(Chapter 1: Sounds)

Arghhhhhhh…

Wrummmm…

Ahhhhhhhhh…

Waaaaaaaaaa…

These sounds: Even in the haze. Especially in the haze.

*****

And when the haze lifted, the moments of doubt were upon her, clouding her with reefs of misjudgement. But sometimes-like the haze, the very first thing that arose was the pain, the pain which billowed up and down throughout her, like a rhythmic crescendo. And then-the moments which she referred to as 'non-pain', which she came to now, arose in rhapsodies. Though, that was not the appropriate epithet for them, for they were not the moments in which pain seemed to vanish;

They were merely absent of pain.  

They were merely patches of numbness.

And numbness hurt.

Hurt like hell.

But something else hurt too.

Something she never thought could hurt this much.

She fumbled as a spittle splattered across her face. The saliva billowed up from her mouth, caressed her plump, rinsed lips, and forged its way, down the great escape. Ironic, she thought, and even arched her lips to an embrace, but then, it did hurt too much. In the hazy uproar, she groaned assiduously. Though, whether that groan was because of the pain, or merely for her being bereft of her senses, she could not tell.

The sounds.

The sounds seemed to have their own genesis. They seemed to weave up a facade of their never-ending assault. But sometimes-like the pain, the sounds did seem to effervesce and toil away into some flummoxed recesses of her soul. What did that mean? Did it mean that she was getting any better? Did it mean the pain and the sounds and the guilt would now obliviate her, and she would go on and on and on? No, she guessed. But then bit her lip in agony. When had guessing really worked its charm for her?

Never.

Then in the misty haze, she trailed her hand below, and failed at first, as the shuddering seized her muscles, and the pain shot up in a gonging rhythm, burrowing deep in her arm. She tried again, and still her hand trembled. She trailed it further down, obscuring the pain, trying to get it at just the right spot, at just the right spot. She had to be sure. She had to be certain. She grazed it against her leg, and found dabs of sweat inkling around her thighs, and felt pools of stench around her armpits and knees. How long had she been out? A day? A year? That was one of the many questions (many, many questions) she had desperately longed an answer for. But that could wait. It could all wait. First, she had to get herself together.

(Oh yeah? How would you do that exactly?)

(Deep breaths. Don't forget, deep breaths.)

And she gasped violent puffs of air, and wondered, if anybody would have seen her, would they have considered calling for help?

(Help?)

Nobody ever helped.

Her eyes were large but blank, thick rich red arteries trailing all the way up to the end; she was breathing rapid and heavily, snatching gulps of air. Her hands still trembled under the haze, and her mind wandered. Her thoughts drifted from a curve of magical realism to the grimace of biblical rituals. She had read about them. She had read all about them. But never, had she, believed in a single one of them.

(Live and let live.)

(Die and kill.)

She obscured the thoughts, and shut her eyes, for the sweet release of sleep to sway over her. 'Pensive' was the word which kept swirling around and around and around in her mind, sluggish, like a fly. Such a good memory attached to the word. Its funny, she thought, how the reminiscence of a warm memory makes you feel cold to the bone.

And now, her body trembled. The trembling seized her, and she clawed her hands against her throat, once more, snatching violent gasps of air. Her throat closed up into a fist, and breathing now came not naturally, but with the perseverance of survival. She snatched at her throat, and clawed it with a gnawing ferocity, and when she could not bear any longer, her hands thumped onto the bed, as if amputated. She swore, in that half hazy, half look of the crevasse, she could not feel her hands. For that matter, she couldn't feel her body.

She shuddered once more, and with each attempt, and bit more terrified.

A bit more terrified.

A bit more hopeless.

A bit more scornful.

(Let me fall. Let me fall and hit the ground! Hit it and be done with it!)

But the ground wasn't there.

Just the nothingness.

Just the pain.

Just the memories.

Just the sounds.

(No! Not the sounds!)

She cried.

