Doctor: You think the pursuit of God is absurd?
Aarush: It is if everyone dies alone.
Doctor: And how does that make you afraid?
Aarush: I don't want to be alone. (1)
The full moon light illuminated the room from the French windows of the cottage. The light carved the silhouette of the two owls, who were sitting on a deciduous tree nearby. Their hoots overpowered the chirps of the crickets, who infested the cottage perimeter. The hoots made the rabbit come out of his burrow and take a peek. The eerie night felt like a scene straight from a cult 70’s horror movie.
The cursor on the notepad blinked, just the way it had been for the past one hour, at the same very spot. Begging to be put out of its misery, little did the cursor know that it wasn’t the only thing in the room which wanted out. Tired of just being there, with next to little significance. Nishit couldn’t conjure anything up. His deadline to submit his draft was looming. He poured the last 40-45 ml which was left in the Old Monk bottle into his Steuben glass, he felt the previous 700 odd millilitre didn’t do him justice. He somehow managed to put some Coke into it and throw in a lime slice and then took a long swig. A thought was running around his head in an infinite loop. Like a termite, the thought was eating him away slowly, eating his pride, his very fabric of existence.
Sunlight crept its way into the room in between the curtains and fell on the broken glass scattered on the floor. He lay on the floor near his desk in his soiled white satin robe, drooling, unaware of the glass, unaware of the time of the day or how his life had become such a colossal self depreciating mess. Across the bedroom on a dilapidated bed lay his latest read, his latest voyage, “Dostoevsky”. He was surprised to see Dostoevsky lying on the bed when he woke up. He thought he would have been finished with Dostoevsky by now, after the thorough reading (or so he believed) last night while relishing every page and consuming every drop at offer. Little did he know that right in front of him lay his, ‘Notes From The Underground’.
He slipped into the sheets, unaware of his rum soaked soiled robe and whispered to Dostoevsky, “I am a sick man... I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased. I don't know beans about my disease, and I am not sure what is bothering me.” (2) With his ashen eyes barely open he kissed his latest voyage’s back as he wondered if there could be another chapter left in Dostoevsky for him to read.
He woke up with a wrenched gut and a worse headache. In that very moment he decided that he did not want to read Dostoevsky ever again. Dostoevsky made him feel hollow and empty from inside. Something he despised from the core of his existence. He just wanted happiness injected back into his life, running through his veins once again with full vigour.
Nishit’s affliction with rum, was deeper than he would let on. He loved his daily elixir for it was his escape from the daily fracas of emotions and commotion associated with real life. It was his second favourite escape from the loneliness, for he couldn’t find anything else close to his favourite, to fill the void of his ‘Salinger’, his very own ‘Catcher In The Rye’. Nothing satisfied him more than reading those pages again and again, smelling the pages, gazing nonchalantly at the considerably bigger yet perfect sized font, staring in awe at the simple yet elegant cover. Nishit would have been happy if he would have just read Salinger and nothing else in his whole life. He saw a lot of shades of himself in Salinger. There was something, which attracted him and soon had made him addicted, to this date he can’t define how and when that liking became an addiction.
He stared at his empty bottle of rum, he remembered what Salinger told him once, “What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.” (3)
He could feel Salinger being right in front of him. He could feel the rush inside of him, the mix of adrenaline, dopamine and oxytocin pumping in his blood but deep down he knew that he’ll never ever feel that concoction of hormones flow in his bloodstream again.
The owls hoot grew stronger every night. It was as if they were trying to tell Nishit of his impending calamitous fate.
He had ran out of rum.
Nishit’s cottage was by no means an immaculate place, dirty would be a fair assessment of it. But, in that very moment it looked like the desiccated presidential suite of Led Zeppelin post one of their sold out 100,000 capacity plus shows (or any show of theirs for that matter).
There was still no sign of rum anywhere.
He went back into his room in desperation, only to find scattered pages on the ground of what used to be his favourite book. He couldn’t remember the name but it sure used to be his favourite, he could never forget the cover. Drenched in sweat, he could feel the growing tremors in his body. He gathered every ounce of strength inside him and picked that cover up. A weak flash of memories whizzed past him. As his vision cleared, he saw her image, it was no cover of a book. He felt disgusted from head to toe for he was reminded of what she did to him. He remembered when he was stranded on the road waiting for her as the rain poured, only for her to not meet him that night. He remembered when she lied to him while he entertained her friends, while she was apparently at work. He remembered when their kiss was not a kiss anymore, but just two pairs of lips meeting without any emotions for her emotions were not his anymore but someone else’s.
Over the years love had died a slow painful death for Nishit. The void left inside of him was too big to be filled. Not that he had not tried filling it, but everything was in vain, and pain. For he had realised that love is now something farce rather than something real and beautiful. It is partying every weekend while drinking to the societal constructs of sorrow rather than eating a comfortable home made dinner together while watching rom-com. It is Incubus/Succubus driven lust rather than Shiva & Shakti finding each other within themselves. He just wanted the misery inside him to fade away, just like the cursor which was still blinking at the same exact place on the notepad.
Nishit passed out on the floor with tears in his eyes while hoping that now that the world was coming to an end, he can breathe a sigh of relief, because there will be so much to look forward to now. (4)
He opened his eyes and was blinded by white light everywhere. He could hear the birds chirp. He got up and looked outside the window which was right in front of him, beautiful flowers swarmed by butterflies all around. Is this heaven? He wondered. His tranquil moment was broken by an abrupt knock on the door. God? As he half opened the door he found to his amusement a doctor standing at the door and as he pulled the door further he saw a couple of male nurses who could qualify as wrestlers. This wasn’t where the bewilderment would end for him. The Doctor smiled back at him and said, “Looks like you have finally woken up Mr. Aarush.” To which he mustered a smile and hugged the Doctor.
While walking out of the rehabilitation centre, Aarush realised that ‘In the midst of winter, he found there was, within him, an invincible summer’ (5)
: Quote from the movie ‘Donnie Darko’
: Quote from ‘Notes From The Underground’ By Fyodor Dostoevsky
: Quote from ‘Catcher In The Rye’ by J.D. Salinger
: Quote from the movie ‘Donnie Darko’
: Quote by Albert Camus
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