Chapter #

3.a

I woke up with a gloom. The parting day.

I hated the days when I had to go back. More than I hated being at home. But there was a certain comfort to it. Being in your own space. Sleeping on your own bed. Stare at your own ceiling. Bathe in your own bathroom. And stand before the mirror which has seen you change over the years.

It’s not about attachment with the people. It’s more about the attachment with inanimate things that holds me back. I am so accustomed to their presence, that it makes me feel at home rather than humans living there. And the thought of detachment from these elements weighs down on my heart. It fills my heart with molten iron and on cooling it laves the heart heavier.

I feel reluctant to leave. I feel lazy to even move a finger. I forcibly take myself out of the bed. I feel like smoking. But I can’t. I am at home. I realise that I haven’t smoked much in last two days. I didn’t feel the need to. I can’t live without them there.

I heavily walk to the mirror and look at myself. I turn away and brush my teeth. The though of going back grows like a festering tumour within me. It chokes my throat. I brush my teeth. I fill my moth with a minty lather to counter the clog up in my throat. Brushing suppresses it successfully. But doesn’t overcome it. I finish other chores with the same lump stuck in my throat. I dress up and get ready for the journey back to the weird city. A prison with the walls of freedom.

Everybody in the house suddenly realise the onset of my absence. The change in their behaviour is evident. A dull outline of acceptance marks their faces. Acceptance to the fact that I was supposed to be here just for two days. That I was no longer a part of the household now, but just a visitor. A visitor in my own abode. A place which I would visit rather than return to. The brief returns which I spent here were like stays in some mediocre hotel. Run by people who you were directly related to. Whom you had seen all the years of your life. They served you. They pampered you and saw that your no demand remained unattended, unlike the times when you were a part of it. Because a visitor always remains an outsider. And that was what the distancing from home had made me. An outsider to the place where I belonged to.

I had my breakfast. Everybody behaved cheerful, concealing their twinge. Me too.
I wore my shoes and everybody grew restless. I promised them I will come back in a month. I assured them that the two cities weren’t far from each other. And I console them saying I was just around. Dad held up my words. He repeated the proclamation that he had made when he had agreed over sending me to the other city. “Come on…it’s just two hours by the Expressway”

Mom handed me over with bagsful of eatables. Dad handed me over my source of survival. Cash!

He came down to leave me to the bike. I greeted him farewell.

I sat on the bike and left waving to everybody.

The lump in my throat had by now occupied my entire chest. I left back my building. Then my lane. Then the turn which had brought me home. I kept leaving behind everything that had drawn me home.

The tyres of the bike touched the highway. I was on my way to the weird city. And the arsehole of the world.


(Contd.)