The room smells of stale bread and coffee,
A weird combination I know! There are clothes strewn all over the place-
Dirty soiled socks crumpled in a corner, a damp towel on the bedrest, mud laden white sneakers that fit perfectly with the new grubby aesthetic I seem to be going for.
An age-old bucket hat that was once worn everyday now lies discarded in the corner of the room, just like the bucket-full of emotions I seem to have decided to ignore for now;
From where I stand, I can see books on the shelf - some new with the crisp rustle of paper edges; some old with torn and broken spines. They smell different than the new ones;
The old books carry patches of old memories and a whiff of the many generations they’ve witnessed. I let my fingers slide down the broken spines and the musty blotted pages, hoping to heal them. I sigh.
I glance at the trophies on the shelf above the books, they’ve lost their lustre after years and years of tussle with dust and time; The settled sheet of dust reminds me of the time that has passed; The room does look old and if I concentrate, I can smell their whiff in the air of the room. Maybe, if I look closely, I can also find their prints somewhere.
On second thoughts, let’s not do that.
Old newspapers, their color fading to a pallid yellow, dating back to 2020 are still sprawled in one of the corners of the room. Their headlines, conspicuous on the front pages, screaming at me to pick them up and read them, but I don’t, I have ignored them for one and a half years now.
The study table looks more hostile than ever with smiling pictures of people who are gone.
Feeling a little bolder than usual today, I trudged a little closer to the table to have a better look.
Sticky notes in a rainbow of different colors still cling onto the wooden backboard of the desk.
Learn a new language - check
Start a blog - check
Read 10 classics - check
Learn an instrument - work in progress
Journal everyday - When was the last time I journaled?
I don’t remember just like I don’t remember the classics I read or the new language I began learning. I don’t remember a thing. Not even a hazy recollection seems to be making its way down the chimney of my brain.
I look at the pictures. I remember everything.
As a pause amid the hum of my thoughts, as a blank in the pictures of the past, as a dark spot amid my feelings, I was capable of conjuring all kinds of gaps; Why couldn’t I just forget? It would be easier.
Each memory seems to have crystallized itself into the walls of my body and into the walls of my room; Memories are like wolves, you can’t lock them away and hope they leave you alone.
Drawing back into the comfort of my self-weaved cocoon, I avoid confrontation with my room.
Like a switch that I seem to have learnt to operate after the excruciating pain; I switched it off one and a half years ago after the smiles faded into half open un-moving mouths and the laughter faded into far off echoes reverberating in the empty walls of my mind.
How quiet the room seemed! And pale despite the lavender-blue wallpaper; The passing of the years behind the closed door had squeezed the color from the walls.
As I stroke the pictures, now in my hand, I feel a rush of emotions into my veins that had lain dormant for such a long time now; Each stroke opened a little further the breach in the dam, against which a foaming lake of thoughts and emotions was pressing.
If I don’t stop now, I’m going to drown.
But maybe, just maybe, drowning will save me.
Like a criminal on the run, I’ve been hunted by the memories of my past.
I’ve been running, escaping, like a frantic deer, eyes darting in all possible directions to sense some sort of danger that leaps upon me and takes me by my neck.
I feel something brewing at the base of my throat. I can feel the almost-screams that scrape my throat as I swallow them down.
The ache in my legs and the knifing heaves in my lungs are enough for me to drop the pictures and reel back in pain.
It seemed as though the strength was bleeding out of my arms, as though I could do nothing but stand there in the darkness behind the door that stretched its arms out to engulf the entire room;
Time folded in on itself, closed over me, drowned me;
Then the tears came and fell.
I wanted to be buried under the evaporated salt of my tears, I broke in a way unlike I had ever been broken before. I spiralled into the abyss of my pain.
But maybe, just maybe, I needed it.
Because after the excruciating pain that I had always managed to block, a serenity fell over my tired limbs, calming my aggravated soul into peace;
I untangled myself from the gloom that had shrouded me and got up,
Walking towards the book shelf, I pulled out a dusty old diary that had not been touched for one and a half years now;
With trembling fingers, I unbuckled the leather latch and opened it,
Last entry- 21st January, 2020
Taking the pen from the pen stand, I write-
25th August, 2021
I think it’s time to move on. It’s time to accept things and live life. Locking away all these precious memories in the most solid casket of my heart forever, I shall begin anew.
Placing the pictures amid the blank pages of my dusty diary, I fill it with memories. Memories that I will not have to run away from now, memories that won’t haunt me in my sleep and won’t hunt me down in my dreams. I have become one - the memories and me.
Gauri Shukla
President
Redstockings Literary Society
Comments