The Dreadful Delusion

Maverick woke up with a start, a sudden scream escaping out of his parched mouth. Hundreds of small beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, which slowly trickled down to his brows and shone under the minuscule light coming through the gap in the wooden window. His face was pale and the eyes had a terrified look. The same old blood-curdling vision was back to haunt him again.

At that moment everything seemed all fuzzy and dizzy. His heart was beating hard and loud and the senses had seemed to have intensified. However, nothing seemed to bother him at that point, not even the irritating sound of the water leaking out of that old rusty tap, or the bed that creaked dangerously with the shift in the weight of his limbs. He was staring straight at the wall in front of him. It had sheltered his family from the sun and wind and rain for decades, but the unrelenting resilient fellow was wearing out. It had developed fissures and the lime mortar had peeled off giving way to the rough grey cement in patches.

What if the world we see is an illusion—and that our dreams an impression of reality.

Suddenly, a car screeched past the window. The loud piercing sound sent shivers to the already scared Maverick. Curious, he hunched his body to the right and opened the latch to the window. There was an abruptly parked car out on the street, and strangely enough, in that pitch dark and ghastly quiet night, the man had let the headlights on. Unable to spot anyone, Maverick moved a far little too much and stumbled down the bed onto the floor with a loud thud. He fell to his sides and thankfully, there wasn’t any injury to regret. And just when he was about to shake himself up, his eyes went up the wall—again.

But this time, he spotted something different. The change in the angle and the illumination from the car outside depicted those blemishes in an altogether different light. He moved closer; he looked deeper. And sighted into those edges that familiar grin—the devilish creature with a sly smile on his face. It was all very prominent. Very noticeable. Three days and three nights he had kept himself awake. To avoid this nightmare. To avoid leering frighteningly at that monster holding a stained knife in one hand and a decapitated head in another. The head that had the same eyes and nose and face and hair. The head that looked like his own. The head that was his own.

What if being asleep also means awakening to life—or death!

A striking reminder of his dream, the head kept on dripping blood—one drop at a time. The monster with the fiery red eyes kept grinning all the time as the drops took wing like a house on fire and came down in a rapid succession. It was like Maverick had been nailed down to the point of nothingness as he watched the drops become a stream of blood under which people were drowning. To his wildest horror, they were his family, his mother and father and brothers. He could hear their cries, feel their agony, watch helplessly at their futile attempts to save themselves. He peered as they choked on his thick blood, burst into tears as their head went down and then came up for the final time. “Don’t,” he sobbed. “Don’t go, please!” he cried.

Why does it feel so real? Have you ever given a serious thought to reversing the concept of imagination? What if the world we see is an illusion—and that our dreams an impression of reality. Is it possible that there are split personalities existing in ourselves, each being dominant in their own sphere? What if being asleep also means awakening to life—or death!

Why do I have this terrible feeling that I myself am a calamity to the people I love the most? Am I that deplorable a person? What if you had got me wrong all this while? The things that I’ve fed to you all this while weren’t what you thought it to be—will you forgive me?

The Beautiful Chaos

What would you do if it all came back to you? All the woes and worries that you had been wary of, the ebb and flow of waves crashing at your doorsteps—would you let it in? Would you listen to the call of wind, or still be living in a shadow? Well, the latter might seem a preferable choice given your tragic past experiences, but the question remains the same: do you have what it takes to go all the way?

A hundred such thoughts flashed by Maverick’s eyes as he lay seated on the terrace watching the beautiful sky. The magnanimity of the blue canvas interspersed with the thick white fluffy cotton smoke would often leave him in a daze. On days like these, his eyes would drift towards the picturesque hues of the setting sun and the varied V-shapes into which the birds flew back home. He would be stupefied by the mammoth concrete structures and the sheer distance that he could see. Never was he disturbed by the indistinct clatter down the street, for he always basked into the pleasures of gazing at people—the young and pretty, the sad and drowsy, the ones pedaling hard and the others, riding fast.

But then, our Mav had forgotten that his life was no romantic fiction that deserved a happy ending. It was only but obvious that the hammer would strike someday: the only question was… When?

On each Thursday, he would pay the terrace a visit and would lose himself in the serene surrounding of silence and solitude. But today, it was different. As he climbed up the stairs, he could see that the Earth was enveloped in darkness. He turned his gaze towards the heavily laden gray clouds hovering over the sky: perhaps, trying to find a resemblance to something symbolic to his imagination. It seemed to ask him something, something that no one else had bothered to care:

“What’s wrong Mav… Why do you tread on such horizon?”

That was it. The sheer timing and the categorical ambiance of that question overwhelmed him to the point of shutting down. Maverick had buried those pain and pleasure moments far down his artery and left them untouched so that they could be forgotten with time; but sadly, that was not to be. We don’t really have total control over our thoughts, do we?

