“He, who does not drink from the well of despair, shall never know what it is to love…” A shiny brass bell jingles in the hands of the sage as he stands outside the gate; his face gorged with travel.

“…Your beautiful dream.”

The old man, Jaswant Paul, aka Babu Ji, stands with his back to the sage as he ignores the asinine words; he is concerned with a different problem. 

“The white horse walks freely, while your son, Babu Ji, is tied in chains to the well.” The wanderer continues. “Neither able to drink nor break the bonds. But he must feed the horse. His chains must jingle as it sips from his palm. And then the horse and the chains will fall. And your son will be healed, Babu Ji.” 

In continuing the sage has massively misjudged the old man’s stance. 

“If only you will let me see him.”

Erroneous mistake! Especially, for a few crackling notes. He has misjudged the waters of anger boiling inside that rigid old skull and the unhinged contempt brewing! He continues.

“Dreams become us, we become our dreams. Think about it Babu Ji. You are wise and I have been sent to you.” He repeats.

That’s it. Jaswant turns on his stick; iron roses weave between him and the robed man outside.

“Shut up you ignorant piece of garbage! What are you going on about! BEGGAR!! You think you can solve my problems! If you come near my house again, I will skin you! If I see you in this village again, I will have you hanged!” Spiteful hate project from the spotted old lips.

Where the saffron robed figure had stood stern and commanding before, after the chain of words, he stood bent, and by the time Jaswants mentioned being hanged, it should be noted; he was broken. In half. Somewhere between the proverbial ‘L1’ and ‘L5’. The hermit’s gambit not having been bought, he quickly shuffled along knowing full well that if he persisted, then a not-so-proverbial flying slipper might greet his face.

But the boiling waters were already spilled. Jaswant, bellowed in hoarse authority without turning. “HE HAS TO COME WITH US!” His wrinkles gently quivering as his voice rang through the valley like a rain shattered with age. “What does he mean he will come later! You go and tell him Resham…to stop hiding in that corner…like an imbecile!”

The mountains behind looked on in austere indifference smothered under dark hovering clouds. Vast barren patches, glistened in multicoloured hues of shiny silver.

“Why cant he…just be…a man; Resham?!” 

He turns to Resham who is standing with her hands on her hips at the precipice of the house. Unperturbed. The hydrangea and wild bushes sang colours around her. The neighbours, with their tails tucked cross the gate tiptoed. 

Not Resham! She just stood there. Like the mountains behind.

She was silk. Glistening; slippery. 

Jaswant dragged on, “Why don’t you…convince him to…may be smoke a Bidi once in a while!…” Pointing toward his heart, “Look at me! I just buried…my wife and daughter.” He paused for a second. But it wasn’t sentimentality. It was the tar from the Bidi. He coughed up the black soot. Spat it. “And now I can bury him as well.”

“BABaaA!” This time, Resham roared. The voice of rivers raging. “Has old age taken away your senses?!”

The old man was not used to being interrupted, even when he was wrong. But he was not a fool.

“Bahh!” He snorted. “Have it…your way.”

Resham shifted her weight to the opposite leg.

“Have you lost your mind?! First you say mean things and now you are making sounds like a two year old.” Her words hit home. His wrinkled brow froze.

“OKAY!” Her voice at once softer, yet stronger and stern. “Listen to me. I will talk to him. But you leave. Raja’s family will not start without you.” From under his nose all the power had been taken by this denim eyed girl shining against the stormy sky.

Resham; spun her silken mesh with her ways. 

The creaking hundred and fifty year old house gently rocked under her steps as she made her way toward Raghu. Just them now in the silence of the summer against the sounds of rumbling. As she crossed the old wooden door she transformed. Into love. Her shoulders rolled back; lighter.

“Hey,” she whispered. He lay on the mud floor with his legs raised against the wall, reading a book. “What up?”

“Restorative yoga!” He smiled at her from under. Her pale blue eyes locked in with his dark pearls.

She was made of marble, he of brittle bones.

“Right! I need some release as well.” She swooped next to him imitating his posture. “Did you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Just breathe.” He said.

Their arms touched in the naked yearnings of primal tenderness.

“Hmmm.” She breathed.

“Are you going to try to persuade me to go?”

“Should I?”

Their heads turned to face each other.

“F@#K it!” They said together. 

“Personal jinx!” Together again. 

Moments of silence dripped in love; that wild thing! Untamed.

“How are you feeling?“ She asked gently touching his hand. 

He pinched her.

“AAA-OUCH! What was that for!?”

“Personal Jinx!” He smiled and continued, “And. I am okay.”

“What a liar!” She pressed closer to him expecting that he would open up. Expecting to enter with him that abyss of reckless abandon, headfirst into the chaos of his truths.

“Are you bothered that Raja is getting married?” Her soft voice pleading him for the truth.

“Hmmm,” he covered his unverbalised pain. “What a strange question to ask.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am obviously happy for Raja. Why would I be bothered if he gets married?” There was neither tenseness nor tenderness in his voice, just a mass of rejection, heavy with the knowledge of his own fading verity. Like the condescending black clouds pouring plastic venom outside, defiling the fields with its incessant hammering. Neither tense nor tender, falling into the ground, soiling the integrity of his ancestors. Destroying that which was once sacred; fruitful.

