Science fiction. The species from the 4th realm

Science fiction. The species from the 4th realm

It was a familiar voice. A voice I recognised, a voice that reminded me of someone I had known and loved not just with my heart, but with the heart of my mind too. And the familiarity of this voice invoked in me the memories that always reminded me of her. Everyday, every second of everyday, and it had been so today too. Until I heard this voice, that sounded like her. And I wanted to disengage from what was occupying my mind, and look around to spot the source of this voice.

Maybe it was she, or maybe it was someone with a similar voice. The likelihood of her presence in the crowded market was slim, and if it were someone with a similar voice, it would only intensify my longings and nothing else. But whatever it was and whoever she was, I wanted to know.

I scanned the corners of the market from where I felt the voice travelled, and after examining every unknown face I tried to determine the vocal notes flowing from all parted lips. I could not single out any voice that would sound like the voice that I had just heard and it had reminded me of her.

So, with a feeling of dejection, I indolently resumed my engagement with the shop owner. Having packed my weekly groceries in my bag, I left the shop and began marching with the crowd, in the crowded market of the town, where I am based right now.

I must have covered 345 paces or more, when I heard the same voice again. I overcame the feeling of hopelessness and I turned around, and there she was. Right behind me!

She was in conversation with someone, whom she knew. From her frank and vivacious expressions, it clearly suggested they knew each other very well. However, it did not matter, yes, it did not matter at all. Because she was someone else. Someone who sounded like her, but other than that she bore none of her qualities, none of her charms, and not at all any of her feminine refinements and intellectual singularity that always made me love her, whenever I spoke to her.

The voice in the crowd just shared a resemblance, a vocal resemblance, and nothing else. And by merely sounding like someone you cannot become that someone. I believed in it, and now I had the living proof who confirmed this belief of mine.

So, I simply smiled and continued walking. But a little faster now, because I wanted to move far away from this voice. The voice that sounded familiar but belonged to someone else. Someone who was not at all like her. And instead of calming me, the distancing echoes of her voice now saddened me. Because it reminded me of the one who spoke with a similar voice, but with a vocal delicacy that is incomparable; and an emotional sensitivity that is fair and unprejudiced. Her true voice, that arose from a real person. She!

Finally I decided to stop walking. I took a moment or two to think, and fill myself with her memories and recall her true and original voice. As it spoke to me silently in my mind, I began walking again; but towards the tea shop where I go often.

I just needed a conversation with the tea cup, the tea, my sips of tea and myself. Sounds complicated! But it is easier when you are dealing with an emotional embargo that prevents you from investing in new memories, because you fear you would lose the freshness of her archaic reservoir of memories inside you. On which your mind thrives and in whose vividness your heart believes and continues beating.

"The tea" arrived, the tea cup rested on the saucer in a stately pose, while the round, open end of the tea cup, interrogatively sought a reaction from my end. Before the hot tea turned cold, and the aroma of the tea got stolen by the cold air of the November month.

But, for me, the tea shop existed, the tea cup existed as well, the tea in it too had a palpable virtue, but in presence of these physical and likeable realities, my own reality and existence had turned abstract. So, the tea longed in the cup to be sipped by me, just like I longed for her in the mind of my heart and the heart of my mind. It could not be more ironic, because there was nothing less ironic than this.