NOT DESTINED (Part-1)

 

Not all the doors open to rooms full of lights; some just end up leading you to a dimly lit little space, cozier than any known limits of comfort, a corner of the house that I call my home. It had things magically crafted into my shape as if all those pens, pillows, curtains, small lights, quills, papers, windows, and the little gap which graced the allowed interruption of zephyr during the sleepless nights and sunlight during the lazy mornings were made for me… as if the personified leftovers of my last love have customized everything for the longing needs of my unconscious-self to feel lovelorn!

Stepping on the cold marbles of the cimmerian graveyard of my eternal secrets, I mailed a xeric look that asked forgiveness from all those inky souls and bamboo extracts which were my oxygen till lately when I stopped breathing words. All my blank pages were left twattling with the wind gushing in from the half-closed window and there sat my spine hugging the painted sand atoms of the concrete wall. Hung was a set of tiny colored glass pieces on the window railing, and started jingling! Again after 4 years! Just like that! Yeah being a self-proclaimed flapdoodle I thought this time too it’s her fingers touching them again with some life. Of course in a trice, I raised my gaze, and all I could find was a blurry mixture of colors. Every color, every shade seemed akin to an amalgamated result of my prevailing fantasies and her usual presence that of course had become unusual for the past 4 revolutions of this earth around that sun. Yet all of it appeared to be blurred. Moving closer to the spot, I found her nowhere, erstwhile something swiftly removed my hairs from the forehead, and instinctively I closed my eyes and tilted my head towards the left, feeling and syncing with the touch, a touch whose every 1/6 second frame felt like her soft palm. We can just create magic for a moment and cannot ever keep it sustaining. The same happened. The ditty of the glass pieces, the tilt of my head, and that touch were all a part of the magic and I thought she is the magician, sadly I agreed on the fact that winds also master some spells.

The moving air tried hard to replace her. Maybe it could have but on some other windows, not mine! I ruthlessly blocked it and fell supine on my bed with every bit of zwodder miles away from me. Just as she is. The pens are now in a routine to talk to me every night, or should I say “to listen to me” (departure of a person can sometimes end up enabling you with the superpower of “personification”). Grabbing one of those 12 pens I succumbed to the silent ends of this world which is now used to the noise. But even before I could utter a word it murmured something, it asked me a question.

“Why have you stopped writing? Why don’t you wake your pages up? If you want I can be the expergefactor for them. It has been 4 years since the last book you wrote. What’s after ‘ARE WE DESTINED’(name of my last book)?”

After a moment’s pause, it said “See, I don’t know whether you want to write anything or not but I must tell you this- I AM DRYING UP, I DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME LEFT!”

My pens, I just then realized, were ailing for the past 4 years. They were all silent yet never chose to be. But even if I decide to write today, what would I write about, whom would I write to, who would I write for… the rain of my spontaneous fiction and literary curves that made good stories, is now far away for me and all I am now in is a desert with even minimal appearances of any oasis.

I have always written "her", have always spoken "her", have always portrayed "her"… I have always needed "her" in my stories, in my poems, in my words, in my books… I have written each story of mine, each book of mine with her sitting beside me and singing that particular song along with the scarlet sky-

Aapki Nazaron Ne Samjha, Pyaar Ke Kabil Mujhe
Dil Ki Ai Dhadkan Thaher Ja, Mil Gayee Manzil Mujhe
Aapki Nazron Ne Samjha

Ji Hamen Manzoor Hai, Aapka Ye Faisla
Kah Rahi Hai Har Nazar, Banda Paravar Shukriya
Hanske Apni Zindagi Mein, Kar Liya Shaamil Mujhe
Aapki Nazron Ne Samjha ...

 

Suddenly a phone call jumped in dragging me back to the world I liked no more.

Madan Publisher calling…

“Hello?”
“Hey, Madan!”

“Oh GOD! Akshit!!! Where the fuck are you, man? Why aren’t you replying to my fucking texts? Are you even fucking alive?” he screamed and was worried.

Hahahaha… And that’s Madan for you, along with being a friend or shall I say the only human friend to me and my publisher who made me the big name which unfortunately was getting whelved into the depths of my destiny. The continuous use of the F-word made it very clear that Madan was having an adrenaline rush.  

“Madan, calm down,” I said adding a fake sense of smile whilst elongating his name.

“No Akshit just fucking shut up and tell me where you are exactly now.”

“At my house…” I repented uttering those words, wanting him to stay out of my reach.

“Okay… just be there! Coming to meet you.” (Uggghhhh I never wanted this to happen, and just like any other time, I had to control over it)

“Madan… Hello…” he had already cut the call. This man has now left me with a lot of questions.

It takes him 35 more minutes to reach me. He barges into my room disturbing all the syzygy I have set with all my imaginary stars named after HER, and with him came all the answers to my questions.

“What have you made out of yourself Akshit? Man… Just look at yourself. The best-selling author 4 years ago now has completely put an end to the human in himself. Akshit… I am not only your publishing agent but also your friend. Why are you doing all this to yourself? What has happened Akshit?” he asks, his voice dramatically sliding down through the paths of rushing nerves turning concerned.

All I had was a subtle smile on my face, and the same was served to him. Not everyone likes everything. He screamed!

“Just ANSWER ME AKSHIT!”

He badly, desperately wanted me to answer…

“Madan… This best-selling author is over now. He has left writing. He is not able to write anymore. His pens are drying up and his words are now muted. Madan every writer has some reasons only for which he writes. Once these reasons are gone… the stories and words are too gone with them. And I have lost both. People don’t understand these things; they want you to write whatever they want to read. All those who liked ‘Are we destined?’ are never going to like the truth which I can write. Better not disappoint them and the publisher. Many people write fantasy, catch some new talents. My pens are silent and my pages are sleeping.”

“But Akshit… people are waiting for you to come back… the publishers are getting letters, emails, and numerous phone calls for all your readers…”

“Madan! Don’t try to convince me, I am dead. You won’t succeed.”

“FINE! You know what every writer doesn’t only have some reasons for which he writes but also has a few loyal readers for whom he should write. It’s a responsibility.” He drops an envelope on my desk and leaves saying, “Akshit someone is waiting for your words. Be responsible.”



To be continued...

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