By Sharad Duwal
The words of the Robert Frost poem she had crooned years ago into my ears still return to me and rankle me every now and then. And when they do, they jog my memory. They bring the picture of how my life used to be before that day and how I had been at fault thinking that everything panned out the way it was ordained and that miracles were just what were used in myths to make something take on an improbable turn. I remember that that poem was about a yellow wood and it had something to do with two diverged paths.
And what more I remember is that her voice took mellifluous detours as if it were taking a labyrinthine passage, the cadence lilting, punctuated by lulls that were, in fact, lengthy, but at the same time, spaced in a way as though not wanting to call for any attention.
And what more I remember is that her voice took mellifluous detours as if it were taking a labyrinthine passage, the cadence lilting, punctuated by lulls that were, in fact, lengthy, but at the same time, spaced in a way as though not wanting to call for any attention.
Back in my adolescent years, when my life was more like that of a vagabond and when I changed hostels like bees did flowers, I used to live a life of indulgence—more or less that was how I spent days on end. Acquaintances wrought from my stints in these very hostels mostly didn’t become intimate. My parents never got time off for me as they slogged away day in, day out.
Days hurtled toward nights and the world passed me by as I stayed in my room, ruminating sometimes about where or what I was headed to, sometimes about how I was supposed to be living, or even what “living” actually meant. My life was just that: tedious to the limit that I wished at times for a hereafter; it couldn’t be any worse, I thought, and maybe I could count on my fate in the next life.
There is, though, one particular episode that transpired during these very periods of humdrum, which in many ways became one of the most important and influential ones. During my time at one particular dorm, I came upon a group of cohorts who, I found out later, had a milieu that matched in one way or another with mine, and I felt kind of gravitated toward them. We spent most time together and it felt good to know that I was not the only person who felt the things I felt. Even though experiences are completely subjective, at least to get to know that there are also people like you who are marooned in their own lonely worlds perhaps makes you less sad.
There were days when we would creep out of our rooms and surreptitiously as possible walk out into the night to our junction and do our stuffs. The building we were accommodated in was leagues away from the city area, so the nights were often empty and the darkness always seemed to peer at us with the eyes of an assassin, with the raptness that never was unseemly and the quietude that could often be misconstrued as skulking. Every time we did our stuffs, we sat behind the podium to the east of the open field that featured our dorm.
There were days when we would creep out of our rooms and surreptitiously as possible walk out into the night to our junction and do our stuffs. The building we were accommodated in was leagues away from the city area, so the nights were often empty and the darkness always seemed to peer at us with the eyes of an assassin, with the raptness that never was unseemly and the quietude that could often be misconstrued as skulking. Every time we did our stuffs, we sat behind the podium to the east of the open field that featured our dorm.
I recall a night. That was one of those nights with the cohorts. I remember that night maybe because it now appears to me as the beginning of something, a shift in me. The night of the day on which a new stuff—which was meant to be used in the lieu of the usual marijuana—was brought, we lay awake until midnight, fending off sleep as we listened to Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Pearl Jam and then some more. In the dead of the night, the dorm and the expanse of silence that circumscribed it seemed bereft of any life. We started lacing our smokes once we were behind the podium.
Then we did bother doing nothing but taking the puffs. We sat hypnotized, wishing the song never ended, wishing the night never died. Wishing that that moment lingered for ever.
The next day, early in the morning, as mist was receding and the sun slowly pushed itself through the cleavage of the nearest mountains, the warden—who lived in a small house by our building—made one of his morning visits. With his calm strides and the air of equanimity he was known for, and sporting the spirit that usually only knew exuberance, he stood at the doorway to my room and started toward me when my tired eyes responded to the knock on the door.
