I am important to her, you see.
I am so important that I’m kept in a safe, away from the eyes of my beholder, for she loves me so, that her inner violence comes out day by day, as I sit on the panel, revisiting the places I’ve been to.
She loves me so, that she would do anything to be with me. I think she’s in love with me. For whenever she does manage to open that safe, she looks at me as if I were the sun, rising along the drops of a rainy day, creating rainbows of joy. She laughs over me and she cries over me, as if I were the sunshine of that very sun, only this time lighting up the dark room of imagination, and prays to see the sunlight, while she prepares to see me at the end of the tunnel.
She talks to me. Sitting at home, she tells me about the infinite, yet finite places of the world, and how she wishes that I had wings, so that she could attach herself to me, and fly. She talks about playing with the universe as if it were some ball. I had warned her to not fly so high, but she did, and she fell down.
She did not die, she could not die as long as I existed in the world, because I was the ray of hope that kept her alive, minute by minute. Death, she told me, is a gyre of nothingness, and she must do whatever she can, go wherever she can, to keep the black hole at bay. Little does she realize that there will be a time when I die. I leave a legacy behind, but I die, and all the beauty that she had gathered from around the world would suddenly evaporate, and each page of my life would be frozen in the past.
Maybe I love her too. I decided from the day I was born, that I would help her, whenever her demons ensured that she head to a land far away. She has always treated me with kindness, though she may be self-destructing in the inside. Sometimes I feel as if she worships me, for she kisses me softly, week after week. I know I would be there to console her, and keep within myself the power that I have to destroy her – such is her vulnerability.
Each day I go to sleep, and in my dreams I see memories of us, here and there.
If only she knew how I felt about her, if she knew what I would do for her, if she knew I would wait in the hands of strange people fondling with me, saying that they’re doing it in order to give me freedom, and standing in long queues to help her realize her own freedom.
I must stop, for if I talk with these tears in my eyes, I would wet my precious pages, and that would be the end of the freedom whose sweetness that shifts mountains and clouds, and the constellations in the sky.
Thank you, my love. For never leaving me. and you, reader, for listening to my story.
– Akhila Nagar
English – 3B