A soliloquy

I am feeling so fidgety tonight! The decent moon hangs around amidst nervous stars, maybe, just to rendezvous those weeping clouds. The gentle blue light it sheds is not enough to quieten those squirming thoughts in me. I find myself alone in desperately looking for a tranquil sleep.

It’s nothing so serious, Man! Count some sheep, make a flock, be a shepherd who sings some unheard tunes and surely, keep some dogs to manage those woolly creatures so you can spend time by the solitary river that you always like to stop by; and be sure, you are fast asleep.

No, it’s of not that kind of restlessness, friend! I can’t just—I just fail to—express myself! Perhaps, I would never be to do!

Believe me! I can feel about what runs in you! The kids are away; your darling is also away to be with them on the month-end visiting! It’s the solitude that’s depressing.

It’s not so, dear! It’s not the first time I’m alone. In every month she has to be there unless they are at home during winter vacation. You know that; it’s as frequent as the full moon drops by. But, I’ve never come across this sort of peculiar feeling before. It’s not a tempest of uncontrolled emotions that sweeps across my head; it’s an annoying cricket call the meaning of which is neither known to the caller nor the listener!

Maybe, you look at it in a different way, but, it’s the loneliness that affects human mind more as the age proceeds. Don’t light another fag! They are ruinous to health to all intents and purposes and more so when someone needs a relaxing sleep. I’ve been with you since you gained your consciousness; but, sadly failed to impress you on those ills. Anyway, leave that serious book by Russell, and go for that—Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone—your younger one’s favourite.

Yes, it was his favourite! But, today when we spoke over phone he said he was finding them boring now. He wanted some serious book. He was telling me how deeply he had enjoyed reading some by Dickens. Yes, I found it quite encouraging as Dickens also moulded my philosophy when I had been of just his age, but the transition seemed to me quite faster. To me Dickens was a space to share my sobs, my sorrows, my loneliness, my voids and my despair. Was it also for my little one—is it so?

Man, you’re stretching it too far!

It’s not that, friend! My darling rang me up this evening after the visiting hours are through; after spending some good hours of togetherness, certainly, she was lonelier than what I am and we spoke for more than an hour over phone. It was she who talked about the change she had also noticed in him; maybe, in a different way. She said, “He needs a broader sky to float. But, the balloon seems to have been trapped in a mesh of spiky branches of an anonymous tree while it has all strength and desire to soar high. It’s a cruelty not to give him a sky enough wide that he yearns to enjoy fly in. Just do something, dear!” She is only one friend of mine excepting you whom I have known since the time I remember not. I know that she’s carried on with all bruises of severance with a facade of silent smile, while she continues to weep deep inside that I can indistinctly hear. Yet, she was there to comfort my ruined soul. But, she’s never seemed as vulnerable before!

It’s true that she’s played a hull to your weather-beaten soul. It’s also very true that she’s carried on journey secretly keeping her woes and cries within and shared her shoulder with you to build a new world of your own. Nothing is unknown to me! I saw a nine years’ old boy crying inconsolably on his mom’s premature death and I watched how he had to sell those books that he’d earned as awards. Before my eyes, you two grew together. I carefully observed how she took over all pains to herself just to bring smile on your face and in the midst of all drudgeries, she was happy to see you smile again. None but I was only there to applaud when four content eyes glistened in unison to set sail a tiny boat into vast expanse of a tempestuous sea. I remember how you’ve played the role of parents to each other; none to guide and none to support, how the boat has sailed long through. So, it may be tiring for her to be strong yet enough! Maybe, her aching soul needs some healing touches of comfort.

Yes, I also felt in that way. But, for long we’ve taken all decisions together. We both have deep influences of care and discipline of missionary education and we owe to those nice people; and, they taught us to dream about a good life—a contributory one—full of knowledge, benevolence, hard work and honesty. We will never forget how they softly moulded us to be just good human being. They used to tell—“Each of us has enough strength to live the life; it’s only the desire to live and let other live in peace that is needed to be nicely blended with knowledge, love, compassion, truthfulness and struggle”. These words have sufficient potency to sustain still in our philosophy. We’ve truly had a long onerous journey, but have the verve to walk down a few more miles, friend! No, she’s not tired. She has, for the first time, left something to be done by me only!

See, you are over-emphasizing the issue. She might have felt so from the mother’s emotional concern. Maybe, she’s feeling such separation has cost too much to her. She just wants to be with them only.