Upon reaching my bed, after pulling back the sleeves of his black sweatshirt up to his elbows, the warden sat next to me. “Good Morning. Don’t you think it’s time a little too late to wake?” he said, “It’s half past seven already.” I was at a loss of words. I tried sitting up but my body wouldn’t let me, so before I dropped any inkling about the state my body was in, I managed an excuse about having sat the previous night doing overtime. “That is perfectly okay, but you should also bear in your mind that everything has limits.” He then rasped in his deep voice to meet him before going to the school. I said that I would. I could feel my mouth moving, jaws opening and closing, and my tongue tapping my palate, but my ears heard what my mouth said in slo-mo.
He, the warden, then left. He was a friendly guy and perhaps the coolest among the wardens I had chanced upon throughout my time at various hostels. He was someone who couldn’t prevent himself from being cozy and angry between the shortest of moments. He could be very petulant and ornery at times and still he was not as stringent as his craggily chiseled face often belied you to decide upon.
It was a very hazy morning and I still had half of my body too wayward that it did things entirely of its own volition. I managed to get over the high after splashing my face with what seemed like the half of the water tank. The memory of the previous night was also quite hazy and so, instinctively I went up to the rooms of my cronies and found out that they were not unlike me. Still asleep.
As was asked to, I went up to meet the warden. The morning was welcoming and so full of life, so, I thought, maybe it beckoned a similar day. But still, I was quite unsure of why he had bothered himself in the very morning to ask me to see him. He attended to the door in a prim and crisp white shirt over which was a waist coat. His collar was tidily fastened to his neck by a black tie mottled with red. He had on his black pants that feigned being mahogany as the sunlight glinted off it.
At the sight of me, he chided that he had expected me a little earlier.
“Actually sir, I had some pending homework to complete.”
Once settled inside his quarters, in opposite chairs in his sparse office, he said, “You know, boy, time is very powerful; it is omnipotent. You should get along with it at your best.” The immediacy of this insight floored me and stumped me.
I nodded, assenting.
He then began to rebuke about how my bad grades were becoming worse, and suggested me to change the company I’ve been in, and also my room.
Just as I was about to leave his place, he asked me if I had heard anyone leaving the dorm last night. In a frantic and garbled way I denied having heard any sound. My heart was doing pirouettes as I walked out.
At the sight of me, he chided that he had expected me a little earlier.
“Actually sir, I had some pending homework to complete.”
Once settled inside his quarters, in opposite chairs in his sparse office, he said, “You know, boy, time is very powerful; it is omnipotent. You should get along with it at your best.” The immediacy of this insight floored me and stumped me.
I nodded, assenting.
He then began to rebuke about how my bad grades were becoming worse, and suggested me to change the company I’ve been in, and also my room.
Just as I was about to leave his place, he asked me if I had heard anyone leaving the dorm last night. In a frantic and garbled way I denied having heard any sound. My heart was doing pirouettes as I walked out.
Then in school, I contrived to field the questions my friends had regarding to what we had tried the night before. It kind of churned a furor. The morning really showed the day. The sky was clean throughout most of the day and only wisps of clouds hovered every now and then. When it was a recess and all of the class went out to do whatever they could in the short break, I stayed in. She also did. Only she came over to me in that recess. I was kind of an introvert, especially more so with girls, so my mind interpreted this, she approaching me, in a completely that way. Unreasonable is what suits most.
She took short steps toward me with her fingers pulling the sweater cuffs at the heels of her hands, in a manner that might as well seem that she was a little tentative. But maybe she was wont to it—which was the case, I didn’t know. I could feel my thoughts pulsating and my pulse darting through my body. Then pushing her spectacles with her index finger back to the bridge of her nose, she asked me what I was doing.
“Nothing particularly. I—I am doing some homework,” I said, “Why do you ask?”
Before I could realize the unpredictability of my question, a flush seemed to steal in her.
“I mean … Is there anything I could …” I trailed off.
“I just wanted to know if you had time after school today,” she continued, “I wanted to talk something over.”
“Sure,” I said flippantly, “But maybe we can talk right now?”
“No,” she said, perhaps a little annoyed. “After school.”
“Okay, after school it is then,” I said. Then I started combing through my bag for an exercise book.
Still head down, I asked, “What are you doing anyway?”
Silence. I looked up. She had gone out already. Pretty quick. Like into thin air.
