story | YellowStylo

Liberated

Posted on February 7, 2019 by yellowstylo

Tring… tring… tring. The morning alarm wakes me up to this artificial reality. Its mind numbing beats are now etched in my brain. Sometimes I hear them even when it is not ringing. I have no time to think further as I am dragged through the tasks on this conveyor belt of a manufactured life.

The coffee is painfully insipid. I yearn for the bitterness that never shows. It bothers me and I wonder if it has scraped out my taste buds.

Time is always running out and I still hurry like a car without brakes. On my way, I hear the daily hustle and bustle of the city. The soul-destroying noise makes me nauseous and dizzy. I plug my earphones in but the pandemonium invades my beloved symphonies. Nevertheless, I navigate on. The buildings are tall and swanky. The roads are immaculate. It looks like a painting drawn with mathematical instruments.

I have the perfect job but I feel like a prisoner in this castle of mindless wealth. I move around like a hypnotised soldier. It gets overwhelming at times. Save me, help me, I want to say. Alas, my voice hesitates to announce itself in this lonely forest of concrete and metal.

The electronic screens stare at me menacingly. I want to smash the monotonous loop of their impeccable chronicles. They want me to be the same, but I want to be human. I want life with all its eccentricities and erraticities. Should perfection come at the price of my emotions?

I am not alone, though. Countless people walk with me. The thought alone is comforting but something is not right, I can feel it. They look alive yet there is nothing in their eyes. Shiny orbs of glass stare into nothingness and perhaps seek to light the lamp within. Drooping and quiet, they move around like shadows in the dark. Often, I call out to them. They do not say a word. Nobody does. Talk to me, I want to cry but my throat is constricted with insecurities.

Occasionally, I get a whiff of the weather outside. The heat, the snow, the rain and the wind. They seem like the wild and untamed earthly spirits unleashed upon me. It disarms me and suddenly I do not miss the sterile air conditioning behind tinted windows.

All the days are exactly the same. Tring…tring…tring. The morning alarm rings. But I have changed. Help me, I finally scream. I guess it is never too late to be liberated again.

The Roads are my Destination

Posted on January 13, 2019 by yellowstylo

The embrace of the nightfall and the whiff of the autumn breeze awaits me. The endless road throws me a challenge. My car is an old Roadmaster but it has been loyal. I hit the accelerator and a mysterious thrill grips me. I want to ride so fast that I fly off the edge of that endless road.

“Where are you headed?” I laugh at the naive query. I am already where I want to be. I want to say. But they may not understand me. The road is my destination.

The friction of the wheels on the scorched road beckons me. I feel at ease as I rest my elbow on the edge of the open window. The hot summer wind flutters my sleeve and ruffles my hair. I want to chase down that mirage on the road ahead and quench the dusty wheels of my car.

“Let’s buy a house, settle down.” They say. I hesitate to answer. No piece of land or box of wood can confine my wild spirits. The only home they love is the boundless highway.

The bumps on a country road tickle me playfully. My wheels hop and skip in ecstasy. They whomp and whump as if possessed. The beautiful landscape outside my window slows down to welcome my arrival. I smile at the divine gesture.

The mountain roads dare the best of travellers. The narrow swirling roads remind me of strawberry in vanilla ice cream. I stop at the nearest shoulder and stand on the top of the world. The valley casts a spell on me and I stare, bewitched, for hours past.

“You should avoid travelling at night.” A concerned voice tells me. I sympathise. Dangerous is but another day on the road for me.

The starry skies light up the night roads. The moon dances from horizon to horizon. The whistling winds sing me a lullaby but I dare not catch a wink. The car speeds silently. The endless road challenges me again. I want to ride so fast that I fly off the edge of that endless road.

Failure

Posted on January 10, 2019 by yellowstylo

“We’re sorry…”

He did not have to read any further to know the content of that email. The response was inevitable but yet it hurt like a sword piercing through his heart. The wounds were so many that he had lost count.

Failure had been like an unwanted piece of gum stuck on his favourite shirt. No matter how much he scrubbed, it stubbornly stuck still. It was taking a toll on his health now. But he was a slave to the expectations, chained and forced on a hamster wheel.

“If only you had completed college like your cousin…” He zoned out again. Family was tough. He could not leave them for they were his sole emotional crutches. Yet, often times, they stuck a painful blow on his shins. Perhaps, unknowingly.

Then there were the sadists. They only revelled while putting him down and feeding on vulnerabilities. “So you got fired?” He wished he could scream, just to prevent the entire gathering from catching up with the latest broadcast of his personal life.

Failure followed him like that dark shadow in the narrow, deserted alleyways. The night was too dark and his leg was sprained. There was no escape. Then came the attack that left him bleeding.

He believed he was avoiding the society till the society started avoiding him. Once they were his best friends, partners in crime, but now they do not bother. He is no longer invited. It is not contagious, you know. The voice in his head snidely remarked at them. Deep down there is a longing, a desire for that healing balm of friendship.