. *****

(Chapter 2: Dreams)

The warmth flooded the room, as the brimming jolts of light slanted across the serrated windows, and flourished onto his face, caressing it. He felt beads of sunlight dancing upon him, and a lightning flume of colours pacing around his body. Red and yellow, orange and yellow. And sometimes, even green. But he knew there was no green.

He fumbled around in his bed, still swayed beneath the warmth of the bedding, as he etched his arms and legs, almost straining them, stifling a yawn, and then yawning anyway. His eyes were still broodingly lavish, and he knew, the colour that inundated the blackness in his eye, always seemed to garnish his raucousness. The flame kindled and crackled, and the wood sizzled, almost burned to a crisp. Winter was here. But he knew, with winter, came the desire to be warm. And he knew, right here was warm.

But he needed to leave.

He needed to leave for good.

Not now though, he hoped.

But he did need to leave.

He obscured these thoughts, for they were the thoughts which seized him with an assaulting cold, and now, in the warmth, he had no need for the cold.

He twitched around in the semi-drowsed, semi-woke state, and moved closer and closer to him. He needed to be closer, and closer. As much closer as possible. God knew, it wasn't easy for him. And maybe, he thought, even God didn't know, what prospects future had for either of them.

(Take a shot, take a shot once in a while. You got to take a chance.)

Easier said than done.

He snuggled closer towards him, and when in reach, started to spoon and cuddle. Last night had been good. It had been the moment of truth. It had been the colour in their greyish world.

And now, he feared of returning to the grey.

(Well, don't you think he fears it too?)

He thought it for a second, and then, sighed, for he could not know. Not now, at least. For the dreams of dreamers are nobody's but their own, and in their dreams, they hold the will to conquer, or the apathy to be forgotten. And nobody, but themselves, knew of their memories and desires, not even their beloved.

He spooned furthermore, and felt his groin gnarl against his back. He wanted him to wake up now. He wanted him to be with him. He felt the warmth flourish once again, though this time, he thought, it wasn't the warmth that jolted him into submission, it was the closeness. He hoisted himself, just a little, and lay his head on top of his face, and started pecking dolefully. The man snorted, in his sleep, and then snickered, almost involuntarily. He moved a bit further inwards the man's body, as if in unison. And then, the man dozed off, in an unfathomable slumber.

'Wake up.'

But he didn't. The slumber deepened.

'Wake up, we don't have much time.'

After a few shakes and irks, he did, though, an inebriated drowse still clouded him. His eyes flickered assiduously, and his eyelids, gave up, as he abjured the light. But even in the swaying, he too felt the warmth, and tiny little red hues were replete in the darkness. An orange canvas inundated with brimming, thriving patches of red, unpolished to perfection. It was heaven.

'Wake up. I need to be on my way.'

And he woke up. Though now he figured, it was not the soothe of the voice, or even the warmth of the cackle; he had just probed a trench too deep in the continuity of dreams.

'Oh, you're up. Listen, I got to run. So, I'll see you some other time?'

'Yeah, sure.'

'I'll call you.'

'Ok.'

The man donned his clothes, slowly at first, with the morning lethargy clinging on to him like a parasite, but he did anyway, and left.

The other man sat, shrouded through the fickle fabric of the bedding, covering his nakedness, and plunged back into the musky embrace of the bed, and laid back, arms and legs spasming pleasurably, and closed his eyes.

Though, the sleep dawned upon him, dreams eluded him.

It was a dreamless sleep.

For, he had been dreaming awake.

.  *****

(Chapter 3: Flower)

(The night before)

'It is said that there is a flower, which only blooms once a year, in the misty hills of the Himalayas. It is the stuff of legends. And whether this story is true on not, matters to me in the least, for the flower, you need to know, the flower is what is important. Not its existence.', came the voice, husky and maternal, warm as oil, and innocent as childhood.

'What flower?', the man demanded, drawn into the legend.