He was frozen into stillness. His heart pumped the blood deep, intermingling it with the emotions galore that laid a complete seize over his body and mind. Not wanting to fall weak at the moment, he made a feeble attempt to rise from his stupor, only to be disappointed. His eyes followed the dark clouds—they reminded him of the days she would excuse his silent affection and ignore the cry of his soul, no matter how loud they might be. Nonetheless, he carried on: hoping against hope that it would be different tomorrow. But then, our Mav had forgotten that his life was no romantic fiction that deserved a happy ending. It was only but obvious that the hammer would strike someday: the only question was.. When?  

It was March the 5th, the day when Maverick was fiddling with his phone and social media that he saw her donning an ethnic wear—she was walking hand-in-hand with someone down the stairs of a historical monument in India’s pink city. Fearing the worst, the immature little kid went on and on to browse numerous other uploaded photos: of her, that stranger, and every other mutual friend that might give some clue to the unnerving curious case. He had lost track of time but found out the thing that mattered him the most.

Though his heart was broken, he didn’t let his composure go downhill for he could bear a thousand needles pierce through his body, but he couldn’t stand her living a life full of guilt. ‘The burden would be too much for her little heart to carry’, he thought and then resolved to stay away from her… forever.

Suddenly, there was a spark in the sky and for a moment, everything became visible to him. He could see the trees swaying in the wind, the empty clothesline above the adjacent building, and a couple alien heads basking in the beauty offered by this unpredictable weather.

And then it rained. It came down hard and fast and heavy as if they were the last drops hanging up in the sky. It seemed as if these heavenly juices were in a hurry to kiss those moist eyes, to soothe his otherwise disturbed plight. He remained seated with his head over his knee and hands wrapped around his leg, letting the torrent wash away his worries—all those salt and sweet moments that he didn’t want to remember any longer.

When the downpour did finally come to halt, our Mav was a new man; or, perhaps that same smiling soul that he was in his childhood. That chill in his drenched body made him realize the essence of letting go. He understood that the feeling could choke himself if he were to hold on to something that was never meant to be his.

“Life is not into confining yourself, but in traversing new horizons”, he told himself as he ruffled his wet hair into the towel.

Losing Myself

This is getting hard. I think I’m losing myself; losing to the dark devil living inside me. He’s sailing me into nothingness. The productiveness… ah, the productiveness is all gone. The creativity, the flow, the charm—everything seems to have taken a back seat. This is even scarier than having my laptop smashed, my fingers chopped, and being confined in a cell. I’m straying on the same path I’ve travelled a million times: there’s little food for thought. He’s eating me up bit by bit, pulling me into things that are of little importance. I’m losing my focus, my meaning in life. It was my choice, my escape, my cowardice to have left the space vacant. I thought I could get away with an excuse. Oh, how wrong I was!

I feel like a hen in the grasp of a butcher writhing in agony, waiting for my throat to be sliced open. It’s cold, very cold. There’s not a single shred of cloth covering my body. It’s a shame I had never experienced before, not even when I was found guilty of stealing money in an assembly of a hundred students and teachers. The blood in my veins has thickened. The oxygen: They’re having a hard time climbing up to my brain. My eyelids seem heavy. They want to be rested, to be closed upon each other. Shall I free them from the pain?

“Don’t. Please don’t!” cries my heart.

I oblige. I can’t say ‘No’ to him… No, Never! I can’t debate him, I can’t reason with him. He’s been left broken many a time but is still standing strong with the soul. Oh, you’re a beauty! A true beauty of selflessness. So I force my eyes open. I know that this moment is short-lived but I endure the pain. I’ll fail, yes that I’m sure of! But I’ll make sure my journey gives someone hope. Struggle is all I’ve done throughout my life and struggle is what I’ll do to stay alive. My battle is against eventuality, and I’ll fight till the end.

And as my eyes go weary, my thoughts stride down the memory lane to the days when I was preparing for my Board papers. Waking up till late night—solving math problems while listening to the local FM channel—was a bliss I experience no more. The race against time, the continuous scratching of lines and letters, the world of supposition…. Where have they gone?

I remember cycling down my way to school and admiring the simplest things that I have lost sight of. We—my very dear friend with whom I’ve lost contact—rode on the mud and the asphalt, through the plains and the potholes, and the dust and the rains. We would race to a distance, challenge each other into riding with our hands behind our back. Oh, I never won anyway! The other times when I was alone, I’d see how many counts I could make without opening my eyes. “Oh, you shouldn’t try that!”

I’ve always looked for the motivation outside—into the movies, the books, the people around—but how foolish of me… I forgot to look inside! I find that I’m improving. It’s like the sums I solved into my solitary nights: the more I practise, the better I get. With every drop of ink, with each stroke of the keyboard, I get more power to seize the demon inside me. And sometimes my dear Mav, this is why I pull up my socks and breathe in the silence and serenity offered by the descending moon. Wanna join me for a walk?