Love has a lot of conditions. “I’m not lazy.” He said, again. It is not like he was not trying. If only they knew his troubles and struggles. Compassion, too, is a sparse currency.

He finally decides to finish college. It is never too late, that is what the motivational speaker on YouTube said. It is a new day and his energy is amped up. The old teachers do not recognise him. They only remember the bright ones. He does not blame them even though it hurts. Peers are unforgiving. His late show to the young world of the university is rewarded with isolation and ridicule.

“And those years of hardship have made me who I am.” He ends his speech to a thundering applause. He can see through their mind. They only see his achievements. It is not much different. Earlier, they only saw his failures. Will they ever see him, for him alone? But he sees everyone, unadulterated by their social standing. Failure had taught him the most valuable lesson, of self-worth.

A dedication. Dear friend – I believe in you.

Home

Posted on January 9, 2019 by yellowstylo

“Go back to your own country, you scum.”

The words were shouted loudly but they felt like a weapon hurled at her. Her vision was blurred by the sudden onslaught. Consciousness slipped away fast but at least it eased the excruciating pain.

It was not easy leaving home.

It was not a choice.

The shady cocoon where she had learnt to babble, walk and love. The favourite swing that she embraced every day. The playfulness of kindergarten which metamorphosed into the teenage struggles of high school. The highs of accomplishment on her first job and the lows of adult life. All the memories were like a warm blanket around her on a chilly winter morning. Till of course it was ripped apart, mercilessly. Like a tree, uprooted abruptly, and the roots that struggle for a place inside a foreign soil.

Nevertheless, Bisna was grateful. What she had once called home had turned into a horror of war and destruction. She had nowhere to go. Days, weeks, months and years were spent in crippling fear and the constant pursuit of a refuge. Then she saw that bleak chance of escape, she just shut her eyes tight and stepped on that vulnerable boat across the frenzied waters.

The shore was finally near and Bisna’s feet drank from the adust land like thirsty horses from an oasis. She was numb with survivor’s guilt but her lips spoke a prayer of gratitude. Survival is perhaps, the strongest human desire.

As she regained consciousness in the hospital bed, she felt paralysed with fear and pain. In the refugee camp, her life was finally beginning to revive. The new language was hard, the food was alien and the climate was hostile. Navigating the city was a herculean task and the occasional long hard stares did not make it any easier. But she took on the challenge with a sliver of hope and a silent wish. Let me too call this land my home.

But Bisna was not aware of the approaching storm. Not everyone wanted her to stay. And soon she could see, the tiny seeds of hate being scattered in her refuge.

Back in the hospital, she felt drowsy again. The nightmares of her home haunted her with a glimpse of the future. All she wanted was a peaceful corner of this world and to call it home. Defeated and lost, she lay, unaware that her courage had sparked a revolution. The people were rising to mend the fractures that had crept into their home.

Worthwhile

Posted on January 8, 2019 by yellowstylo

10 years of madness. That is how she remembers it.

But she finally quit, sold her house and all her valuables. Like a hermit, she packed her backpack and boarded the next train out from the dreaded present. The journey to the countryside from the dazzling city was unsettling and yet strangely comforting. It was supposed to be a new start on a fresh canvas.

The autumn sun shone through the train window, onto the old pages of the magazine she was reading. The warmth was comforting to her eyes. She felt drowsy. But the dreams were not easy. The bitterness ate her from the inside. She had spent all her years to build the company with her sweat and blood. Alas, it was all in vain. The fruits of the tree she reared now belonged to those heartless corporates.

The train was speeding her away from the mess. It was a blessing, perhaps.

Walking down the unmetalled rural road she felt the panic return. What on earth have I done? Despair gripped her like stones had suddenly been tied to her feet.

“Looking for someone are you, Miss.” An old frail voice called from the nearby house. She proceeded towards the old woman, not sure how she should explain herself.

The kind and wrinkled eyes smiled at her knowingly, “I would like to hire a help. I’m getting old, you see. Need someone to look after the land.”

Relief was a welcome feeling in the anxious, mistrustful prison of her mind. But she hesitated to answer. The prison door had been unlocked but she struggled to make her way into the light.

“Let it go.” The wise woman encouraged her as if she had read her mind. “Do not carry the dead weight of the past.”

A smile finally broke on her stressed face. For the first time, she felt the bright sunlight that were causing her eyes to squint. She felt the cool breeze that smelt like hay. She heard the babbling stream nearby and the chirping of a hundred birds.

She decided to take up the old woman’s generous offer. The makeshift bed in the guest room of the farmhouse seemed amillion times softer than her branded comforts of the city. The night was uneventful and her sleep was finally dreamless.

The next day she set out to do the farm work. The new jobhad a certain purity about it, unlike what she was used to. The bare hands with dirt and the bruises, the feeling of making something real. She dug her hands into the earth, feeling that feeling of a child digging their fingers into their first pie. And in that moment of revival, she knew that it had all been worthwhile.