Not to mention, dusk hours they were…She was finally up after that oh-so-refreshing slumber of 16 hours on her favorite red linen bed sheet and the not-so-comfy PG bed, custom made enviably comfortable by adding piles of cushions and pillows…
She no more LOVED the evening like she used to…There was no more fun in waiting for dusks, no one left to compare the color of them with her complexion, no one to make the music play to the tunes of happiness, no one to let her drown her worries with the flow of alcohol, no one to plan the PARTY for the night…those beautiful bottles worth growing lots of money plants in them, lay there, absolutely wasted, trapped in her almirah, hopelessly awaiting return of her joyful self, much like herself…
Dusk hours passed by, thinning the brightness and the relaxed skin of her forehead into contracted random lines of worries…For once, she thought a simple text will do… “hey, so you don’t even have time to ask how am I feeling now? Do you even remember I wasn’t well?” But, realized soon after, all he could do was to tell her “Take Care”… Ultimately, SHE’s gonna be the one taking all the care. Care, to make herself feel special before her very self, Care to exclaim to her own delight, everything is alright, Care to make her presence felt…
Images of those mirages called relationships floated before her eyes as the sun made its final appearance below the Pune clouds. Getting better of the inactivity, she finally opened the good old laptop, skimmed through some old pics, old comments on facebook before picking up his call… and soon after some “I wonder where is it going?” “I’ve no clue whats going to become of my life.” “Please yaar, cut the crap, I’ve office to attend tomorrow”…” GoodNight!!!”… She lay there again, peacefully not with dreams but with apprehensions of unforeseeable tomorrow…
“I cant ever rise so early in the morning” she says…I sincerely believe, one fine day she would love to acknowledge the rising and shining of the Sun, the Mighty God with all its valor…the novel beginnings of all so amazing days…so that when it dusks and nights, she sleeps off with beautiful memories of days worth spent with…
P.S. I started off to write a short story….dunno why, how, it shaped up to a depressing scribble…
1 comment:
Who says scribbles are bad, and who says only short stories are needed?
And sometimes short stories should not be intended when a scribble can deliver the message.
When i said you write like Paulo Coelho, I meant it.
Keep up the work, expecting more such 'scribbles' from you
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