We sit across from friends and families in cute cafeterias, bite after bite, talking about what's going in life and when we see ourselves inching forwards to emotions, we hastily hide it with sarcasm and laughs at unfunny pauses. Hours and hours of conversations, yet barely striking the surface of what we truly feel. We exchange hearts and kisses via text yet shy away from a hug that might be just enough to carry on with life. We say our goodbyes and 'See you soon's yet it doesn't matter. The last few hours didn't help fill the void that grows everyday. We are trapped in cages, most of which is built unknowingly by ourselves through the years, shouting and hurting and crying for help, barely audible. And then someone comes along and says, 'You gotta break it'. The wannabe philosophers who didn't care to ask you a question but chose to offer their priceless advice that you might as well throw in a trash can. Because you are a door to hear themselves talk. It never is about you even when you are the one screaming and burning. And that maybe the hardest truth of life. And Life would be so much easier if you could just forget you. Would that be called life though?

It hurts when I bend my elbow. They are flabby and they hurt.

' What do you want for dinner?', yells mom from the kitchen.

' Anything would do.'

She shouldn't be asking this. She can make anything and ask me to eat.

Anything would do.

Anything would do.

What is the time?

Anything would do.

It's 8.05 pm. 8.05 pm.

The lights are too bright. I turn them off.

The lights were too bright.

They hurt my eyes. Too bright.

The shadows. Shadow of the table.

Shadow of the wall hangings.

The shadows.

'Will you chop these onions? Eh, why are the lights off ? '

She switches them on and places the knife and tray.

I chop them but the door is open. The door is half open. I lean forward and swing the door shut with a bang.

'Gently!'

You left the fucking door open.

Chop chop.

I give the chopped onions and wash the tray and knife and close the door again. Lights off.

I lie down in the dark. My back hurts at a specific place. I sit again, hands on my head.

I stretch, my eyes closed. I sway to the symphony, like a snake. Gracious yet unsettling.

My eyes are wide open, absorbing everything like an animal.

The shadows, the outlines. My mother. The shadows. My flabby hands. Shadows.

Is the door open an inch? Who opened the door?

The shadows. Mother.

The curved pair of scissors lie amongst the pencils and staplers. I could be stabbed to death by it. Or stabbed to warrant a hospital admission.

I inhale deeply. Silence. The symphony. I close my eyes and sway. Unsettling. What is the time? 9 .01 pm.

What is the time? 10 pm. The house is silent and dark. Mild sounds from the other room as my parents settle in bed. In the morning, they could be found dead on the floor, multiple stabs on their body. Blood on the floor, darker and dry around the edges. Their last thought shouldn't be about me. The bed creaks. My hands are swinging by the side of the bed, fingers bobbing up and down, touching the cold tiles.

A monster under the bed. The imaginary monster under the bed, that I always look for. It was terrifying but it had to be looked for. The bed creaks. I slip down the bed and lay on the floor. It is cold. Is that a face under the bed?

No. No. No. No face. Just cold floor. I growl and wheeze and moan and wheeze. I pull the bed down. Is the door open?

I sit down, head on my shoulder. Eyes half open. The shadows are still there. Pain shoots up my flabby arm.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Deep breaths and shadows.

There are always greater sufferings. But it is my journey. It is only fair to measure my happiness from my yesterday or in my case, many yesterdays ago.

I want to be a part of those sufferings that turn people's heads and cock their ears. I wish they were dead.

Torrential streams of tears pour down. Sobs break out. Sleep falls on my lap. What is the time?

In the darkest and longest nights

When sleep resists with all its might

Gliding gracefully into my thoughts

Are your brown eyes and unfilled dots.

Frantically pushing you away

Into my mind's vortex, I tumble.

In the pits of joy and angst

And guilt and regret, I crumble.

Like a frail boat

Heading to the oceans

Unaware of the storms

I fell for pretty love.

The sunshine and rainbows of

Hidden glances and shy smiles,

Random Hangouts and daft banters

The stolen kisses and tender touches.

But the grey crept in

And the storm broke me

With rains of guilt

And gales of regret.

For all the tears you cried

For all the nights you bled

I cower my head in shame

I cage my heart in blame.

And for the goodbye I never said

I write a thousand words.

A decade, 2 heartbreaks

And jittery uber ride later,

Here we are,

Atop steps to hell,

Numb hands holding cold shakes

To the pitter patter on paved stone,

Mouthing words that bounce off

The edgy silence.

You feel my distant eyes

And phony smile.

I hear your dazy frown

And the apathic shrug.

( Hold me as I sob my fears

And you whisper insecurities in my ear.

Hold me as we become who we were )

Here we are,

Thousand unsaid words later,

Descending down the steps.

So long, we are adults.

On the blue canvas

Rolls the carpet of

A thousand fluffy balls

Wiggling and teasing each other

Sloshed carelessly above are

Gold and red and

Green and black hues

In a passionate symphony

Sprinkled above

A dusty layer

As plain as

My words on paper.

The next to last time I visited my grandparents' house was when I was ten years old. I spent a fortnight there in the village during my summer vacations. It was a huge house with solid wooden doors and stout pillars and a huge veranda. Everyday, we savoured the tender coconuts and jackfruits from our groves and when everyone napped in the afternoon, I wandered in the house with a story book in my hand, trying to find a good reading spot.

As I walked to the veranda, I found my perfect spot in the corner. It was a broad cement slab with a curved headboard, perfect to lie on my back and read. The wall adjoining it joined the house with the neighbour's and in it was a perfectly oval hole about a feet broad. I was overjoyed and sat down on the slab, imagining myself inside a tree trunk looking at the whole world outside through the oval hole. I spent all my afternoons there reading and gazing at my neighbour's veranda through the hole. I was intrigued. I often wondered why someone would design a hole there in the first place. Maybe women sat there in the late afternoons braiding their hair as they conversed across the hole.

Not long after I found the spot, I met him or maybe it was a her. I didn't think of it then. It was sitting leisurely on the other side of the hole, starting intently at me, its grey and black fur rippling now and then. Every afternoon, the cat and I acknowledged each other in silence and went about our business, me reading my book and it listening to the sounds of the afternoon. One day, I caught the cat by surprise. It was standing a few feet away from me on my side of the hole, Its back away from me. It fled to the other side through the hole. Everyday we played 'catching the cat by surprise' and we believed we were buddies.

As all things cease, my vacation did too. On the last afternoon, I waved goodbye to my buddy, not wishing to break our silence. The silence that made our relationship spiritual. The only other silent friendship I had was with God. And I took one fond look at my perfect hole before I left my grandpa's house.

The last time I visited that house was eleven years later. It was for my grandpa's last rites. He had died on a monday morning and we were there by nightfall. The house was mostly quiet except when his daughters arrived, shrieking in grief. Sixteen days later, all the rituals were done and most of the relatives had left. I got my quiet afternoon again after eleven years. That suddenly brought back the unknowingly suppressed memories of my beloved hole and my buddy.

I raced to my favorite spot. The cement slab stood at the exact place with the same smoothness and same color.The wall adjoining it looked newer. My perfect hole was gone. I sat on the slab, running my fingers on it and sighed. I had lost three things that day. A man I respected but perhaps never loved. A hole, perfect in its deficit. And a buddy, lost in time.