'The flower', the teller continued, unflinching, 'the name of it is 'The Dilliyac'. It was morphed from the Chinese culture and ours, though, now, this tale is long forgotten. The name stands as a legend apart, and it is said, only the purest of hearts are able to find it.'

'What do you mean?'

'It is said, that the flower tests you. It tests your soul. It's clarity, it's stillness, and it's solace. For the ancients believe, that in solace lies the eternal grace of love. And many tried to conquer over this flower. But they forgot, you need not conquer it. You need only ask.'

'Uh-huh.'

'And for years, many tried, brave and fearful, passionate and apathetic, and the living and the dead. For the flower was said to possess the elixir of life.'

'The elixir of life?'

'Yes, the elixir of life. The elixir to all the secrets of life. The elixir which held within itself the wisdom to understand the deepest contradictions of life. And what greatest contradiction, then love itself?'

'Go on.'

'And the path was tumultuous, and bawdy, and on each step, lay death. Death which plunged souls of the forgotten into the harshest cold known to man. And once there, one could never leave.'

'Cold.', he said, nodding.

'Yes, cold. For cold is the agony that prologues death. And death prologues life.'

'I don't understand.'

'You will. Let me- and many came and many died, and many, with the fear of being assailed by the cold, never even tried, but nevertheless, there were forgers and wanderers, who had heard of the treasure, and came in search of it. Despite the trepidations. Despite the cold.'

'And?'

'And none of them were ever able to find it. For they had a motive in mind when they began. Their only goal was to achieve the flower, rather than knowing what it really was. And in that, lay their fallacy.'

'What was it?'

He paused, and gasped, 'It was the embodiment of love itself. It was the flower which held all the colours of the rainbow within it, and within it, existed existence. It was mother and it was the father. It was life's deepest longing for itself.'

'Wow'

'And like this, years went by. And then, some more. But the flower was nowhere to be found. And then-

'Then?'

'Then one day, came a traveller. His name, unknown. His face, unseen. His motive, nothing. He just came. He had nothing with him, other than the clothes he wore. And thus, began his journey.'

'And then?'

'For months, he wandered aimlessly, unmindful of where he went, unconcerned of what he ate and what he wore, or whether there were predators on these rough terrains. On the day he got food, he ate, otherwise, didn't. On the day he got water, he drank, or elsewise, remained parched. And like this, days went by.'

'But did he find the flower?'

'You ask too soon. You know of your longing, but don't want to tread the path. And the flower never reveals itself to those who obsess over themselves- And thus, the traveller remained helpless, hapless and miserable. And then, one day, he got food, and the next, he got some more, and the next days after that. Whatever he asked for, he got, except the flower. He never got the flower. Because he never asked.'

'Why didn't he?'

'Because he didn't know.'

'Oh'

'Anyway, days and months went by, and he, ate like a glutton, sang like a nightingale, and drank like a drunkard. But fatigue never left him. It always seemed to find its way back to him. And he wondered, why it was so? For when he had nothing, he had never felt fatigue. Never felt lethargy. So why now? When he had everything, he asked for? And so, began his journey of pain. In the next few months, he fasted, he walked, miles and miles he walked, and when he couldn't, he walked some more. He sang, but this time, the melody of the soul of the universe flowed through him, and he through it, and he felt hearty, and fulfilled. And then, one day, out of nowhere, he saw-

'The flower?', he asked, excited.

'No; what he saw was a woman. A woman as blazing as fire, and as beautiful as snow. As cunning as a fox, and yet, as maternal as mother nature itself. And in the very first sight, he fell in love. Unknown, he went ahead, and asked her, 'Who are you?', and she replied, 'I am Dilliyac.', and then he asked, 'Where have you been all this time?', and she replied, softly, 'I have been lonely for so many years. I wanted people to come and love me, but all I heard was people trying to admire my beauty, and pluck it out of me, rather than savouring in the love that I would've provided them. But you, have finally come, and I ask of naught but one thing', and he replied, 'What's that?', to which the beautiful woman replied, 'Love me, for I have been bereft of love. I may be love itself, but as I have come to know, even love itself needs to be loved.' And then, he loved her, and loved her with all the passion and mirth he could shower upon her. And they slept, arm in arm, and bodies in unison. And when, the dawn broke the next morning, he found, on his side not the woman, but a crimson flower, with petals blooming forth like spring, and as radiant as the rainbow which had bloomed that morning. And, he came to be known as the lover of love, and it is said, he showers love to the unloved, hope to the unhopeful, and mirth to the morose, but for that, one need only ask.'

