I can almost taste the gale that gently singes my face. A hot and salty mix of gases that has driven the men and animals into the shadows. I seem to be immune to these poisonous winds as they barely tickle my skin and drift away to consume more innocent lives. As I stand on the balcony that looms over the melting roads, my thoughts get corrupted by the heat of the Indian summer.
One must not trust their instincts in the summer months. The angry weather gods entertain themselves by pushing us towards evil temptations. To recover my senses, I crush a mango leaf and inhale the raw aroma of heavenly nectar. The fruit is just a momentary indulgence while the potent scent of the leaf lasts all day long. It transports me to the childhood days when I would rush out in the middle of a dust storm to gather the fallen golden and green orbs.
My hosts think that I am crazy to be out in the unforgiving heat. I am summoned into a dark, cool room where the other guests are already seated. The frosted windows are an unconvincing lie; they appear to be icy but leave painful blisters on the fingers. The familiar sound of steel hitting against glass echoes in the room and the hostess hands out tall tumblers of pink sherbet. The tinkling of the spoons continues as the guests dissolve the viscous syrup in the water, only to find it settled at the bottom of their glasses again. Unable to defy the force of gravity, they hurriedly gulp down the drink to end this unfair battle.
A strong breeze brings in tufts of dried grass from the parched garden. A cruel reminder of the brevity of life, yet my heart still yearns for the scorching sunlight. These kind souls are depriving me of my one true love, the passionate rays of the sun. I feel powerless as they feed me course after course of chilled delicacies. They don’t realize that the heat is my mistress and my muse. I reach into my pocket for the vial that I carry around for such occasions. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I politely refuse the dessert that drugs the lunch party and induces a state of deep slumber. It is amusing to watch grown men and women doze off on the dining table, their hair swimming in gravy. As much as I want to stand and admire my handiwork, there is not much time to spare. I rush out of this prison of practicality with my trunk in one hand and the host’s wallet in the other.
One must not trust their instincts in the summer months.
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As soon as the clock strikes 7, the nudging and nagging begin. Little does she know that he was up till 3 o’ clock, fighting a losing battle against the pestilent mosquitoes that were troubling her sleep. The aroma of coffee finally manages to entice him and he drags his aching body out of bed. The omelette is a little burnt but he can’t muster the courage to mutter a word because her cell phone has gone missing. Twenty minutes are wasted in retrieving the gadget from under the bed and now he is late for his morning meeting.
Work is the usual mishmash of incomprehensible instructions and demonic deadlines. His eyes hurt due to the lack of sleep and the overdose of caffeine, but the glaring screen shows no mercy. His existence seems similar to that of a blinking cursor, half-awake and half-dead, serving no purpose for half its lifetime. On the positive side, doesn’t the blinking make it more prominent? His thoughts wander in such random directions all day as his job is unable to challenge his intellect. He soldiers on because even the thought of quitting is a cardinal sin, what with the baby on the way and the startling mound of bills and loans. He now needs to go into a soundproof cabin and scream a little.
By the time he manages to escape from the office, the sun is long gone and the stars are sneakily shining through a blanket of smog. She takes the car to work these days because of the bumpy roads. After multiple rounds of haggling, a languid auto driver agrees to take him home for twice the usual fare. He is half way there when the phone vibrates, and now that he has noticed it, the guilt of ignoring her would be too much. She needs some ice-cream and it’s urgent, how can you say no to such a request? The detour to the ice-cream parlour results in a heated argument with the auto driver who threateningly demands an extra 100 bucks. He crawls towards the front door, weary and dejected, even pressing the doorbell is too much effort at this point. The door unbolts after what seems like a century, but the sight of the cold compress on her head hushes his fuming complaints into absolute silence.
A patchwork of ephemeral visions perturbs my sleep at night. A disorderly chaos of people back from the dead and long forgotten lovers, against a curtain of surreal scenery. In this parallel universe, the birds can fly backwards and the tigers are tame, the waterfalls are set ablaze by the sun and the dew drops freeze into shiny pearls.
You can be at several places at once, in fact, the cities walk to your doorstep. A magical mosaic of childhood homes and palaces from hazy summer destinations. Your troubles are reduced to crippled versions of their harrowing selves and your enemies morph into hilarious buffoons.
The world conspires to make you invincible, a boon so powerful that you cannot be destroyed. Gigantic butterflies rescue abandoned souls and carry them across oceans within seconds. Immortal ponies gallop over fires, sheltering your skin from the scorching flames. You can be an artist or a gypsy, a witch or a merchant, but what you really are is a goddess.
Who would ever wish to escape from such a flawless dreamland? A land devoid of painful heartbreak and blistering betrayal. Where no fall is too hard and no slope is too steep. Where the clouds are your cushions and the breeze your wings. If only life could be so glorious.
Of late the blotches of reality have been tarnishing the pretty picture painted on my mind’s canvas. Fear, anxiety, and sorrow are making an appearance in the form of horned demons. I am trapped in a fractal of nightmares within nightmares. An endless loop of waking up in a state of panic; a serpent devouring its own tail. A vicious cycle of screaming into pillows and crying myself back to sleep.
Is this the curse of growing up or the outcome of the maledictions muttered by my mistakes? Perhaps an evil ailment or the fruit of unintended sins? Whatever this brutal beast may be, I know of a way to defeat him. I will now embrace a sleepless existence and will forever walk this earth with parched eyes.