Sruti decided to write the letter finally. It was an afternoon and suddenly her crippled mind breathed a deep breath. Only for a brief moment such a peaceful mind appears to knock her.
And she thought nothing more but drew the pen and a piece of paper close to her to start to put down. What is to be written? Her mind says. Once she had many words and phrases of her own and she could use them frequently. Once she could even write the fragrance of a flower, the sound of rain drops, tunes of sunbeams. But now? She feels her barren, touching the jotter point on the left hand corner of the paper. Stopped for a while. Nothing she could now.
Last night she got a letter in her dream. A deep blue colour envelop on which her name was not written. It came as if flying. The postman was standing far away from her opened door having doubtful eyes intermingled with a suspicious smile. She ignored. Very common was his appearance, she can now remember nothing except the opening door and the winged letter.
It was almost a white paper, from an unknown author. Sruti only remembered that there were four lines written as if in form of poetry, becoming blurred and opaque with the advancement of time. Dreams are like this, some dreams remain for the rest of the day, some becomes faded as time goes ahead. What she would write and to whom? She needs to write what either she is now thinking or she has to find it in her dream. Really she is not thinking.
Once she wrote letters to Aditya. How many she wrote, can’t possible for her to recall. That was a long waste, now she does not want to ruminate the episode. Aditya refused to be burdened with her insane brother Sashi and she forgot the bliss of writing. All her joys died down. The words became sick and crippled then; she could not walk, sing and even talk with them anymore.
What she would write now if she wants to write Aditya? His physical appearance knocks her little nowadays and little in her dreams too, if those days are to be unfiled, there will be no trace. Aditya disliked facing the appearance of Sashi. “Love is selfish Sruti”, he used to say, you have either to be with your brother or with your love. The word ‘Selfish’, Sruti tried to confluence love and selfish side by side, but they deny. Sruti tried to be selfish but could not. She wrote with living words that Sashi has no one in this world except her. Those letters were all in vain to melt his heart. Aditya had been in her life for five years. They worked in the same office, lived together and shared their living as usual.
Time goes on. The sky colour turns grey depicting two or three stars on it and the paper remains white. Time goes so fast! She remained indifferent to it, rather gave attention to words for the unknown.
Sometimes Sruti finds a day of her own. She becomes free to recapitulate her sad days that she possesses. Some words and phrases come nearer to her and she writes them on daily newspaper or on a telephone bill or anywhere or on nothing. Life is plaything. She feels then that writing poetry is easier. Words are waiting for her to write them. A sudden letter in her dream has changed her course of life. She draws her close, words are waiting. She feels a keen desire to write and write.
Is this all right that she believes to be done? Suddenly Sruti is knocked by approaching dusk. Time is so untrimmed! Once there was a dusk likewise when she had just returned from office. She saw her brother Sashi masturbating, closing his eyes in deep meditation. Looking him like an enlighten statue. She watched him closely standing outside the doorstep. He was then a sacred boy having no insanity. She could not help weeping. If she nursed Sashi? If she wanted to respect his desires? Why then she pardoned Aditya? Sruti had no words of her own. Awakening from deep austerity Sashi put his eyes on her and only threw a gentle smile.
Doctor said, “There is always another one inside all living being, another Sashi is there whom you can’t see, even another you is in you”. He may be sane or insane, another Aditya in Aditya, may be selfish or selfless. Sruti murmured. There was a dark patch on the sky when she was returning from the doctor’s chamber. It was about to rain, Sruti hurriedly walked to her home. All her dresses would get drenched, windows are to be locked. Rain keeps people at a loss though finally it becomes musical. Sruti feels rain dolorous. She walked and talked with her immensely.
It never thought Sruti. She was panting, but all the clothes were removed from varanda, windows were closed! She wished to hug Sashi lovingly. But there is another in him, another in her! She called Sashi. Sashi came, none but she know what his eyes say, and it hankers for praise. Sruti smiles and it’s enough to him. Another and another, Sruti controls her smile.
The very next day she admitted Sashi to an asylum. An unknown fear of his adolescent gripped her. ‘Apology’, only she murmured the word. She knew that she would become an inhuman forever. Sashi did know nothing, never had he showed any discomfort, stared at her in hate. She wanted not to follow the way that Adiya desired but there was no way either. They were all three in the family. Father passed away before she could feel for him; Sashi came into the world fatherless. Six months after the death of his father, he came. And it became only two when mother untimely left away. Now she is alone.
Sruti lives alone in her own with none. She wrote in her diary once– Like a project file is my life, in case of failure it does not withdraw into social resignation or contemplative solitude nor does it endure for the sake of isolated moments of grace in which it is in touch with a wholeness. It derives courage from the absurdity of its enterprise, a murderous self destructive supremely eloquent courage. Aditya never showed his eagerness to know her personal writing, Sashi sat beside her at the time of her writing idly. Both of them seems unknown to her. They are their outward.
Sruti comes out of her. Sky has lost its colour, the same was azure blue just before her eyes a little ago. Now it is dark. How are her words! She unfurls them from their inword.
She begins to write and write as it never ends. In return of four lines, she wrote millions. Dark sky possessed them all. She can easily replace the stars to punctuate her vast scribble. Words are so living! Sruti walks with them, sings with them. Sruti gives them each a nick name, frees them to nestle beside any of their choice.
Once upon a time the sky, the darkest sky folds itself politely as letters do. Silence envelops it. The letter, Sruti keeps under the pillow, now she needs to sleep to post it to an unknown.
