Reverie

Is it 9:00 am already? Each day, at this exact hour, a treacherous beam tricks her fellow rays and breaks free into the dark confines of my room. Escaping the opaqueness of a thick brown curtain through a narrow slit. This unwanted cascading light bathes the upper half of my face in luminosity. Brazenly, caressing my hair and tingling my eyelids.

Sometimes to escape this insolent invasion, I abruptly pull the sheet up to my hairline. While at others, I slide down a little in the warmth of my bed until my head is no longer resting on the pillow. 

However, on certain days I bypass this ritual, and turning on my front, I press into the mattress, drifting back into the depths of mystic dreams.

Later, I wake up to the distant humming of the fan. I open my eyes a fraction and stare at the blurry swirling blades of the fan. How ruthless of this restricted yet tranquillising unconsciousness for throwing me back at the unsympathetic hours of the day. I slide my hand beneath the pillow and reach for the cell phone.

The clock shows 10:00 am. But I’m nowhere in the mood to leave the comfort of my bed. Stretching my arms and legs languidly, I let my thoughts wander freely. And off they go- gliding on the waves of knowledge, peeking into the dark caverns of forbidden passions, knocking against the cliffs of wisdom, and off they go. Plunging more profoundly into the oceans of desires, and rising higher and higher like molten lava until they erupt into ecstatic flames of pleasure. Feeling a little melancholic, I curl up on my side and imagine a lover’s arm embracing me from behind. I imagine him playing with my curls – clutching them in his fist, lowering his head to plant a kiss on my neck…

My reverie is broken by my phone’s buzz. It’s the alarm I set last night for 11 am.

If I could stay in bed all day long, and recollect some of the good old days. Or if I could just breathe life into the canvas of my thoughts, and print ink on paper. Or, even better, if I could smother this relentless yearning by hugging them all again – the dispersed pieces of my heart, I showered my love upon.

I have to leave for college in four hours, yet I feel no motivation to attend class. No passion for learning something new. No excitement to see new faces or meet friends. 

Solitude is growing up on me.

I surrendered to being alone, but loneliness itself is a painful refuge. My delicate heart is chained to the memories. At times, it forgets to beat, and I forget to breathe.

Pushing these vexing thoughts aside, I force myself out of bed and dash toward the bathroom to wash away the imprints of my scandalous thoughts.

The day begins with a piping hot black coffee with a dash of lemon. Vibing to the qawwalis of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, I iron my outfit for the evening class. My hands work of their own accord. While the shaking of my head synchronises the rhythm and notes of the song, my heart yields to the gravest of couplets, and my seemingly static form feels like rejoicing the hurt that resulted from repeated betrayals.

The bus stop is only a street away. I leave for the stop at 2:50 pm and reach there within five minutes. The thin layer of sunblock I applied before leaving has now mingled with sweat, streaming down my face, leaving white patches against the dusky hue of my skin. Occasionally, I pull down my mask and dab around my orange-tinged lips to wipe off the emerging beads of sweat. Waiting is punishing. Finding a shelter under the shade of Golden Shower, I try to hide from the penetrating, disrobing gaze of men walking around. Two cars slow down, I see dark heads behind the car blinds nodding, offering me a ride in return for some favours. I avert my gaze and turn to look for the bus. In no time the cars speed up again and are nowhere in sight. They turn to dust as if they were never there in the first place.

The sight of the bus is such a relief, and the rest of my ride is spent wondering about those middle-aged men. Do they have families? Wives and kids? For how long, have they lost interest in their wives? What keeps a man hooked? Is the sight of young flesh tempting enough to cheat on the years of endless affection and care, and to seek solace in adultery?  I wonder what marriage does to a man! While I deliberately choose to seek answers to their marital issues. In some remote, profane nook of my mind, I surrender to the darkness. Hundreds of ‘What if’s?’ hammer against the kingdoms of rationality, sensibility, and sanity. One of them, the most clever of all, with its amorous, parasitic nature creeps into the swamp of curiosity and forges it, procreating a thought, ‘What if I had joined one of them in the car…’