met a girl last week, she gave me her phone number. Told me to call her sometime. She wants to go to college, live a life of dreams. They say there’ll be a man on Mars someday. Someday, all the fighting in the world will stop. Someday, we’ll find a cure for global warming, Famine, corruption, terrorism, Maybe even the common cold! We can all hope, I suppose. I wish I could see it all. Watch that movie, read that final book. Play that game, Maybe fall in love with that girl from last week. I wish I had the time. I wish they’d found a cure for cancer. The doctors gave me six months. I wish I could have lived longer.

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.

It is late night as I return. The darkness is complete, having taken over the reins from half-hearted twilight. Time has never been a friend; I close the door on a day never to come again. The night begs me to submit —— The empty house, with the stale odour of a dead day leaves no room for choice. I stand on the threshold —— A blank epitaph to an absent presence. I have left time outside the door, and there is nought to do but await the next moment.

The glass door slides shut. Behind it lies a wholesome, throbbing vitality. A roomful of pleasant exchanges, polite noddings and gracious handshakes, drinks in hand, anecdotes on the lips. Out here, a mere glass door away, lies a different world, where the background tattle of etiquette and an almost familiar music, is all but mute. Out here lies a world of unruffled peace, where moonlight plays against moonshadow, unbroken, for once, by the unsubtle harsh glare of a yellow streetlight, a world of serenity and quiet solitude, introspecting upon itself. I stand in silent, enchanted contemplation, forgotten drink in hand, as the moments are stitched together on the greyed fabric of the night, and i am a mute part of the weave. The glass door slides shut. Soft footsteps approach me, carrying the faintest whiff of the discarded room with its smoke and drink and honed conversations. The night swallows it all, as you put your arm in mine, and say, "I missed you..."

If, in the heat of the day, you come to me, I will say no. If, on a night such as this, which has no meaning, yet must go on, you come to me, I will say no. If, in a moment of hesitation, the truth is bared, and unbeknownst to you, you come in a shroud of lies, I will say no. If, in a gentle embrace, sweet words dripping from your hardened lips, where sits wisdom borne of a practical existence, you come to me, I will say no. I have given much. Love needs to be loved too. I must say no.