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Aaditya and Me by Aditya Joshi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License

Friday, July 04, 2008

The Creative Lull

Disclaimer: A story. Stories are fictitious.

The crystal night-lamp shone in the white moonlight that entered the room through the slits between the curtains. Just then, someone turned it on. It was 2 am in the morning and he still was not able to sleep.

He got up, moved to the bathroom. He splashed handful of water on his face and looked into the mirror. His face looked lifeless - the eyes had become speechless now.

He went to his desk near the window and turned on the lamp, pulled out a pen from the swan-shaped pen-stand which she had given him. He moved his finger slightly over the beak of the swan - it was his source of inspiration. Or perhaps, she was his source of inspiration.

He placed the pen on the sheets of old paper that he often used to write his poems. The pen stayed still as he stared at the swan.

It had been more than two months that he had written a poem. He wondered why words had failed to flow onto the paper - the way they would otherwise. These days, he would sit at the table just like the way he was right now, staring at the swan or listening to the ticking of the clock. And then, he would fold back the blank paper as he would go to sleep.

There was silence in the room. And in the room inside him too. There was a voice that spoke to him each time he wrote - and this voice was missing.

He could not hear himself. He could not visualize her face, her smile and write a poem describing her beauty. He could not feel her breath against his cheek. He could not hear her bursting into laughter the way a shooting star breaks into a hundred streaks of light. The sound which was as lyrical and poetic as his poems.

Now, he could hear silence echoing in his ears. He moved his finger again over the swan. He called out to her. She must be sleeping, he thought as he looked at the bed.

The side of the bed he had occupied had his sheets ruffled. The other side was empty.

The curtains blew with breeze and covered his face. He pushed them away with his hand - he dropped the pen. He bent down to pick it up.

He heard the clouds rumbling. He picked the pen, kept it on the table, packed the papers and went back to his bed. He wanted to sleep.

With his arm resting against his forehead, he stared at the ceiling. Half of his face had cast a shadow on the other half. One half of him had overshadowed the other half too as he experienced this silence which was scary - he was not able to hear what he himself wanted to say.

As he continued to stare at the fan moving in circles, for reasons he will never be able to tell, he saw her going up to the sky in flames. He smelled the wood again. He smelled the first perfume she had given him. He heard the rustle of her ashes as raindrops fell on them... And he saw her smiling at him. The face, the hands, the breath, the words, the voice. He found her again.

He heard the clouds outside breaking into a million droplets. He hurried to the desk, picked up the pen and began to write.

The creative lull was over. The droplets splashed on the earth as they bounced and fell - the words were back. She was back to him in his words... The clouds of emotions were precipitating as words on his paper.

1 comment:

  1. :) wonderful poetic experience here in this story ....
    let the words keep flowing like this.