'Wow, what a beautiful story.'

The tale concluded, and the silence erupted forth with its own fears and awkwardness. It was night time. The moon paled a dim shadowy light towards the zenith, with its one half, stolen into darkness, and the other, stood like a crescent, bawdy and unsheathing, gawking towards the hearth. Stars inundated across it, and twinkled with a shimmering glow, like glistening pearls. The men sat close to each-other, the supple warmth infusing from one to the other. It was cold, but sweat beaded off their heads, and ran down their temples, drenching their skins. They felt too cold, and the fireplace by the side didn't help much. Though, the sizzling and crackling of wood broke the silence.

'And just like that, my love, I have been bereft of love, for so long. For so long. And now, I do not demand, nor cry for love, but merely, ask of it.', the man said and kissed the other. The moment trailed for a heartbeat, and the heartbeat trailed over to an eternity. The supple warmth titillated him, and he felt quivers of touch still shivering over his lips, shivering like jelly. He smelled of lavenders and olives, and the fragrance embossed its way onto his memory.

'And now, I ask, of love and love only. To be loved freely and incumbered, to bask in the warmth of love, and shiver in the vicissitudes of pain, for love and pain are long lost brothers, each with their own stories to tell, and retell.'

'I love you, you know that.', he said, thrusting himself towards him, and kissing him, gently, succulently, on the pinkness of his lips. On the warmth of his lips. And then, broke. 'And I know, you love me. But to prove our love, we require more than mere wish fulfilment, we require courage. And that, I am afraid, is something I can't provide.'

'Well, let's then live, and forget, to later, forget and live.' the man said, and headed closer. The wood now crackled and chunks of tarnished splinters burst forth frantically. The warmth diffused, and they came to know of warmth at regular spaced intervals, and in between the warmth, the silence was replete with shards of cold.

But the cold didn't matter now.

For first came the warmth.

And then, the thought, a flicker of cold.

'Love me.', the man said, and closed his eyes, swathing them under the fickle shroud of his eyelids. And he felt the exhume of breath at his throat, gently gasping, in a rhythm. And then, came the fear and paranoia. Outside things began to impinge with a rapid zest, with the objective world, derailing unto reality. And then came the warmth, once again, as the arms flew around his back, and hoisted him up, in a passion, which he knew of in only stories and poems. 'Love' as he came to know, thrived not in the knowledge of truth, or even in its pursuit, but existed, merely, in acceptance. Acceptance that the moment may not arrive again, any time soon. Or any time at all. Acceptance, in the fact that neither does love possess, nor is it possessed; for love is sufficient unto love itself.

And it was.

'I love you, Anirudh', he said, as he felt him inside him, bodies aching in unison, for he couldn't tell where he ended and the other began.

'I love you, Aman', the other said, smiling.

*****

(Chapter 4: Broken)

'Where were you?', the man asked. He was short and stuffed, with flabs of fat hanging pendulously at his sides. The hair was white at the temples, and thin strands lay waving against the wind in the middle. His stocky build, was adorned with his oily face, drooping shabbily. He moved dully and with a lack of panache, which seemed to be in the domain of all prissy men. 'Where were you?', he asked again, his frown not wavering for a second.

'Out', replied Aman.

'Out where?'  

'Just out.'

'Huh', he said, and dawdled along in circles. 'Well, you were not with him? With Anirudh?'

