Empty Pages Episode 6

#36 Sunrise

The sun rose.The sun set.

It bled colour all over the sky, either to rise into it, in full glory. Or to sink into the coastline and plunge the world into darkness.Nothing changed much for him except the the rise and ebb of the cash flow.
He wasn't watching the sunrise to find the meaning of life. Or spend the moment with his lover. Or take photographs.He was there to sell food so others could do all those things. More so, so that his children would have food to eat. Small luxuries. Like an ice cream. Candyfloss.
His only daughter's birthday was coming up. He would never admit he had favourites but she was the centre of his life. He had never managed to get her a gift for her birthday or a new dress. It killed him everyday to see her in hand-me-downs. His daughter deserved better, no, she deserved the best. The only mistake she had ever made was being his daughter maybe.
He had to make more money. He would chase people asking them to buy his goods. He wouldn't leave till the last person had left. He was there before the first beach-goer arrived. He sat there in the sweltering heat when the sand burnt through his skin.
The day he took his daughter to the shop was the happiest day in his life. The look on her face. The curiosity, the awe, the joy. The happiness on her face was so pure he wanted to cry. He didn't know what colour she liked till that day. Roses weren't as pretty as his daughter twirling around in that red dress.

#37 Ice cream

Most of it was dripping off the cone, almost like it didn't want to be contained.
It was heaven to the little boy lapping up as much as he could.
The ice cream shop was his favourite. There were always so many colours.
So many flavours. The owner would give him little spoonfuls to taste them all.
Sunday was the best day of the week. No school AND ice cream.

He was new to town. He didn't have too many memories of the place.
He knew he lived here now. His granny made him recite their address.
He had a new school, new teachers. They all were very nice to him.
He had vague memories of a different life, what he couldn't remember.

His grandfather, a wizened man of seventy, watched on, making small talk.
There was very little he could do to make the boy happy. He would do it all.
To make the child forget the glaring voids in his life.
To make him oblivious of the black-hole, he hadn't realised was approaching.

He never understood why grandpa never ate ice cream with him.
Maybe he thought he would look silly. It was ice cream!
As they left the shop he told his granpa, his future plans were made.
He would grow up and set up an ice cream restaurant. Or castle.

The child dreamed on. He babbled about an ice cream palace.
After losing his children in an accident,he knew the moment was too precious.
Too precious for him to destroy that dream with reality.
He had survived an accident, while his whole family had not.
He was a gift to them- his grandparents. Their only hope. Only family.
Also the sole reminder, that they had lost it all.

#38 Old bookstore

His gnarled hands were sorting the books into piles.
It wasn't a very large shop. Just a small shop filled with many stories.
He knew very each one of them belonged. Their homes.
His children kept telling him to close the shop and retire.
Nobody reads paperbacks, they told him. Go home.

He did have a few customers though, loyal ones.
People who had long become addicted to the smell of old paper.
People who wanted to feel the print as they read it.
People who wanted to hold it in their hands,know every fold,page,dog ear.
People who wanted to add bookmarks and read those pages later.
People who would write comments on the side, for a reread.
There weren't too many of them. Not as many as his time.
He was beginning to believe, there weren't too many who read even.

This was his life though, his calling. Books. Stories.
He didn't sell pieces of paper. That is not what books were.
They were years of somebody's hard work. Sleepless nights.
Torn manuscripts. Mood swings. Quitting. Resurrecting.

He looked out of the window as the crowd walked past.
Some would stop and enter. Just one book, they told themselves.
Some would pass by without a glance. No time for this nonsense.
Some would throw longing, imploring looks at the shelves.
They wanted to walk in and walk away with it all, yet they didn't.

He too had been one of the people on the street.
He had had a normal job, stable salary, a young family.
Everything an average man wants, he had earned.
Till the day he realised he didn't have average needs.

He found happiness the day he had been to the library.
He realised he knew more about books than the young librarian.
All those computers,scanners and codes in the library. High technology.
None of that could help a man who didn't know his books.

He decided to set up a small shop. It was his retirement plan.
He didn't expect it to last long either. He just did it because he had to.
He wouldn't be able to die in peace if he didn't even try.
That had been a long time ago. Now he had a new family, though printed.

The door creaked open as a young girl walked in with her father.
Young blood. Curious eyes. Sharp brains. Empty brain cells to fill.
He knew exactly which books to lead her to, which worlds to introduce her to.
If his books found a home, and she found her inner bookworm, his work was done.

#39 Queue

A long human snake, winding across.

Variegated. Colourful. A medley of ages.

Clucking, he held on to his papers.
He had loved travel during his youth.
New sights. Meals. People. Experiences.
Each trip had imprinted its effect on him.
A mental tattoo,impacting the way he thought.

He was tired now. Weary. Not that he didn't like travel anymore.

He still loved the experience.

He just needed a break from the overload of adventures.

He wanted the comfort of his home.

His wife on the other hand, was always thrilled to travel.

He had a feeling airports made her high.

He was the kind who would quietly wait his turn.

She would make conversation with anyone. Everyone.

By the time any trip reached an end, she would have befriended most of the people they encountered. He didn't discourage it. That was how she was wired.

It irked him every time people started asking him questions though. Forced conversation.

