The family had just left, plates on the table, the smell of
food in the living room, towels on the floor, bedsheets with their bodies
impressions. They stormed into the place, started looking through everything
for a trace of their tale- where did they go, why did they flee so quick, some
of them are examining ‘ecological, societal, macro-level factors’. I just look
for him.
I fight back my pride, and search with them, through things
he must have touched. Also searching for a reason. I notice some of them have
started pocketing some of the things from his house, their home. I stop them
vehemently, return the stuff to its place. They say- they will never probably
come back, what use is it to anybody anymore. I am thinking of how distant they
are from our lovely truth- they think of a crime, the thrill of the chase of
solving a puzzle, marauding and looting. Such vehemence. I am looking for what
happened. I search too- through things I would never touch ordinarily,
stitching a story I think I started and he says he invited me into.
It is like I have blocked that little period of when it
happened. Like when I design experiments- I block a factor to shut out its
noise, to understand others better. What was I trying to understand if not him?
I thought he was the pivot of all my excursions. I just know he is gone now. He
left in a hurry-he didn’t take his watch as if the time that had passed had to
be left behind. He didn’t take his brown shirt.
They are still searching, tumbling through glass and
crockery and gilded articles. I turn away from their faces, my face will betray
how it hurts. There is so much motion in his large house, the colors and the
shine blind my thought like tears blind my sight.
We find nothing- I don’t find him, they don’t
find them either.
2 comments:
I like this piece. I see a change in your narrative quality. It's getting simpler, with no care for the beauty of prose at all, which is something I love and consider writing. Charming.
Coming from you Srikant- This is a real compliment.
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