She stood at the unopened door, watching people bustling in and out of the metro train. Earplugs sealed her from the manic world around her. Wisps of hair flying about, others hanging limply, she leaned disobediently on the glass that had a sticker warning ‘do not touch glass’. She chose to ignore the papery admonition. Faint sunlight, softened through the glass windows, and streamed into the compartment.
She brooded over the numerous thoughts she had hoarded like an over-zealous squirrel. What is it that ties us down to mundanity? Muse never failed her whenever she was on a long journey. Her mind wandered, aimlessly poring over old movie plots. Armed men blasting into the vehicle, screaming women, frozen men, howling children, all silenced when they brandish their weapons. Money-less travelers left to fend for themselves… Her train of silly thoughts broke off here, her skin betrayed a sheen of freshly appeared cold sweat. The air-conditioned chill welcomed her back to the present.
She was leaving a couple of things behind. Among them was the comfort that stemmed out of familiarity. A never-used guitar and a PSR-260 that made her cry bitterly the last time she played it. The guitar will remain giving tacit company to the synthesizer until she gathers courage to touch them again. Chinese wall hangings and framed, smiling friends graced the blanched walls. A dusty wind chime—so heavy that it would need a tornado to make it chime—hung from an orange colored fancy light. A soothing Good News Bible and a prayer-wheel rest atop a glass stand alongside ginger-flavored, obese candles. An unused bed accompanied by a deep blue bolster. Raggedy dolls and jute bags. A faithful old radio. Color pencils. The hand-made velvet rug covering gleaming beige tiles. Bright yellow curtains that flirted with the Rajastani painting. Peeling plaster tactfully hidden by the borrowed bookrack.Her room. Her world.
When it got dark outside, and when the train began its stealthy descent into the underground station, she gathered her luggage—which was just a rucksack, really—and prepared to disembark. Her eyes stung while they accustomed to the bleak and balmy exterior. No one would be waiting for her at the station. She would just drop her travel token and walk through the exit gate, out into the Unknown. She absent-mindedly recited Walt Whitman while trudging out:
She brooded over the numerous thoughts she had hoarded like an over-zealous squirrel. What is it that ties us down to mundanity? Muse never failed her whenever she was on a long journey. Her mind wandered, aimlessly poring over old movie plots. Armed men blasting into the vehicle, screaming women, frozen men, howling children, all silenced when they brandish their weapons. Money-less travelers left to fend for themselves… Her train of silly thoughts broke off here, her skin betrayed a sheen of freshly appeared cold sweat. The air-conditioned chill welcomed her back to the present.
She was leaving a couple of things behind. Among them was the comfort that stemmed out of familiarity. A never-used guitar and a PSR-260 that made her cry bitterly the last time she played it. The guitar will remain giving tacit company to the synthesizer until she gathers courage to touch them again. Chinese wall hangings and framed, smiling friends graced the blanched walls. A dusty wind chime—so heavy that it would need a tornado to make it chime—hung from an orange colored fancy light. A soothing Good News Bible and a prayer-wheel rest atop a glass stand alongside ginger-flavored, obese candles. An unused bed accompanied by a deep blue bolster. Raggedy dolls and jute bags. A faithful old radio. Color pencils. The hand-made velvet rug covering gleaming beige tiles. Bright yellow curtains that flirted with the Rajastani painting. Peeling plaster tactfully hidden by the borrowed bookrack.Her room. Her world.
When it got dark outside, and when the train began its stealthy descent into the underground station, she gathered her luggage—which was just a rucksack, really—and prepared to disembark. Her eyes stung while they accustomed to the bleak and balmy exterior. No one would be waiting for her at the station. She would just drop her travel token and walk through the exit gate, out into the Unknown. She absent-mindedly recited Walt Whitman while trudging out:
You road I enter upon and look around!
I believe you are not all that is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.
I believe you are not all that is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.
9 comments:
Hey Pr!tz,
You have this great gift to draw people into a fictional character. I'm seriously waiting for The Book(TM) ;-)
"A faithful old radio. Color pencils. "
I still cherish a faithful old radio
"Peeling plaster tactfully hidden by the borrowed bookrack.Her room. Her world."
LOL ! so much in common with me! Happen to remember a life that is quite past, he he !
Nice to know you are writing again after a gap.
Remember, your yahoo blog is collecting dust !
Jai***
Days empty themselves. Like an ice cream carton. I guess I have nothing more to say.
ahdnt you already wrtitten this before?
was there sometime ago ...the same glass pane...the same bed...finally broke through the "mundanity"...must be something better beyond it..hmmm
hey!. jus came across ur blog by chance. Very intresting choice of words. quite beautifully out together. something like a sculpture of words. All the best for further exploration into the area. ;)
I still haven't read the post but I couldn't resist commenting on the layout, colours and all the visual elements on the site. Beautiful!
Mahesh
It is official. You are a superb writer! I am linking you to my blog for regular reading. :)
hi , im new to ur blog.. its simply superb.. iv added it to my favs..
:))
Post a Comment