What actually happened then? Where did it go wrong then?
I really cannot tell everything from the start. I cannot even
begin to put into words who brought what to me. Nevertheless,
I attempt at introducing a few moments to you someone eager,
so vividly, each moment in its full glory that starts with *when
{*is the common thread} – the paint started peeling off in strips,
the face held its breath and peered into the dark night, a
“Do not Disturb. I want to grieve all alone” sign on the doorknob,
piles of old letters that meant something once to a pair of playful
feet went into flames, the young woman stood still– shocked-looking
so vulnerable, abandoned, in her blue dress at the petrol station,
the bridge collapsed near a village, the small town disappeared
from her map, something unknown destroyed the most optimistic
heart behind the curtains, the feet learnt a new habit of strolling
all alone, the face drowned in the bowl of deep lake causing ripples
of disturbance, the wings (I mean shoulders) went cold, the heart
contemplated a suicide by cutting a few veins around the wrist,
the telephone line went dead, the things that were stolen, the hands
pound the air when riots happened, the tears-stained cheeks were
admired by a co-passenger,….each may sound like a scream of
exhaustion, which the world could not hear. I may miss a few details
when I am retelling each on different occasions. But I get her face quite
right every time she who held me in her grip, when my life went into
slim chances, and allowed me to feel that I belong to this world; she
who stood next to me when others in the railway station laughed at
how crazy I looked; she who told me what it feels like to stand so deep
in anger and yet be so controlled, calm and firm-footed; she, without
any emotion, who folded one more story of mine neatly and put it in
the old trunk that sits half-forgotten on the dusty floor of the attic.