Maybe! But, somehow I feel, somewhere deep inside me, someone is whispering that neither can I fathom out nor can I ignore. It was not for the partition, as I presume, she was so deeply concerned, so anxious, and so pensive. She was infinitely more forthcoming than I had dared to hope. She had said something very meaningful; that’s about something, which is achievable by me only. By me only? What can it be; that cannot be shared by her—my sole compatriot? Is it anything on which she has no control over? Does it relate to my mind, my soul, my notion or my concern?

Dear, she never told you so. She never told you anything to derive such inference.

No, she is the mother. A mother can reach up to the deepest depth of her child’s soul, which is even incomprehensible in the father’s mind. She cannot be wrong in judging. There must be a definite cause behind her apprehension. But, why has she just begged before me to do something! What can I do that she cannot—this is what that is annoying me most? Together our oars danced in rhythm while we sailed through those stormy nights and sweltering days. Then, why is such appeal to me only, to save the boat from an imminent cataclysm? Has she become powerless to face the might of the Leviathan? Or is it all illusory? What more power do I possess? Is there any magic wand in my hand? I feel not. I’m feeling else, dear! It can’t be that visible dark spot on the north-west sky—a sign of an impending tempest—that she fears. It is, surely, something else.

What is it?

It’s me! I’m the Leviathan! I’m there only to free the Heaven from the clutches of all such satanic evils! Here, it’s me, friend! I’m to kill that monstrous creature within me—deep inside my soul. It’s a battle that I have to fight with the enemy within. The sky that my kids long for, the heaven that lets rich souls to flourish can again be freed by me only. Do I have that power to be the victor? Or, else shall I have a rueful return of a vanquished at the end of war?

What do you yourself feel? What else the words of those missionary teachers would deliver if you fear to embrace them? Do you feel that you have the desire to flourish, to expand the sky above so to enable your kids to have a share of it? Perhaps, you’ve ignored it all through your life. Your partner cannot do it for you. Long years of abandonment of such desire have weakened it enough to stand erect. Its feeble cry in your dormant mind is best heard by me—yes, me only—your soul—your conscience. Alas! I could do nothing. I’m only a guide, who can show you ways to burgeon your faculties, your own world; but, it’s up to you to pursue the way you choose. Sadly, you’ve chosen to remain confined to a smaller cell, which neither has a sky above to fly nor has any window to share with outer worlds. Your caged soul has no liberty to offer its hands to your beloved kids. That’s what your darling might have thought of, maybe. What would you feel?

I feel or not, it’s a reality, my friend—my own soul! What I needed to do, I didn’t. Perhaps, I will do now, what I need to do. A venomous viper carrying a sense of self stealthily crept into me only to be satiated in sadistic pleasures of countless recounting of the pains of those days of struggles. Slowly it gained power to be ruthless to suppress any other obsession. It needed the food in pride, in ego and in portraying magnanimity while all your utter cries for deliverance were trampled under my merciless neglect. You remained caged—a hapless soul, indeed! Those years of suppression have weakened my confidence leisurely. My desires, my dreams, the realm of my knowledge, all have those enduring scars of neglect. It’s true, my friend, I didn’t respond to your calls to come out of the darkroom. I kept on pursuing the mirth of freedom within the might of such blinding darkness of confinement. Friend, I have more sins in me than what I could discern yet, and, maybe, I have lesser virtues than what I’ve professed to own. It’s enough late; yet, I need to look afresh. I have it, friend! With whatever little strength still left in me I shall endeavour. I don’t know how far it can carry me, how far shall I be to extend. And, I know not how high I can still ascend. But, here I go. Just pray for me that I carry that much of vigour to reach up to the height that my little one has soared, where we shall meet, laugh together before I would set him free from the tangles of those thorny twigs of crooked tree and watch him fly and soar high and higher till my myopic eye could be able to see. My dreams would regain and so would those nice unattainable dreams of the Heaven appear. Those dreams will go on rejoicing till I lose the power to dream, to live, to love and to exist. Her soul will be too lonely—too lonely to part with a soul whom she loved so much, and she would cry as loudly as she would have strength left in her. It would be unbearable to me to see her cry. We will all depart then. The act will be over; a few unfulfilled dreams and some remembrances will find place in the corner of the curtain-drawn stage. We would meet again soon, maybe, somewhere above—a new unknown space—to watch over those colourful balloons soaring high and higher—carrying no caged souls inside, but the legacy of those unfulfilled dreams that it collected from the corner of that curtain-drawn stage. We would gaze on till our eyes could elude the induction of a deep slumber. Gradually, its bluish mist would engulf our eyes and a fragrant gentle breeze would strengthen us to sail our boat to its last voyage to the wonderful ocean of eternal sleep to dream again.