A pain numbs me. Ghosts of follies past extend their ugly, rotting hands to reach me, embrace me and hold me back. They want me to stay, never leave, roam the darkness with them and fight the light.
But I must leave. I must leave this chaos behind and seek out my thoughts. Run after my words. Gather the ideas that lie scattered around the house, in corners, in the laundry basket, among the drying flowers in the vase, by the Giggle’s study table, up on her soft board, among the books that have been holding on to my book marks for months. In my Facebook updates, down my timeline. Among my tweets. In the darkest hours of the nights that I spend without sleep, waiting for a phone call from across the seas. Among the branches of the jaswanti, juhi and mogra. On the wings of a truant breeze that flies in from across the lake, touches me, murmurs your name and rushes past.
I had promised to give myself a break. A break after I had finished making sense of words, phrases, sentences, expressions in a language that I love because it’s my own and then translate all into another language that I fell in love with, much later. A break from ideating, chasing thoughts, putting them into words, freezing them in frames or painting them into pictures for you to admire. The recess became longer and then permanent. And painful.
My words have left me. I feel empty. They fail me every time. Every time I want to say something or express my pain, joy, anger or frustration. I try to cry, but no tears flow. There is a hole in the stomach and a dull ache, somewhere very close to the heart. I know exactly why. But don’t know how to cure the pain or what will heal the wound. Or how to exorcise the ghosts or fight the demons. No, I don’t know how to fill up this black hole either. All I know is that I want my words back. And my tears. The pain numbs me again.
I feel like the wasted, dried, shrivelled up plant that I had banished to a corner of the balcony, towards the end of winter. The branches resembled dead twigs, the leaves had dried, curled up and fallen off. I knew it was dead.
And as if to defy all logic, defy death and make me believe again, this morning little green leaf buds had raised their heads on every dried node. The parched, dry, brown bark had burst open in places and life was spreading its arms towards light.