Vani, You must hurry, They all are waiting right behind you, For you to turn back, To see what you lack, To see your mask crack, None of them are your well wishers except maybe a few. To live your life as you want, You must do what you need to do. K...
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The sky is on fire.
I am woken up at 3 a.m. by the burst of a firecracker, presumably quite near my house. Its acid green sparks fly through the air and fall to the ground weakly. My grandmother groans in her sleep, something I could make out even in the heavy darkness. I am wide awake and don't even wish to fall asleep again.
Diwali is almost over, and it's time to get back to my regular routine. (a bitter truth.)
I open my phone that had been smuggled into my grandmother's house by hiding it in my pillowcase. I checked my notifications, several of my friends are online but I don't feel like conversing a bit. Instead, I open up Google Docs and begin writing a poem. As I write in the dark, I feel my eyes straining at the blinding light emitting from my phone, but the vibe was unmatched in the morning. Writing late was almost always worth it.
3 a.m. is the hour of the writers, poets, artists, lovers and over-thinkers. I happen to be all of these, fortunately or unfortunately (perhaps the latter.) Each word of my poem sits in my mind, repeats itself over and over, echoing through the walls of my brain, searching for a friend: a rhyming word. Once such a friend has been found, they hold hands and attempt to find meaning, and thus, form a line of poetry. Then these friends are left to roam about wild in my brain: they scratch through it, peep through the cracks in my cerebrum and mock my memories. I never remonstrated their actions, I have always let words control me. At least always while writing poetry.
Once a verse is done, ideas for the second are desperately sought after in various ways. Often, my verses traverse a staircase. Sometimes they ascend the stairs, climbing up to the top, to sweet sunlight and bright skies and hope. However, sometimes my poetry turns despondent and scathing towards the end. The verses then tumble down to the bottom of a pit, merging with the dark. The poem I wrote at this unearthly hour followed the second type: a perfect resemblance of my pensive mood.
I re-read the poem once, twice, about five times till I'm utterly exhausted by it. I have this habit of loving things to the point where I ruin the love, to the point where I force a beautiful emotion into nothingness.
"Enough of this," I told myself rather sternly, "Get to work."
I picked myself up from my overly-cozy mattress and brushed my hair, hastily tied it into a bun and pulled out my folding desk. The keys to my parents' flat was used in the quietest way possible and I was back to spending my day here.
*~*
"What are you studying?"
My mother utters the first words of her day. I attempt to smile at her and reply, "Chemistry."
"When can I test you on whatever you studied for the past week?" she asks with a raised eyebrow and I feel my stomach sinking. Not that I hadn't studied, just the thought of being tested by her was a nerving one.
"Uhm...maybe this weekend?" I say, my voice lowering. She nods, apparently satisfied. "Wake your brother up, he has a meeting with someone."
I don't need to be told twice, I rush to his room and shake him awake, not ungently.