She took short steps toward me with her fingers pulling the sweater cuffs at the heels of her hands, in a manner that might as well seem that she was a little tentative. But maybe she was wont to it—which was the case, I didn’t know. I could feel my thoughts pulsating and my pulse darting through my body. Then pushing her spectacles with her index finger back to the bridge of her nose, she asked me what I was doing.
“Nothing particularly. I—I am doing some homework,” I said, “Why do you ask?”
Before I could realize the unpredictability of my question, a flush seemed to steal in her.
“I mean … Is there anything I could …” I trailed off.
“I just wanted to know if you had time after school today,” she continued, “I wanted to talk something over.”
“Sure,” I said flippantly, “But maybe we can talk right now?”
“No,” she said, perhaps a little annoyed. “After school.”
“Okay, after school it is then,” I said. Then I started combing through my bag for an exercise book.
Still head down, I asked, “What are you doing anyway?”
Silence. I looked up. She had gone out already. Pretty quick. Like into thin air.
As minutes ticked away and I waited for her near the school gates, the sun was dying at the crest in the west. When finally she didn’t show up and the gates were closing for the day, I decided to leave for the dorm thinking maybe she had forgotten or maybe she changed her mind or maybe she didn’t like talking to boys too much. I talked myself into stop thinking like, I realized, mad.
The sun sank low and the sky had on an afterglow when I entered the dorm. I was late, of course. When I was asked why I was late, I concocted an excuse and was let go.
Later that day, we had only the shade of the night to blanket us as we waited and waited, this time even without the moon and the night gazing down. We lighted our “dhoops” and started taking in and then letting out billows of smoke. I coughed my whole self when at one juncture the smoke choked me.
“Man, life’s so freaking boring,” I said to no one in particular, “I mean, this waking up in the very morning, then setting out to struggle for the day to end, and, I mean, do that over and over again.” I didn’t expect any response from anyone.
And I got none.
The embers reached the butt.
Perhaps the footfalls we made as we climbed the stairs were foreboding enough to wake the whole dorm, but nobody seemed to give hoot.
No sooner had I reached our room than I slumped down on my bed.
Later that day, we had only the shade of the night to blanket us as we waited and waited, this time even without the moon and the night gazing down. We lighted our “dhoops” and started taking in and then letting out billows of smoke. I coughed my whole self when at one juncture the smoke choked me.
“Man, life’s so freaking boring,” I said to no one in particular, “I mean, this waking up in the very morning, then setting out to struggle for the day to end, and, I mean, do that over and over again.” I didn’t expect any response from anyone.
And I got none.
The embers reached the butt.
Perhaps the footfalls we made as we climbed the stairs were foreboding enough to wake the whole dorm, but nobody seemed to give hoot.
No sooner had I reached our room than I slumped down on my bed.
I woke up with a start when the realization that someone crept into the room swept over me. My eyes were groggy and my body had not the tiniest ounce of energy. My eyes rummaged around the room and to my sincere consternation and surprise, I saw her standing at the entrance of my room, framed against the doorway. The moment she saw my eyes open, she started toward me, slowly and sedately, as if weighing her steps.
I tried to open my mouth to speak but it froze and the words my mind devised upon dissipated. My whole body and mind seemed to be residing in different worlds. As if she knew what was going on inside me, she raised her hand to her lips and mouthed a shh. She sat by me and whispered, “I am sorry I couldn’t stay and wait for you.”
I raised my mouth, and because I didn’t know what to say, I closed it again. I tried again. “It’s okay,” I improvised.
She produced a white paper speckled with grainy spots. What happened after that is something my mind has never been able to recollect; there is a wide chasm and however hard I try, I can’t splice the slivers of memories together to form any unimpaired picture.
Then my mind jumps to a point when she starts reading something. I couldn’t grasp all of it, but I did remember that it was a poem I had already read more than once. After what seemed like the end of the poem, she stood up and walked out of the door as I lay motionless. Most of the things that happened that night (or morning, I can’t be sure) are also abandoned in the same chasm maybe. When she was once out of the room, my tired pupils contracted and my eyelashes shut close. The last thing I remember I did was produce a croak. She came to a halt and languidly turned to look at me.
