Kaya

Chapter 8 - Wherever your head's at

"Did ya?"

"What?"

"Read it?"

"Oh, I started."

"Alright."

They were standing on the porch in front of the main gate. Vedant had gone to pick up the open jeep himself, today.

She had tied her hair in a bun today; and her brunette strands were dancing playfully in the wind.

It was amazing to Pradhyum how someone who seemed to contain way too much energy could respect silence when it was needed.

A crackling sound of machinery put their moment to rest; and soon a growling jeep pulled up in front of them. Vedant was driving it. He had apparently skipped the driver.

Everything was rushing past smoothly. Pradhyum occupied the driver's seat with a cigarette in his hand, and Kaya stood behind them.

He stole a glance at her; her flannel shirt slyly giving way to her navel and all the other parts he wished he could touch, in that moment.

He quickly turned back.

The forest thickened; though they had taken a different route that day.

All dizzy, one from smoke and two from the ride, they found a tree and sat underneath it.

Vedant had recently developed a frantic passion for photography recently; and he pulled out his DSLR from the back of the jeep; and went about his business.

Kaya got up as well, and started walking aimlessly, one would think it's the surroundings rubbing off on her, but Pradhyum knew it was rather her wilderness that was rubbing off on the air around them.

It really pissed him off to have so much time to introspect when he was trying to run away from his thoughts; so he lit a joint instead and blurred everything out.

It was just a hazy vision of Kaya walking and hopping, being a kid a second and a matured adult the next; something he still kept close to his heart.

That night, he opened where he left off, the page as well as his Blue Sapphire Dry Gin.

A lot of people would pick diaries to sanely record their everyday lives, I know. But nothing about me has ever been sane now, has it?

Diaries overwhelm me, I know I can never fill all of their pages. I used to write a little in a diary my dad gifted me in 10th grade, the year I was stuck in the ICU when swine flu hit me before the rest of the city, and bilateral pneumonia came absolutely free with it.

Ventilator is a very introspecting place to stay in. Of course, it was scary as fuck. But it was strangely comfortable as well. I was more dizzy than in pain, and my mind was under the influence of medicines and my eyes contracted worried faces of my mother and my parents' hysterical cries when they thought I was sleeping.

My brother, Parth, used to visit alone.

He has poured many a secrets he was frustrated about, just because he confused me to be in a coma. I wasn't of course, I was semi-conscious but he has always been the ignorant kind.

Anyway, I could never fill out more than twenty pages in that diary (I have a bad habit of drifting away from the fucking point) and most of them were songs, really.

I have tried my hand at guitar yes, but for some reason I always end up composing the best of me on the damned harmonica. It's my life.

Pradhyum felt a sudden urge to listen to her tunes. It was impossible at the moment, yes, but he really wanted to hear her fiction that evolved from all the blabber about her ache in reality.