The buzzing sound of the ceiling fan played a game called ‘anxiety’ amidst the playfield called ‘Silence’ as he laid down, cushioned right below it, circumferenced with ‘Darkness’. The clock ticked revealing an hour, by which he should have been fast asleep ; Dead for the day. An unresistable drop of tear trickled down to his ears, wetting the earphones which were respiring a few emotion-reviving-instrumental-compositions. He wiped the tears off his temples as his eyes transfixed itself glaring at the seemingly-infinite ceiling. He envisioned a hugely built entity, The World waging a stern battle against him. The World flashed accusations at his face which put him into a straggled stance in between ‘acceptance’ and ‘denial’. He was right or wrong, he couldn’t draw the line. For the moment though, the pain and the anguish in him sought for replacement as the oppressiveness tended to erupt its way out. His mind questioned- “Do I deserve this???” continued as though searching for something- “ God??”. He cleared his throat and heard his voice quiver- “ I’m hurt.” A growing silence (in his head) is all what he got in response.
The clock struggled to strike 6, but as it did, he grabbed a chair, dragged it to the window and sat resting his elbows on the frame with his fists supporting his jaws. The sun, his saviour, hadn’t made it’s entry yet. Alongside, he noticed a woman- his neighbour trace a colourful rangoli design over the wet, freshly watered entrance of her house. A distant sound of bells from a nearby temple caught his ears. The wind whistled across the branches, through the leaves to find his face as it slapped a quantum of freshness on his tear-wiped face. He exposed his head out the window, inhaled deeply, walked in and sensed the freshness of his toothpaste.
He retrieved his aged, unused bicycle and peddled along the silent street. Just like the good deeds of a silent man, the first rays of the yet-out-of-sight-sun hit the earth tailing off it’s darkness. The pleasant duskiness lured his mind unconsciously into a gallery of nostalgia. He cycled along ; noticed a milk van, an early ‘factory’ bus, the whitish-looking water in the lake and the peeping sun behind the bald trees.
He rested the bicycle on it’s stand and headed into a large expanse of greenery. He entered the park and glanced at the merely visible sky through the branches curving out of the tall torsos. He walked along the pathway advancing through the slides and the swings in the children’s play area to his left and a series of benches to his right. He strolled along until he found the bark of a tree and sat over the wet grass resting his back to the unready furniture. Now, the sun well out as it climbed up the tall trees, he could notice a whole lot of people in the park. The joggers began their run while the oldies in the 'laughter club' laughed their hearts out.
An hour passed as the bow on his lips switched directions. Though not a complete smile, he was sure his face got broader, his cheeks weighed lighter, his eyes opened wider, he respired deeper but couldn’t figure out why. He’d neither talked to anyone nor did his problem see an end. Only his unconsciousness-self cognized the magic that had bechanced. The very same- ‘The World’, which he had thought was waging a stern battle against him, exhibited it’s face- The face of ‘felicitousness’ ; It’s happy face ; People’s driving force. While all these thoughts wandered through his rekindled mind, a blue-jean, white-sweat-shirt clad old man walked up, sat beside him and threw his old arm over the young shoulder and cleared that little unsettled, what-so-ever feeling that he had. The old man went on in a cheerful tone-
“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up knowing it must run faster than the lion or be killed.
Every morning, a lion awakens knowing it must outrun the slowest gazelle or starve to death.
It doesn’t matter if you are a lion or a gazelle.
When the sun comes up, you’d better be running.”
An old lady, probably the old man’s wife came by and completed –
“ Once you get into grips with this game, trust me you’ll be one hell of a runner.”
P.S- Writer's Lounge, I am on for the RED contest. My post coming soon. Hope all you guys paint yourselves RED too.)