The Gift of A Young Deer 1/N

The telephone rang in blips alongside the incessant patter of rain hitting the mill’s roof. When it stopped, there was still silence for about a second. It certainly wasn’t long before the general hum of the workplace began filtering in through his ears. Unstartled, he lifted his head to the smell of coffee wafting in from the south-west corridor: always an oxymoronic response to his caffeine intolerant self. A quick shudder ran down his spine as he awoke to the perpetually frigid state of his workplace. The body’s tendency to warm itself into a comfortable cocoon is what makes midday naps at work all the more cosy.

Turning to his wrist, Oshin smiled to himself; one o’ clock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. He would step out to buy himself some lunch. The aroma of spices mixing halfway through the air with freshly steamed rice is what made lunch feel like home in this city. A quickly pulled out chair with a nod signaling the regular order of natu kodi and puliogare rice was a regular afternoon. Gathering his post snooze thoughts, he realized he’d brushed aside the emotions tumbling in his stomach all week. Shai’s unexplained departure and the quiet of an empty house had left him with strangely vacant thoughts. No vacancy signs, smoky permit rooms, red lights, black, red, white. The steaming food arrived at his table as the wrestle amongst mental images continued. He gorged down both portions, leaving a hefty tip and stepped out for a quick drag off his last cigarette. (If two couldn’t be one and one didn’t want to be one, should one jump off a moving train?)

Shai did leave him a note, scribbled yet thought out. It wasn’t about the circumstances, it was just a matter of how he felt for him; and it wasn’t the same anymore. While speaking their minds to each other had only kept them together all this while, it felt like they were teenagers again with uncontrollable emotional surges. Shai’s new fetish wasn’t just that; she’d held his hand and spoken to him through the night with all electricity and no physical intimacy. Evidently, Shai wasn’t good with holding back details. Oshin tried remembering what it’d been like to try liking women, flirting with them. It wasn’t a familiar feeling, and didn’t quite feel electric. He then remembered Shai describing what it was like to have liked women. Their gentle gait, sultry voices, feline mannerisms and taut figures; and why it no longer felt relevant. He should’ve read the signs and tipped himself off right then. (Will you buy me a bottle of Prosecco, please?) Shai had now left for need of space and to figure it out for himself. He was the one who was certain that they should move in together when they’d (he’d?) made the decision. So it obviously made sense when he was also the first to leave. 

Oshin’s cigarette lasted him till this point of thought and now he was left disconcerted. He stepped away from the awning and walked out into the street. Hesitating for a split second, he turned the other way to trace his steps back home. He hadn’t turned off the geyser and no one at work would notice his absence halfway through the day. A brisk walk towards Jolly Heights was followed by hurried steps to the third floor. Hunting for his keys in the rear pocket, he brought his hand out to the lock and turned it to find the door already open. Pushing it slightly, he found an open suitcase splayed out in the living area with white shirts flowing out; only one person ever had a monochrome wardrobe. Shai had heard the door turn and walked out to find Oshin standing frozen with tears running down his round cheeks.

Spaces

I find it interesting how places can reshape and reinvent themselves, yet maintain that shroud of intrigue that drew you into its lair in the first place. Spaces often tend to do this, when they become too comfortable and familiar there rises an unsettling energy that forces its surroundings to transform for the sake of staying alive; an unsaid ultimatum that pushes it into a different form, a constantly changing beast that must morph to survive.

Mind Chatter

Look around you, no look up. What do you see? Actually, what aren't you seeing? Was that a bird flying past or just a projection of what your mind was racing past? If I were to ask you one question what would your answer to that be? I've lived a long and fulfilled life that had few takers and some givers who contributed to making it what it has become today. People narrate stories, some their own and some that belong to others. We treasure our chest of tales that nestle themselves on our tongues and run off into a single path as in the woods; one that's untreaded and then this monologue echoes into the far horizon from where another friendly folk picks up where you left off and narrates this mixed fabric that's sewn ever so slightly different from what you wore the previous day.

The Despicable Yawn

"Darling, would you like me to pour you some wine?" he asked, as they seated themselves at the porch. At a distance from cottage number seven the horizon blurred out, giving way to constellations and silver waves breaking at shore. A seemingly friendly yet forlorn set of white linen and lanterns nearby set the stage for music that came alive. With a gaping yawn and quick shiver from the chill, "Yes of course, dear." answered she. His eyes rolled and with deep pain he retorted, "Again? You'd promised me you wouldn't." A fallen face later, he asked, "Was it the wine? Please don't tell me it was the wine." Her unsettled self took another hurried sip and said, "I promise I won't do it again!". "But you just did!", said he. "You know I love you more than I love my wine"; the words instinctively tumbled out. His face morphed into a mix of confusion and delight, as he shuffled in his seat attempting to scour out responses from the back of his brain; there were none. He smiled and a quick peck echoed the instant as the distant ringing of the village postmaster's bell.

Rains

The rabid downpours had only just rotted the newly laid cheap tar. Every year the promises of better roads were made, but all that remained witness to these false statements were the street lamps. They lined flyovers as specks of chrome across their arch. And beneath them, by the footpath sat numbed patrons of the streets. A woman, who had just enough in her to guide her man's face deep into her neck. A very normal sigh and bereftness following which the man tries hard to caress her face and kiss her brute. And with their faces so close, their insides grow weary and desolate at sea.

And The Clock Ticked Louder

There emanated a painful amount of coherence from his words. If only time's hands could transform the present to the past. Maybe slowly, starting with halting the progress of now and then moving to freezing the present; and then just like the reel of a broken film that must be rewinded to allow one's mind to sew the fragments together. "Let me reminisce these moments, only to know I did nothing wrong.", she said.

Shapes