Margins of the Mind

She lay wide awake in her comfortable bed, listening to the peaceful breathing of her man, having just made passionate love to him. And in her open eyes wandered countless thoughts- the ghosts of the past, the phrases of the poem she was currently writing, the impending newspaper article, the voice of her distant sister, the touch of her man, the reveling insanity bursting through her soul… and amid roving streams of consciousness and untamed thoughts hanging from her ceiling, she lay awake.

And as she granted the license to the night to take over her and seize the cratered territories of her mind, she turned towards the wall, a shadowy web of recollections… and as she stared at the green and peeling plaster, there suddenly appeared on its surface three distinct beams of light, three separate tubes of gleam shivering on the wall drowned in darkness.

Her worldly mind reasoned that the light strips are a consequence of some disturbance in the parallel abode, which lay in darkness but shook suddenly with light. And it was this light which now seeped through the iron grates of her semi curtained window and gave the look of a divine god with three eyes to her wall. Yes, the logic of this tamed mind was flawless, yet her nomadic spirit gave her the piercing sensation of being in a prison. Trapped, encapsulated within those three bars, not of neighborly light anymore but of rusting memories and squalid imaginations. Of white, pale women roaming in forests and the voices of dead floating from Spain.

In spite of the increasing itch on her left thigh, she surrendered to the currents of imagination and in some fleeting seconds, her mind stood an unauthorized spectator to an unconnected life. The life of the man living in the house across the street.

White pajamas and a sickly breath, he wandered through the corridors of oblivion, mourning the loss of a sister who was never allowed to be born, reliving the life of a mother who lived to make him the man he was, and thinking about his wife who died without knowing that he survived the war.

Colonel Aushotosh Shankar, lived alone in his house at the age of 83, with a few pieces of useless furniture and a purple scar on his neck as the witness of the war he fought, with commendable bravery but without a cause. He lived awaiting a bravery award which existed only on some green sheets of a dusty register relegated to some corner of a damp office. He lived awaiting a pension which always seemed to be on its way but never quite reached him. And he lived awaiting the call of his daughter who would someday know of his existence. But he awaited all this with a sense of pride. Pride of having relegated the bloody war to the borders alone, not realizing that borders are nothing but elegantly crafted mirrors.

Colonel Shankar was 32 when the war broke out and he hurried to take up his post, leaving his wife and his one month daughter with countless assurances of returning within a week. His perception of his country safely vested in promising politicians’ speeches, flapping flags, proud salutes and patriotic songs. But six years of tiring and dirty war withered all that. They fought waiting for weapons which never came and hope which flickered with every passing day.

But they won, and they were hailed and cheered. Victory only a magnitude of the murders committed. But for the Colonel the delusive victory never really came, and even if it did it went unnoticed. After spending seven and a half months in a hospital swarming with flies, he came home to find it uprooted by some riots which occurred while he was fighting for peace… and with his limp body and bowed head, he walked away, to withdraw from the bank his lifelong savings and buy a solitary apartment in some distant street… the street right across her home.

And as she lay wide awake in her bed that night, she lived every agony of the long years of Colonel Aushotosh Shankar. She withered in pain with every wound the war inflicted on his youthful body and twisted inside with every blow the ruthless fate whipped unto his palms. She with wet eyes made love to his dying spirit and with tensed muscles aroused his limp body. And in these tumultuous seas she turned to grope for her pen, which she always kept under the pillow, to pen down the story of Colonel Aushotosh Shankar.

This Colonel she knew nothing about infact, except his name. The Colonel whose life she lived entrapped in that prison with rods of light. The Colonel who might have gotten up from his sleep to answer the call of nature. But the Colonel who just by switching the lights of his room made her live a life which perhaps he never lived, made her create a world which perhaps he had never dreamt of, made her silently start writing about the adventures lived in the margins of the mind, while her man snored peacefully, tired from the adventures of the night.