Far off, somewhere at the foothills of a mountainous range, there was a blue house which seemed carpeted perfectly on lime-coloured lush green grass. It stood out amidst its rather rural yellow ochre neighbours. There were some stray stone cottages too, appearing as if time had decided to shift slides between England and India. The blue house was circled by a knee-height yellow fence. Inside this house was a stark white room with rich wooden interiors and bronze statuettes and one kitschy couch. On this tic-tac-toe of patterns -- some bits of mirrors and some pastel rugs, some jute stitches and some velvet stamps -- reclined Apeksha, with her thick glasses perched on her nose as she chewed books, the finished ones making up for most of the flooring. Opposite the couch was a fireplace the mantelpiece of which held shining trophies.
It was another thing that she could completely command this scene to her comfort, over and over again, whenever she was by herself in her nothing-much-to-mention room, in a sticky city by the end of the day, and had no breathtaking views opening out from her out of the mills check curtained windows. She tried to remember something from her past, with so many from the present convincing her that she needed to. It was true, Apeksha could think of no name, or any face, nor had any recollection of the documents which said she was Apeksha Anand.
How long has it been she often thought on cold nights and on hot afternoons and sometimes on mellow rainy mornings. It was a matter of time before the people who often visited her, visited her scantily, or, no more. Of them, she had taken a liking towards the dimple-cheeked handsome boy, Billy. But like her past, as they pointed out, this slice of present top faded away. Apeksha had nothing to look forward to and learning anything skill-based at an age of seventeen was taxing. She was made to volunteer to sit with the oldies at the home and she was quite adept at the proxy care service.
It was a shame that when she woke up on certain nights alarmed by the severe memory of a ball hitting her at 165 km/hr, there would be no one to remind her that she used to be a sensational tennis player. She would then, to forget the feel of the pain, call forth the picture of a blue house which seemed carpeted perfectly on lime-coloured lush green grass. It stood out amidst its rather rural yellow ochre neighbours. There were some stray stone cottages too, appearing as if time had decided to shift slides between England and India. The blue house was circled by a knee-height yellow fence. Inside this house was a stark white room with rich wooden interiors and bronze statuettes and one kitschy couch. On this tic-tac-toe of patterns -- some bits of mirrors and some pastel rugs, some jute stitches and some velvet stamps -- she would be reclined, with her thick glasses perched on her nose as she chewed books, the finished ones making up for most of the flooring. Opposite the couch was a fireplace the mantelpiece of which held her shining trophies. And while all this would reveal itself, the music which played inside her soul, quite unknown to her, was the disciplined claps of the crowd which had cheered for her.
When all was back to blank, Apeksha would resort to waiting. While most of us awaited the future, Apeksha longingly looked forward to her past.
It was another thing that she could completely command this scene to her comfort, over and over again, whenever she was by herself in her nothing-much-to-mention room, in a sticky city by the end of the day, and had no breathtaking views opening out from her out of the mills check curtained windows. She tried to remember something from her past, with so many from the present convincing her that she needed to. It was true, Apeksha could think of no name, or any face, nor had any recollection of the documents which said she was Apeksha Anand.
How long has it been she often thought on cold nights and on hot afternoons and sometimes on mellow rainy mornings. It was a matter of time before the people who often visited her, visited her scantily, or, no more. Of them, she had taken a liking towards the dimple-cheeked handsome boy, Billy. But like her past, as they pointed out, this slice of present top faded away. Apeksha had nothing to look forward to and learning anything skill-based at an age of seventeen was taxing. She was made to volunteer to sit with the oldies at the home and she was quite adept at the proxy care service.
It was a shame that when she woke up on certain nights alarmed by the severe memory of a ball hitting her at 165 km/hr, there would be no one to remind her that she used to be a sensational tennis player. She would then, to forget the feel of the pain, call forth the picture of a blue house which seemed carpeted perfectly on lime-coloured lush green grass. It stood out amidst its rather rural yellow ochre neighbours. There were some stray stone cottages too, appearing as if time had decided to shift slides between England and India. The blue house was circled by a knee-height yellow fence. Inside this house was a stark white room with rich wooden interiors and bronze statuettes and one kitschy couch. On this tic-tac-toe of patterns -- some bits of mirrors and some pastel rugs, some jute stitches and some velvet stamps -- she would be reclined, with her thick glasses perched on her nose as she chewed books, the finished ones making up for most of the flooring. Opposite the couch was a fireplace the mantelpiece of which held her shining trophies. And while all this would reveal itself, the music which played inside her soul, quite unknown to her, was the disciplined claps of the crowd which had cheered for her.
When all was back to blank, Apeksha would resort to waiting. While most of us awaited the future, Apeksha longingly looked forward to her past.
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