'No'

He came close. Dangerously close. 'Don't you lie to me, you little shit. I know where you were. I know everything there is to know about you. After all, fathers know everything about their children.'

'I was… yes I was with him.'

He cinched his head under a crushing thrust, as he burrowed his fingers deeper into his skin. He felt fangs, sharp fangs strain into his neck, as if being stabbed by a hundred tiny spears.

'I am sorry, papa. It hurts… stop it! stop it! I said stop it!'

But he didn't.

'You don't understand. You have a disease. A bad disease. But it is curable. But you don't want to be cured, do you? You don't want to be cured!'

'STOP!', he bellowed, as he felt the fingers gnawing at him, draw blood. A trail of red oozed down his neck, darkening his clothes.

'Listen to me, Aman', he said, unmindful of the scream, 'Listen to me. You have a disease. And you need not fear me. Fear him! Fear God! For he smites the blasphemers with rage and fury! And if you continue the deed of the devil, he will smite thee! He will kill you! Ask for salvation', he said, and slapped him hard across his face. A red mark blotched its way onto his cheeks, and he felt his neck going numb. 'Lust is the deed of the devil. And that too, with a man! We need to pray. You need to pray son. Pray.'

'No. I won't pray. I won't pray.'

'YOU WILL PRAY!', he bellowed, and Aman felt a shiver crawl its way up his spine. 'Go to your closet. Go in there, and ask of forgiveness. And devote your life to God, and God only.'

'NO!'

And then another slap.

(oh god, I am fucking scared now)

And then he felt the skin flaking off at the back of his neck, and he screamed in agony. And then, as he felt his body go numb, he remembered being thrust into the closet, small and compact as a ghetto. He felt a push at his back, and in he went, as the door closed behind him. 'Open up, papa! Open up! I am scared! I am scared, papa!'

'You need to be good, Aman! I love you, and the lord loves you! But you have sinned! And sins demand repentance.'

He screamed assiduously, and then, faded, or at least he wished to fade. Just above him, lay a poster of the Hindu Shaitaan viciously torturing the souls that arrived in hell. On his left was a poster of God Shiva, though this was no ordinary God Shiva, this was his dark half. The biblical ritual seemed fascinating, but in the time and place, it meant pure agony. The latent hysterics came out grinning and gibbering, and he-

'And the Lord said unto the first man, you must never seek the pleasures of life. For they are a folly. For they will spoil you. Remain true. But the man didn't understand-

'OPEN! Please, papa! I am scared! I am so scared! OPEN!', and he wailed.

'Pray my son, pray and the door to heaven shall open! And you shall walk among the pantheon of Gods, to the abode, where all sins are cleansed!'

'OPEN IT UP!', and he faded.

****

And when he woke up, he found himself simmered and slumped up onto the dinner table, curled up inside himself, like a wounded animal. His eyes were misty, with the trail of tears still smeared across his face, and beneath his eyes, and beads of sweat still clung to him, and he felt bad. He felt fucking bad.

'Call him. And tell him, of the sin. Tell him, that it was a mistake, and that you made your amends. Call him, and end it.'

And he did.

(Chapter 5: Haze)

'It was a mistake.'

'What are you saying? You are not thinking clearly.'

'It was a mistake, Anirudh. It is a sin.'

'And what of our love?'

'That too is a sin. I can't be in love with a man. Goodbye, Anirudh. And don't call me again.'

And the line went dead.

.  *****

And when the words ceased to exist, Anirudh fell to the floor, sobbing. He wailed in utter despair, and curled up into himself, the floor now assailing him with a cold which he had not encountered, for some time now.

But it was back.

It was all coming back.

'Fine then, so you can't be in love with a man. Then, well-, and he got up, curled his hand up into a fist, and walked out of the house, with a conviction, which seemed to burst forth with a lingering carnage.

