A Play, A Life

CHARACTERS

You: an exceedingly nice, too good to be true boy.

I: another girl. (Is also called ‘me’, ‘my’)

ACT I

Yesterday; at my place I was wondering how and why communication between you and me was straining. Before that, you and I have established a relationship which calls neither for nomenclature nor categorization nor definition. You and I, both, known or unknown, to ourselves and/or to each other, happen to be panelled and layered. But, both enjoy each other a lot.

Scene I

I am thinking, thinking hard, how to manage time. There are two hundred and one things that need to be done. I get tired sometimes; play acting between two active households and staying patient - with others as much as with myself. And then I rudely shout, or, ironically, ‘rudely’ shut-up. I do not know what you go through; you have never been much expressive in any case. You only story-tell, you teach me to see beyond the obvious, you love me, scold me, pamper me, you sweet-talk and strangely you do not talk too. And with you also I have shown my patience, sometimes with a genuine smile and sparkle, sometimes with gritted teeth and clinched fists. I owe us this patience not just because I love you, but also because I am aware (though vaguely) that you are not always in the correct circumstances to be doing all that you want to, and, because, a little bit of patience does no one no harm.

Scene II

You have been unwell, making me anxious and afraid. And never talking consistently, it’s always been an extreme with you. Top: the most caring and endearing, bottom: a formal “hi, hello, how have you been, bye.” And so I give a damn. After all there are the two hundred and one things still pending. So I go about it, one by one, and right at the start you are there with your presence in my earphones. My eyes are constantly aching nevertheless I am enjoying the evening because I am with people I love the most. Strangely, at some point or the other, most of them are inquiring after you. And you are still silent, wherever you are. I return, and on my way back there’s ‘Closer’ playing.

Scene III

My eyes are not letting me sleep. I shut them in spite of them. No dreams. No pain. And there you were! With your specks on, in a house which I knew existed only in my dreams, each detail was done to the dot. And you were correcting some scripts, giving me an all-assuring, ‘you-have-been-foolish-once-again-but-never-mind’ smile and saying softly “Stupid Girl! Open the curtains, c’mon” and I obeyed.  

ACT II

Today: I have been so irritated with my eyes and the recurring cobwebs that life seemed a maze, until a butterfly fluttered past my indecisiveness of whether to have tea in a red or white or yellow cup. Butterflies and you were almost synonyms because you fancied a marriage whenever they were around. It brought back dreams of the night. When I had obeyed you and opened the curtains.

Scene I

The curtain itself was one I was once asked by you to design. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Beyond the curtains was a sight I always thought was only as perfect in dreams. It was a mountainous range, brown and white and distant olive green. And you were correcting illegible Physics answer scripts on my other side, enjoying my state of perennial amazement and disbelief.

Scene II

I was so-so-so what is that feeling? Glad? Relieved? I had no idea how I landed there, by your side, with my neverland-type yearning heights on the other side. But it was true. The warm-burn of your big tea mug was real enough. The way you finally laughed aloud and ruffled my hair was real enough. And lo! You had more to offer. A sack from under the bed, out of which came out a brownish-glassy big-eyed puppy! The loud bash I got on snatching the TV remote out of your hands…yes all of them were real. And then out of a showdown that I was sad, I turned to the other side and fell asleep, overhearing you turn pages.  But when there were the fear-full dreams I found you right beside me, distracting me away from them by telling me smiley stories. Or were they not?

Scene III

Was it yesterday, today, everyday…I have lost total track of time. That one dream has made me let go of my entire vain ‘damn you’ attitude. I read in the mail from you this morning that you were holding me closest to your self last night. Now you tell me how not to believe that you are a bundle of magic? That you are you, no one like you, at least the way you are to me?

PS: I have no idea who I am; am I the author of this dream-drama (since you always consider everything I do as drama)? Am I the narrator? Am I the character ‘I’? Am I? 

Whoever I am, I know I love you and I know of dreams that heal and make me a better me. Sometimes I shut myself up very tight, away from everybody, that’s when I am afraid of the dreams that would never come true. But the intense dream that I lived yesterday, would last me a lifetime.

There are very few people in whom you find a combination of many befitting roles. You have been a strict and patient teacher, a passionate lover, a considerate friend; you are the one, as I always say, without a second, full-stop. And I am ‘lucky’ (a very light word for the feeling) that you are so many things to me, mean so much to me, so mine? 

In life, as much as in dreams; for, finally - “it’s a life to dream and a dream to live.” 

I went through old pages slowly browning in an old diary which I stumbled across unwittingly. That was me? Funnily, it does not feel even sad, the truth around past. It merely feels funny! As much true as feelings back then were, not having them anymore is a reflection of the changes in the individual soul. I am glad such loves are out of my life. There was too much plurality for comfort. Singularity, you may argue, may not be a nice place to reside, but it has taught me to come to terms with my sanity. 

"Insane!" had you not said? What was my fault? Smitten whispers? Comforting dinners? Edgy threats? And why not? You lied. You lied to me! You scheming man with your mansion, you let me down! How many highways I have had to cross to find you, do you know? Those as far as dreams. And "insane" was all you went on saying. That is what you are, actually, quite insane.

If I had your heart in my hands, I would refrigerate it forever, and pickle slices of it. I would have also strewn some bits on the roadside for the strays to chew upon. And you would neigh and you would caw and you would make sounds that ants do when they are smashed. Negligible. Unheard. You would die. And die again.

If it were not for stitches that are to be made on clothes here in the prison, they would be all over you.

Kanishk Thakur believed he penned his masterpiece. Locked inside his room, he refused everything that the world had to offer. He play-acted each moment living it "a life to dream, a dream to live."