Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“Startled, he woke up. He was sweating in the cold
night. There was no one in the room and the night was as silent as a curious lizard looking at an insect. It must be a nightmare; he could still feel the
coldness of metal upon his sweating neck. Such nightmares were not common for
him, he considered himself ready to die any moment, he was a hit-man, his job
was to kill or to die for nothing, then what scared him of death tonight?
He took a sip of leftover scotch in a left-alone glass
on the table. He felt thirsty, he needed to drink some more, there was nothing
left in the room, only an empty bottle. He sat back on his chair, lit a cigarette
and looked outside. It all seemed so silent, so still, yet so much chaos on
offer. Was it she who was playing these tricks in her mind, was she sub-consciously
plotting a revenge against him for coming back only to tell her he is here to
kill – her. He did not even know here, she did not know him either. All he knew
of her was she served in that dim-lit joint and she probably him as a loner who
came there once in a while, talked to no one, drank a mouthful of scotch and
left with handsome tips after sitting in dark corner for a long while. He had
no business knowing why was he sent to kill her, neither he intended to do so,
but yet she kept coming back to her mind as if a hidden fear buried deep within
layers of nerves and flesh.
Fear is wicked, it loves to play with us and a silent
night suits it well. For silence of the night leaves one vulnerable enough to
be faced with own shadows, often to end up with bits and pieces of
what-how-why-where and so on, questions makes us dizzy and answers makes us
sick, one struggles to stay awake even though there’s no sleep, for more the
eyes see at the darkened canvas of the roof, more it appears to be falling in
abyss and all of sudden fear sneaks in only to make the matters worse. If to
examine closely, it is not even the fear of falling but knowing being fallen into
self-created hollow, created meticulously over time. It is a deadly combination
of shame and guilt, least one is to wear a layer of ignorance at the dawn. One strives
to melt in the dusk, but fails miserably, only to be left wondering what next.
Sound of birds chirping woke him up, a pleasant
morning this he muttered to self, as he opened his eyes to bright sunrays. Pleasant!
He muttered again…
By: Praveen Parasar
Date: 15/05/2016
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