.  *****

The doctor's office was pale, with white walls and white marble floors, and white interior designs. He waited outside, for his appointment was yet to come. He got up, trotted around in a frenzy, contemplating the decision, the spoils of which already swirled inside his deadened mind. Had he thought of every possible scenario? Had he thought it all through?

He thought, he had.

Or else, the cold will come again.

And with it, would come the nightmares.

'Mr. Anirudh, the doctor will see you now.', said the receptionist.

He said nothing, merely nodded, and went inside.

The man stood five-six-foot-tall, and walked around with a stethoscope hung around his neck. He fumbled around the room, with its white colour dully hung from the walls, like carcases in a meat shop. 'So, when we talked, you mentioned the operation you would like to have. Though its completely up to you, are you sure of it?'

'Yes'

'Ok then. It is scheduled this afternoon. I advise you to stay put until then, and if you think differently, let me know.'

He nodded.

*****

Drowsy. That was the last word he remembered, as the masked men, rode deep into his horizons, with their metal tools, in metallic rooms, with metallic hearts. And then, in the moments which he now knew of as fear and daze, the swirling sounds of a machine bursting forth into life.

Arghhhhhhh…

Wrummmm…

Ahhhhhhhhh…

Waaaaaaaaaa…

These sounds: Even in the haze. Especially in the haze.

But the haze, like the pain and non-pain, were yet to come.

And then came the pain.

Then the non-pain.

And then, the haze.

And he drifted.

*****

(Chapter 6: Dilliyac)

And she stood in front of him, nauseous and barefoot, the cold winds assaulting her with their absolute wrath. It felt surreal, these past couple of hours. Funny, she thought, how life's only constant thing is change. She had caught up to him in no matter of time, and now, whenever she trailed her hands down to the cavity between her thighs, that is exactly what she felt each time, just a cavity. But she hoped, in some prescient part of her mind, she hoped that this would end the charades of mis comings and the act of absolute love, masqueraded as a sin. It felt different. The doctor had said, it would, but she had never expected this much.

'Anirudh!?'

'Yes, my love.'

'What happened!?', he asked, shocked.

'Why, don't you like it?', she demanded, 'you told me that being with a man is a sin. But love, well love is no sin. So, I stand before you, not a man, and still in love.'

'Anirudh, I-I…'

'I know. I know it's a bit stacked on. But believe me, what I did is for our love.'

'You-you…'

'Come here, my love.', and she flailed his hand towards him, and came close, trying to hold his hand-

'Leave me! Don't you see what you've done, Anirudh? You are clouded with the insanity of love. And now love, has made you an idealist. Leave me alone! It was all a mistake. Just a mistake.'

'How could you say that! I changed myself for you…'

'I- I never wanted you to change. I loved you as you were. But now, I know, I know of you now as a fanatic, a fanatic of love. And this is insanity.'

'Please, don't. Please.'

And he left.

*****

(Chapter 7: Moving on)

(Years later)

The woman sat in the bar, her head slumped onto her palms, and elbows thrusted into the sheath of plywood. A coil of hair hung drooped across her face in a cowl, and her face grinned and snickered, uncontrollably. God, I am drunk, she thought. Though, she thought, after what had happened, it had been a fair reason to drink. 'Another vodka, on the rocks.', she ordered.

When the bartender came back, he thumped her drink onto the ply, almost spilling it. She touched it, and felt the dabs of condensed drops stealing into her. The coldness came back. It had come back a long time ago. She lifted her drink, almost gulping it down, as something peculiar caught her eye. She put it back, thumping it, as some more juice spilled onto the ply.

'What's this?'

'Oh, that. That is just what we put at the side of drinks. Makes them look presentable.', the bartender replied.

'It's a flower.'

'Yeah, and a beautiful one at that.'

'Which flower is it?'

'I don't know, something by the name… goes like… yeah, Diallylic. Quite common flora. Mostly grows alongside weeds in the hilly regions. Don't know. Quite cheap to buy. And a hell of a beauty too.'

She chuckled, as she spoke, 'Hey, you want to hear a story?'