He was perfectly fine being the silent bystander till the conversation interested him.

Today he had the silence he wanted. Silence amidst the chaos. The impatience. Yet he was restless. The process felt deficient. Inadequate.

He wished she was there next to him. It had irritated him all along but he missed her chatter. He always had the papers, she'd always get the tags. She would pack, he would make the labels. She'd​ want the window seat every time, he'd want to read on the plane.

The weariness lifted. There was a happy feeling floating as he thought of her.

It wasn't travelling that he had grown tired of. It was travelling alone that drained him.

#40 Rise

The first time she saw the movie, it was just another action movie.
She didn't think much of it. Superhero saves the world. Blah.
The second time she saw it, it was something more.
There were things she would remember days later. Out of the blue.
The third of many more times she saw the movie, it was no longer just that.
It became a Bible of sorts. Something that she would live by.
She was sure the creators had not intended for it to be so, but it was.
One line stuck like chewing gum- Madness is like gravity, all it takes is a little push.
Maybe it wasn't just madness. Maybe there was more to it.
Maybe everything she wanted, needed just that. A little push.
It started off with small things. Things that were mundane to others.
Things that terrified her but had no effect on others.
She would battle them. One small attempt. One little push.
Over time, she was unstoppable. Maybe not, but she didn't know that.
To the rest of the world, she was obsessed.Corny. Cheesy. Amusing.
To her, she had found something to set her on fire.
Every time she fell, she rose. She did what was necessary, like it or not.
She probably would never become a superhero. Or a millionaire.
She had learnt to be her own hero. Someone she could be proud of.
She was willing to act. Willing to rise. Every single day. Endure.

#41 Black hole

Nobody loves you. Nobody wants you.

You have failed at literally everything.

Which failures are you yet to experience?

You dreamt way too big for your good.

The voice gets louder. Still louder.

You don't want to hear the voice.

But it won't stop. It goes on. And on.

It reminds you of every mistake.

Every flaw. Every failure. Every rejection.

You start feeling bad about yourself.

The voice slurps on this dejection.

Louder, it tells you why you should quit right now. Die.

Stop doing what you love.

You can't enjoy doing things you like.

You question every decision.

You feel you can't get out this or ever be happy.

You can't remember happiness. What was it like?

They seem so fuzzy now. You try to focus on the good.

But the voice rejects all forms of rationale.

You question yourself. You are willing to quit.

They said there were no monsters under the bed. Monsters are real.

They go by different names but they feed on us.

They live in us, waiting to destroy us. Who wins?

Sometimes the monster wins.

Sometimes you can set them on fire.

#42 Insulated

He would keep them out. He wouldn't let them have a piece of him.
He insulated himself with layers of defences. Yes, plural. Layers.
If you broke one defence down, there was always another in place.
Nothing was going to get close enough to hurt. To cripple him.
He found his shells competent, he could now work in peace. The quiet.
The noise outside grew larger. He enjoyed the silence within.
Till the day it was too quiet. He couldn't stand the silence anymore.
He hoped for some interaction. Another living being. Anybody.
But the walls he had built kept everyone out. The silence grew louder.
They had knocked, kicked them and tried tearing them down.
After a point, everyone figured he loved his own company more than anything.
They stopped trying. Offering. Asking. Cajoling. Just stopped.
By the time he realised he wanted them, they were gone.
He knew he had barricaded himself, for a reason. To protect himself.
He had overprotected. He had eliminated the hurt but also the joy.
He struggled when he realised his folly. He needed some fresh air.
He tried to break his own walls, his own defences. He'd find them.
Except the world had built its own wall around him now. Sealed.
He was suffocated. He had smothered himself. He had to break free.
And so his battles with himself began. The battle to breathe.

Miscellaneous : 

#43 Agony                                               

She was on the tip of her nerves.Every minute was agony.

Her eyes and fingers moved like lightning.

She refreshed and reread everything.

She knew every word of the conversation but read it anyway.

The feeling was a mixture of familiarity and comfort.

She was hoping to hear that *ting*.

She waited all day.

Every time she'd hear a noise she'd jump up to check.

Every other message was a disappointment.

Not that they weren't important or appreciated.

It just wasn't what she needed.

She kept reading that line.

The line where he said he would let her know.

The only thing he had let her know was that she wasn't as patient.

She wasn't as detached as she thought she was.

#44 String
Strung together like a necklace.
They shone apart, but they stunned together.
They belonged together somehow. Right next to each other.

Did I go in search of them? Where did I find them?
Did they find me? Did they find each other?
Nobody knows anything except they belonged together.

Maybe they were waiting for the right person to put them together.
Not that being cooped together made them more beautiful or worthy.
Each had a value of its own, together they just made the ones around better.

I strung them together by chance. It clicked.
String after string. Combinations. Permutations.
Not knowing how long it will last, I took the chance.

He thought I was good at it. Talented. Skillful.
Like the strings of an instrument, individual but together.
I touched them, they made the mark they wanted to.

He thought, I should do more, make more magic.
I was scared my luck would run out. It would be the end.
There would be no trace of those moments of brilliance.

I was scared when people misunderstood my work.
Words are democratic, he said. They have the right to interpretation.
What did I have? Your words, you will always have your words.