24 November 2008

“My love will shine like the moon when the light in the lanterns fade away.”

When Siddharth regained his senses for a brief period of time only a few lines from his past kept repeating themselves in his head.

“Somebody help...,” he tried to say but he could barely speak. His mouth felt dry and stale and tasted of rust.

He sat with his back against the wall. The blood on his left thumb had just about started to clot but the pain was intense. Red blotches of blood covered his white shirt. The back of his head throbbed with pain and his spine was a river on fire.

“Help...help,” he tried to say again. He became aware that he was in a tiny room.

On his right, a grilled window framed unfamiliar woods with a patch of blue sky. Through it bars of sunrays streamed into the room. The walls were damp and soot black. Thick cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Few bricks and burnt logs were piled in one corner of the room. And all across the dusty floor colorful paintings lay scattered.

“Water,” was all he could mumble. “Water.”

At the window, coils of a creeper had snaked inside the room, nodding as and when the breeze slapped them outside. Droplets of water welled at the ends of the tendrils, before falling off one at a time. His tongue craved for those drops. But he could barely move as his hands and feet were bound.

“My love is like ether. It will exist as the fifth element.”

He tried to wheel his thoughts back into the past but something was blocking it. Probably it was the terrible pain in his head and thumb. He was not in control of either his senses or his limbs. Unsure of whether he was dreaming or dying he made a last-ditch effort to shift his hips and legs. But he started losing his vision.

Before passing out again, flashes of images swept across his mind, about his first love, his first kiss, the kohl laden eyes, his paintings, the shocking letters, the locker, the pain, the hurt, the temple. This was followed by blurred sinister faces flooding his eyes but they surged past in fast succession.

“If you have lied to us we will come back and chop you.”

An hour later a little village boy, about seven, came running to a pond in search of his lost kite. As he looked around his eyes fell on the small broken house with creepers and vines crawling up the walls. A smile hatched on his face as he guessed his kite might have fallen near the small house or on its terrace.

When he came closer he saw the front door opening into the house partially. Recalling the stories he heard of startling discoveries of pots of gold and gems from unexpected places, he peeped inside. As his eyes scanned the small room they came across the colorful papers strewn all around. His pulse quickened in excitement.

“Uncle, can I take these?” he said pointing to the colorful papers. “Uncle?”

Seeing no response, he assumed the man was asleep and quietly slid through the narrow gap of the open door. As he tip-toed inside and stared at the paintings, a sudden temptation filled him to make paper boats out of them. He picked up as many as he could and was about to get the man’s permission when his eyes fell on the redness all around and the twines that bound the man’s hands and feet.

Within seconds he sprinted away as fast as his thin terrified legs could carry him. Once he reached some distance his mind flooded with dreams of colorful paper boats and rockets. There was in it however, no concern for the silent man or his lost kite at all.