I tried to open my mouth to speak but it froze and the words my mind devised upon dissipated. My whole body and mind seemed to be residing in different worlds. As if she knew what was going on inside me, she raised her hand to her lips and mouthed a shh. She sat by me and whispered, “I am sorry I couldn’t stay and wait for you.”
I raised my mouth, and because I didn’t know what to say, I closed it again. I tried again. “It’s okay,” I improvised.
She produced a white paper speckled with grainy spots. What happened after that is something my mind has never been able to recollect; there is a wide chasm and however hard I try, I can’t splice the slivers of memories together to form any unimpaired picture.
Then my mind jumps to a point when she starts reading something. I couldn’t grasp all of it, but I did remember that it was a poem I had already read more than once. After what seemed like the end of the poem, she stood up and walked out of the door as I lay motionless. Most of the things that happened that night (or morning, I can’t be sure) are also abandoned in the same chasm maybe. When she was once out of the room, my tired pupils contracted and my eyelashes shut close. The last thing I remember I did was produce a croak. She came to a halt and languidly turned to look at me.
At school the next day, I broke my reserve and walked to her. The moment she saw me, her face widened and her mouth gaped and she rapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I am sorry. I forgot,” she said.
“What for?”
“For yesterday. Actually, I had to hurry home, so I couldn’t see you.”
I said that it was okay and asked her what she had read to me in the morning.
She tossed a quizzical look at me. “What?”
“This morning. In my hostel. From a white paper,” I said, “You forgot already?”
“I don’t remember I did,” she said in an unfeigned tone.
“You don’t?” I said recapitulating the episode, though not going into all the details.
She looked befuddled, “Well, you must’ve had a dream or maybe I’ve become an amnesiac.” She chuckled.
Or a hallucination perhaps, I was just about to spill.
I asked her to try and remember about the morning giving her some more details, but she, moving her head sideways, her face tinged with unequivocal resignation, maintained that she had not left her house since waking up, except to come to school. “See, I have to go now, the bell’s gone already. Talk to you later.”
For the longest time, I stood where I was, dumbstruck.
“What for?”
“For yesterday. Actually, I had to hurry home, so I couldn’t see you.”
I said that it was okay and asked her what she had read to me in the morning.
She tossed a quizzical look at me. “What?”
“This morning. In my hostel. From a white paper,” I said, “You forgot already?”
“I don’t remember I did,” she said in an unfeigned tone.
“You don’t?” I said recapitulating the episode, though not going into all the details.
She looked befuddled, “Well, you must’ve had a dream or maybe I’ve become an amnesiac.” She chuckled.
Or a hallucination perhaps, I was just about to spill.
I asked her to try and remember about the morning giving her some more details, but she, moving her head sideways, her face tinged with unequivocal resignation, maintained that she had not left her house since waking up, except to come to school. “See, I have to go now, the bell’s gone already. Talk to you later.”
For the longest time, I stood where I was, dumbstruck.
Back at the hostel, I tried remembering if what I had seen the morning was just a figment of my imagination or something else. I contemplated out the window that overlooked the expanse of green fields below. I felt it very difficult to come in terms to call the incident a mere dream. I didn’t know to what extent our mind could go structuring dreams and capturing details but that dream—if it was one—really had too much detail to call it just a dream.
Dismissing it as a dream after my head started aching, I turned around to do my assignments, and my eyes averted to a tiny wedge of white paper blotted by spots all over. I went over, crouched down and picked the paper up. An epiphany struck me and a freezing chill went racing down my spine.
Collecting my scattered thoughts, I tried to remember what she had read to me. I remembered nothing but some disjointed words. Then, I wrote. I rewrote the poem the way I knew it and from whatever meaning the few disjointed words conveyed. The flow of words was not continuous, neither were my words anywhere near to convincing my own tastes. A mild migraine took over me.
