Monday, May 25, 2009

Death of a Dream

The Memory.

The soft jazz music crooned on. Two lovers were in each other’s arms. Slightly moving to the music to music and becoming more comfortable with each other.

“This is our song,” He whispered in her ear.

She didn’t say anything. She put her head on his shoulder and they continued to move to the beats.

“This is our song,” He repeated. “We shall never dance this song with anyone else, or even alone.”


The Bursting Out.

The cigarette never seems to calm me these days. The lift journey never seems to end these days. Do you realize that I have to pass her house everyday while coming home? And the fact that now, I can no longer meet her, see here, kiss here, hold her in my arms? Do you realize how much pain it causes?

Julia, what do you dream when you turn the lights out? Do you dream about me? Do you think about me?

I guess not. You have somebody else now.


The Revelation.

He paused like usual, while passing her house. It seemed natural for him to take out his cell phone, call her and ask if she was at home. If she was, visit her. But that time had changed, this was not allowed anymore.

He resumed his walk. And then again paused.

Something he heard made him pause. It was the forgotten melody of the soft jazz song; playing softly from her house. So lightly, it could hardly be made out from the regular noise of the street. Yet, it was definitely playing; he could recognise the notes as if they were etched in his brain.

He was debating. He knew from where he could catch a glimpse inside her room. Yet, was it the right thing to do? Was it voyeurism? It was punishable by law, of course, but how would she react if she realised?

Yet, he couldn’t resist the temptation. He moved to the vantage point and peeped. There she was, dancing, alone, moving with the beats, her eyes closed.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could see a glistening path of tears on her cheeks.



“The Vodafone number you’re trying to reach is currently switched off. Please try again after some time.” He heard the mechanical voice for the fortieth time that night. He left a message, disgruntled.

The message simply said, “I called.”


Death of a dream.

The next morning, he woke up to the voice of his mother.

“Wake up!” She was saying, urgently.

“Julia,” she continued. He opened his eyes at the mention of her name.

“Julia, she committed suicide this dawn.” She finished. “The neighbourhoods in a tizzy. The reason is still not know, but it seems she had some problems with her boyfriend.”

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. A part of him, however, was relieved, that he wasn’t the boyfriend being discussed here.

Could he go and see her one last time? How had she died?

He felt exhausted.

He sat up on his bed and glanced at his phone. “1 new message, Julia, 3.40 am” it said.

He opened the message.

One line, one of his favourite lines, it said, “Within You, Without You.”