Silence seeps into the walls of
the room, on the north-western corner of the House. From there it spreads - slowly
into the stairway, and drawing and dining and everything that remains under one
roof (or many, three? Four or five perhaps, not more). Like an ailment that
defies the science of medication, it grows. It grows, and gains strength- from
the undeniable truth of the impending doom, from the sorrow that has settled
deep down inside the visibly strong minds of a handful of weak humans. It feeds
on that smidge of weakness, on those two drops of tears that sometimes miss the
forceful efforts of shutting down, and break free.
I can see Grief getting ready-
ironing its shirt and pressing its pants, savouring the breakfast slowly and
taking its time. It can have all the time in the world, have all the time in the world. From a safe distance, it watches the
way silence builds an empire and sits on the throne with an evil, all knowing smile;
it has finally won the battle, the long
battle.
The oven that was bought eight
years ago with the anticipation of an at-home-bake-heaven, runs in the
background, boiling a glass of water with a spoon of lemon juice in it; the
bake-heaven part of it never happened. Tap water seems to be of most use, there
is a constant opening and closing happening there. Someone shut the kitchen
door- to the work-area- with a bang. There are five distinct footsteps. Words hang
in the air, bereft of meanings, sour and dry. Life seems to be barely alive.
Nothing prepares us for the
truth. No amount of ‘in-depth understanding and profound wisdom’ prepares us
for the ultimate experience of living
through. The only comfort comes with (and has to come from) Pain, because
it cares. Pain cares. But Numbness doesn’t.
And the real competition is between these two. When Pain wins, you win. Because
then, the light at the end of the tunnel is a promise. But what happens when Numbness
does? It teams up with Silence to rule, slowly infiltrating your conscience
with a flood of memories, sure enough to drive you mad, silently. You are left alone as a silent spectator on the bank of a
river, and each water molecule would deliver a memory. It wouldn’t necessarily
deliver the memory so much as it would give you a glimpse of the glory that is
past, of days that did not carry the weight of emotions, of moments light as a
feather and once taken for granted. And you’re left alone as a silent spectator
on the bank of the river, and each
water molecule would deliver a memory.
I hope the Grief comes in at the
right time, as much as I want it to delay. I hope the maleficent Silence and its
prospective companion doesn’t get to rule, even as I know it would. I hope the
not-so-evil Grief would successfully help the Pain, and that we all would, someday,
somehow, go on to make it to the end of the tunnel, where the light is promised
and so is life.