After the fifth draft, I felt a terrible headache brewing in my head. I looked at my hands and realized I had gnawed my fingernails to the quick. Then, I stopped.
Dismissing it as a dream after my head started aching, I turned around to do my assignments, and my eyes averted to a tiny wedge of white paper blotted by spots all over. I went over, crouched down and picked the paper up. An epiphany struck me and a freezing chill went racing down my spine.
Collecting my scattered thoughts, I tried to remember what she had read to me. I remembered nothing but some disjointed words. Then, I wrote. I rewrote the poem the way I knew it and from whatever meaning the few disjointed words conveyed. The flow of words was not continuous, neither were my words anywhere near to convincing my own tastes. A mild migraine took over me.
After the fifth draft, I felt a terrible headache brewing in my head. I looked at my hands and realized I had gnawed my fingernails to the quick. Then, I stopped.
I woke up to find that I had slept for an hour, right on the table; the left side of my face red and sore. Right after, I went back to writing the poem over and over again. When I thought I was satisfied with my words, I read the final draft and a strange air of completion, of having found the way out a maze, of mirth, of ending a journey—and at the same time embarking upon a new one—overcame me with a violent thrust.
To my incredulity, I began writing again. This time, I started transcribing my own thoughts. My friends called me over in the night, but I stayed back.
I wrote even more, and when exhaustion seeped in through every crevice and filled me to my brim, I succumbed to sleep.
To my incredulity, I began writing again. This time, I started transcribing my own thoughts. My friends called me over in the night, but I stayed back.
I wrote even more, and when exhaustion seeped in through every crevice and filled me to my brim, I succumbed to sleep.
From that day onward, the love for the written word started growing in me and I started feeding voraciously on books of all kinds. I started writing into the night. Migraines became more of a habit. Life went on like that for a while and then something out of the blue came to my mind. She stopped coming to the school since the last time I talked to her. When about a week passed, I asked my friends, then the teachers about her and why she was absent for so many days, but nobody seemed to know about any person in the class fitting to the description of the girl I gave. That was when I realized I didn’t even know what her name was. Records about her were nowhere to be found.
It felt like she vanished into thin air.
My body went cold whenever her thought swished into my mind; they, her thought coming to me, were so sudden and so precipitous that I couldn’t stop watching over my shoulder once in a while. I basically felt haunted. Many questions unanswered, many nights wasted, many papers crumpled and thrown after her description I had concocted didn’t seem to match with what my memory gave out. After she disappeared, it seemed like my world was somewhat thrown askew, everything at once amiss, like I was at a severe loss. But, I dismissed the whole affair as just another freak of fate, an event that was better left mysterious, without trying to delve into it anymore.
It felt like she vanished into thin air.
My body went cold whenever her thought swished into my mind; they, her thought coming to me, were so sudden and so precipitous that I couldn’t stop watching over my shoulder once in a while. I basically felt haunted. Many questions unanswered, many nights wasted, many papers crumpled and thrown after her description I had concocted didn’t seem to match with what my memory gave out. After she disappeared, it seemed like my world was somewhat thrown askew, everything at once amiss, like I was at a severe loss. But, I dismissed the whole affair as just another freak of fate, an event that was better left mysterious, without trying to delve into it anymore.
And now, when I remember her slender figure, the immaculate white dress she was in on that day she read that poem to me, her hazel eyes that played chameleon as the light reflecting on it changed, the kohl, think and black, highlighting the white of her eyes, her slightly upturned, slim nose, her rosy lips that made its own rhythm of everything emanating from it, her hair scraped behind her ears, I feel a kind of delight that has the rush of fright with it.
As I see to the whole thing now, she is what I think was formative and seminal for instilling in me the best thing that has ever happened to me: writing.
I chose to write that day. And that has made all the difference.
As I see to the whole thing now, she is what I think was formative and seminal for instilling in me the best thing that has ever happened to me: writing.
I chose to write that day. And that has made all the difference.
- Sharad Duwal
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