I found myself standing in a strange room, almost blindly dark at first but things confirmed their places to me after a while as if my eyes had switched to night vision, and at last I realized that it was not that dark, rather, soon I deduced from the curtained window having a meter long bright square on it, it was daytime. On the wall perpendicular to the window was nailed a painting of a little girl walking through the fields of barley on a cloudy day. Strange as it was, I saw the painting even the room was dark. I felt the softness of carpet under my feet and kept on rubbing my feet against it. The air of the room was heavy and smelled as if someone had dined in the room couple of minutes ago. And then again as if recovered from oblivion, I found myself standing in front of an elegant golden brass mirror – brass I called it though I have never known it up to the point of distinguishing it from other metals, I knew just steel and iron for sure yet I call it brass. In the mirror I saw my reflection having tears trickling down “his” cheek – I didn’t address my reflection with “I” for it was defying me because I wasn’t crying really, it was just him, the reflection, who was shedding tears – some of them falling due to their intensity down on the carpet, while others lost themselves in the two-week beard of mine like a channel of water is lost in thirsty crops. Scary, as it seems, was not what it was rather it was pathetic, pathetic as a dead insect. I kept on looking at my reflection first with indifference, later with curiosity, then gravity and finally with guilt followed by reeking regret. Before I could move further I heard a familiar music emerging from a world where I was not right now, from a world where I was absent – the very fragment of time. It seemed more a savior than just a tune for I felt it clutching tight around me, as if it were going to rescue me from this very place where every micro second had its own variety of torments to try upon my already mutilated soul. And so it happened. The tune-turned-savior rescued me and the other moment I was in my room in my very bed. It was the alarm humming Muse’s unintended. So it was the dream I always have, again.
About The Author
- Artworks by Visithra Manikam
- Artworks by Nancy Grace Mirindi
- Artworks by Hannah Jeremiah
- ‘When I was growing up, we never had any Bhutanese authors. All the books we read came from outside.’ – Chador Wangmo
- ‘Eroticism and spirituality, though different in many ways, are two great sources of passion’- Melissa Studdard