As he spoke she could see in her mind’s eye, his shadows lurking, slowly claiming him. She could feel it’s cold breath, hear its whispering. And she wanted to grab him from it all. To save him. 

“If it is so simple then why are we not going?” She said. “He is your best friend.”

“Today I want to fade into nothingness, to not be bothered. The thought is excitingly alienating. I don’t want to go because I don’t want to go. That is all.”

The plastic pestilence whistled outside in the wind, smattering the walls with their soft punches until the window swung open sweeping the room with a cheap smell of chemicals.

He got up to shut the smell out. And as he turned he saw her lips move in song. Her eyes closed. Gently lilting. Her words felt like clear dew on his parched heart.

“Bury it deep in the clay below/Memories fade/let the fire go, O’ heavy heart/Begin anew, a brand new start/To the tune of rain, be still/And with it, bury ill/Bury time, and all that’s past/Embrace chance, an open heart/Life is but a fleeting dream/And the future is ours, or so it seems/Time, that serpent, slithers away/Tick-tock, tick-tock/The clock goes astray.”

He joins her, “Tick-tock, tick-tock/The clock goes astray.”

The walls of the house expand and contract in a sigh as their hearts soften and melt. 

The smattering rain ended just as abruptly as it had begun as if warded off by her song. A magpie hurriedly flapped its blue wings and started collecting the plastic crumbs within the grass.

Inside the house the harsh sun protruded on the mud walls like a painting. And its warmth rose in her the same feelings as upon the retreating glaciers. The world looked forlorn and spattered with synthetic shreds. 

Now daylight brought to the eyes neither joy, nor laughter. 
Only; barren; plastic truths.

Eventually all their realities; his, hers, and that of the land, will get tied in rubbery urges. Screeching from their tight coddles of despair.

As they dance, their feet leave a trail in the dry dust marking their distorted footprints. The old wooden door, barely hanging, creaks as the latch scratches its skin. The smell of aged pine fill their senses as they sit on a dusty chest in the corner. Smells of unwashed blankets, old wool, naphthaline and damp memories fills the air.

Though they are alone in the house, caution lurks in their stomachs. Their hearts pounding. But neither is sure why. An intuition that something was afoot. A dawn that would chain them into faltering delirium. The final plunge.

“Amma used to store her treasures in this box.” He mutters as the old, cold wood grabs at him from under.

“I miss her too. But now I am here for you. Please tell me the truth…Are you okay?” 

“Am I okay?” He retorted. The dam of control cracking under the stream of thoughts.

”You got your medical report last week and you have not mentioned it even once. I know you are hurt. You have closed yourself in your room. I am worried for you.“

Her temperate reassurance felt like a kaleidoscope of wildflowers and berries in a cave without feelings. The taste of his past, his ability to love comes to him for a second but then the truth, like prickly thistles itches on the skin of his emotions. Her words smell of the love of an open sky upon the lustre of wild lilies. The red pigments of her cheeks tell the story of the sun. 

But he is blind.

“Never mind the report.” He mutters sadly, “What is there to talk about? You know what it says. Balls. Are. Plastic; and infertile.”

As his thoughts poured, so again did his words. Uncontrolled.

“We live with dismembered connections. Our songs are ignorant rapping. And in the absence of all that means to be alive, our hopes are to be diced on the gallows of dread.”

“Don’t be silly,” Resham gives him a serious look.

“All I want is to laugh, Resham. Like the Madman; swinging upon this tightrope of life’s injustice!”

“You are alive. And that is what matters. Don’t run away to these idiot philosophies. Just breathe. We are still here.” She quickly chimes in. 

“Are you saying I shouldn’t laugh? How else am I to make sense of it all; if I do not surrender to laughter now?”

“Okay, You! Tightrope walker! I am asking you with all my heart. Please don’t be cryptic. Please.”

“The spirit within; Resham, is tied with thin strands of silk. You. Us. Our future. Those could withstand the battering of time. But now even my shadow slowly distances itself from me.”

She wants to stop him. To grab him and tell him that she is here with him. And forever will be.

His moustache twitches over his lips. Quivering as he speaks.

“I felt no pain when I found out that my genitals were now wrapped in tiny bits of plastic. That my lineage ends here. The stream of life has been broken. And that is why Baba is disappointed!”

“Shut up! Baba is not disappointed with you.” She comes closer to him, pressing her knees to his. Holding his hand. “Here! I will also climb the tightrope!”

“You are mad.” He was touched by her gesture. And her ability to surmount the truth.

“How will you hide now?!” She rubs her fingers on his palm gently. “My madman.”

Tears finally stream down his face. Neither spoke. Just blue and black diamond eyes; staring. In the distance music rang of celebrations. And they listened as their hearts broke together.

Resham looked down as she put her heart between his fingers. Her hands moved up and down his arms. Their bodies gravitated, locked in fear. Melting. She spoke with a gentle persuasion, her words like the sweet scent of jasmine on the breeze.

“I love you.”

The sunlight from the small window glowed under her chin. She was made of marble; he of ephemeral smoke. The curves of her love entwined around the spindle of his heart. Encasing it in the warmth of her silken threads. 

He was speechless. Her love felt like a feather made of stone.

And from within them a laughter emerged. Together. Lips locked. A laughter of forgetfulness.

“What if you get pregnant?” He asks jokingly. Amused, she whispered on his lips.

“Paagal!!”