It's A Hollow Play

By Shashwat Sahoo

As I walk under the canopy, on my way out of the hall, it almost feels warm. The kind of fuzzy that makes you hope for more on a cool night. Winter is probably the only bearable time on campus. The climate is just right to start feeling cool on the bone and be comforted by a jacket.

But I can’t let myself feel that.

Not tonight. The warmth soon lets me go, as I realise that it was just my fluttering heart, gushing blood through my head.

Thump. Thump. Thump…

The students’ mess would soon close for dinner, but that’s not where I can be right now. I don’t belong there.

I don’t belong here.

I turn back and begin dragging my shoes towards Bonn Avenue. Where do I want to go from here? Why don’t I plan? Why don’t I ever plan? If only I had been as good as them, or as good as I once was. But I had tried, had I not? What was I doing exactly? I spent so much time. I really had given up everything for this. I was working for so long on…

On what? I can’t even remember. Maybe I didn’t work at all.

Is it better to try and fail or not try at all? What if I am trying the wrong thing. Of course, it is the wrong thing. Why do I even try then? Why now, do I feel?

Enough with the questions, dummy. No one is coming to solve anything for you. I give my face a shake, stretch out my eye brows and with a keen focus on the strides I am taking through the golden leaves on the ground, I move on.

As I cross the student activity centre, I cut a glance towards the crowd moving in. Some in flowing dresses of violet, indigo and grey, faces coloured with makeup. Some in shorts and a tee, faces coloured with joy. All better dressed than I am. What a waste these lives are. Doing nothing of value but loitering all day. These people don’t care for anything or anyone. I am probably better off than them at least. What would happen if I didn’t care like them? Hmm. I could do that.

But no one called me in.

The chill is turning to mist now, as the moon is turning to stars. Soon, it is as dark as it is wet.

I carry no umbrella, yet my head is high and my chest out. I am, but in my mind. What brings me back is the realisation that I am not the only one on this path. Who is that? Following me? No, just someone crazy caught in the rain. But she makes no attempt to evade- neither the rain, nor me. I quicken my pace and leave the follower to walk on the other side of the road.

It’s quite romantic, the sight of a man walking into rain on a moonless night, made visible only momentarily, by the pity of a sparkling star. You shed a tear for the man alone in rain even without context. Why? It can’t be empathy. You don’t know the situation, you. You don’t even know if he is sad, what are you crying about? But there is a certain hollow that you feel- or more precisely, you want to feel. You want to be him. You want to be there. You want him to feel what you feel in your deepest pits. You crave the melancholy.

You freeze in the moment and ponder.

Where did you come from? Why are you here? More importantly, why are you not where he is? What would you do in his situation?

If only you could stop looking at others and just retrench into your own nothing. Not nothing, just you and the drops. Far too long have you been forced into security where you feel anything but. When was the last time you were drenched to your heart’s content? Down to the bone. Not the kind where it worries you in the light of day and you rush to your closet. The kind that leaves you devoid of any hope of salvation. No hope means no strings- to the world or beyond. You are free to suffer. It feels good.

And so, you don’t just want to face the pour. You don’t want an umbrella to half-heartedly save your face, your vision. You want to dissolve in the rain.

You want the daggers to pierce your face. You want the pain. The pain is good. The pain is deserved. The pain is the saviour.

And I do need a saviour. Something to keep the darkness of the night out. With darkness comes the inability to act, to plan, to see.

Now that, you don’t want. That, you fear.

Huhhhhhhh…

The first street light on the alley is in sight now. I cock my head and out of the corner of my eyes, see her, still on my trail. A wayward pebble breaks my pace and my legs refuse any action for a moment. She doesn't stop. So maybe not following me after all. I get moving again, only to feel the urge to stall. Evidently, so does she. And so, the rain too.

With no rains to keep me company, I decide this is my stop for tonight and go to the bus stand. She chooses the one on the other side of the road. Why would you invade someone’s privacy like this? Or am I the one invading her privacy? Dammit, should I move? No. Honestly, I didn’t see anyone on the road before me and I was the one who stopped first; she could have walked away.

I am done. I am washed away.

I get my notepad out of my bag and settle my pen between my teeth.

I can do anything I like. And I like to write. But write on wha- oh not this again!

I will not waste any time. I can and I will do. Just do. I swing my eyes around for inspiration. This spot has never failed me- with its old trees and birds young, with light rays gliding, on a high song. I look around and all I can sense is this outside presence. This girl in front of me.

Fine. Distract away. I look straight at her. But she doesn’t seem to notice.

Her hair is thick with water, still dripping, and reflecting the yellow light off the shiny black. It’s damp and clumpy, but falls perfectly over half her face as she leans down on the seat to her right with a large sheet of paper under her hands. I like to get a sense of my muse, their thoughts and how it may manifest as expressions. I probe for her eyes, hidden behind her hair and looking down.

Just then, she looks up straight at me. She doesn’t seem surprised. Or anything. She watches me for a good fifteen seconds before breaking her stare. I am a little offended. I don’t look away either. Her dark eyes seem to eat away the white of her eyes. Almost like a deep pit. She is definitely feeling something. Her forehead is wrinkled and her tiny mouth is hanging open, expressionless. There is a stream flowing on the side of her cheek down to her lips. But I can’t distinguish if that stream is one of salt. She has a small face with contours so slight that you would think that they were suppressing something in.

I think she is not looking at me. Just watching me. And soon enough, she is back to her paper. Her gentle arms are clearly cold and shaking quite violently.

I am going to go over. My eyes go down to her fingers and it is not cold that is shaking her arms but rage, hot and fresh. She is scribbling something. No. Scratching the paper? I guess different people have different outlets. She seems to be pushing and shifting and floating over the paper. Only, I can’t see what it is. I wonder what her issues could be. Perhaps if I had a hold over myself, I could help her out. Maybe I still could. But I am not going to try it tonight.

As I finish writing, I realise it is all about her, scribbled over multiple pages with no coherence. How about I structure this? No, I should flesh it out more.

Suddenly, there is a roar of an engine and the last bus for the day has arrived. I am on the wrong side of the road. Never mind, I’ll walk back later. The bus makes the usual quick halt and rolls ahead with a squeak. I see it take the turn and get out of my sight. Out of my scene. But when I turn back, there is no one. No birds, no songs and no her.

As soon as she vanishes, I see the paper beginning to flutter away from the seat where she had placed it. I put my pen down and rush across the street. But I'm too slow. It settles on a puddle of water. I stoop over it fallen on the ground, but my heart sinks. It has almost dissolved into the water, for I can see my grey reflection in the still water.

A single drop of dew falls from the leaves above and lands on the water.

There is no ripple in the water.

I squint to see clearly what my mind has already put together- there is no water.

There is just the paper and my face sketched on it. As real as my anguish. There is no attempt to make my face look artistic. It is broken and jagged with messy hair and confused eyes. There is a single streak of light falling on one side of my face, which I now realise is the only new addition. Wow.

I pick the sketch up and wonder if I should leave my notepad as barter for it. Perhaps I will give it to her tomorrow. Perhaps next month. Make it better- make it a piece. Perhaps someday.

The fuzzy warmth comes back to me. And this time, I let it stay.

By Shashwat Sahoo