"Hello there," I called. "Anybody home?" I looked through the windows and knocked on the main door. There was no answer. Where was everybody!
Wait a minute, where was I? What was this place? Whose house and who was I looking for? It seemed very strange as I couldn't remember what I was doing before coming here.
I woke up with a jolt. Only a sliver of light could be seen coming from a crevice on the floor.
Disoriented, I looked to my right. Bugsy, the glow toy, whom I had had for the last 25 years, was giving out a very faint but warm light from the corner of the bookcase. I was in my room.
Relief flooded through my body. I got up, switched on the lights and reached for a glass of water.
While drinking I looked around my small, yet comfortable room. The study table, overflowing with books, sat motionless on the corner, while the bookcase was trying not to crumble under the load of yet many more books that I had managed to stuff into it.
The orange rug on the floor, which had a tear right down its middle, was looking up at me with morose eyes. It now looked more brown than orange which totally defeated the purpose for which it was bought. To bring some cheer into the drab room with gray fraying curtains, a camp bed and damp walls.
The little table clock showed 2 a.m. "I should get some sleep," I said aloud, to on one in particular.
My voice sounded funny in the stillness of the night. There was no sound, when you thought of it. No night birds or crickets or the small creaks and groans of a house one generally hears in the middle of the night. It was absolutely quite. Pin drop silence, as some would say.
Silence never bothers me. I don't even notice it on most days. But tonight, the fact that it was there and I had noticed it, mildly disturbed me.
It would have been nice if Roxy, my neighbour, was hosting one of his night-long booze parties with blaring music and shouts from drunken merry men and women! Usually, on such nights I would curse Roxy and drown two sleeping pills to get some shut eye. Tonight I missed the noise. If there is any such thing.
I switched off the light and climbed into my bed, which usually creaks to express its discomfort at being burdened with a heavy load. Tonight, however, it made no protests.
I turned and tossed around, just to irritate it into squeaking, but of no avail. It seemed not to bother.
So a bed I never cared for, never cleaned and seldom changed the sheets had now stopped caring about me. 'Serves me right,' I thought as I drifted back into the space between being awake and asleep.
I was back at the abandoned, empty house, shouting myself hoarse, even though I knew there was nobody home.
I woke up with a jolt again. This is going to be a difficult night, I thought. 2:15 said the bedside clock. Funny, I couldn’t hear the seconds arm ticking. One can always hear clocks ticking extra loud in the middle of the night, right?
I needed those pills. I got out of the bed, switched on the lights and looked around the room. I had no idea where the bottle of sleeping pills was hiding, again! The pills were always hiding from me, scared of my touch maybe. I don’t know I loved them so much.
“Where are you dearies?” I whispered, as I moved another pile of moth eaten books to get a better look at all the possible secret crevices in the bookshelf.
Behind Hemingway and beside a rotting apple sat the bottle. It gave a distinctly dirty look at me, not happy at all at being found. “Aha! Found you”. I yanked the top and shook the contents onto my palm. Only nothing fell out. The bottle was empty. I threw it down with frustration, yet happy in the knowledge that it would hit the floor with a loud crash. Only it fell on the rug and without even a whimper rolled underneath the bed.
2:45 said the clock, as the seconds hand moved noiselessly over its face, like the soothing hands of a lover caressing the worries of her beloved.
Sleep was out of question. I looked out of the window. A thick cloak of blackness hung over everything. All I could see were my sleep deprived eyes reflected in the glass pane.
The bulb in my room flickered. Once, twice! I imagined it going out, plunging the room into pitch darkness and then a cold skeletal hand stretching out towards my throat. I gave a hollow laugh, which made my reflection look creepy. I turned away from the window. The bulb continued to glow, although its intensity had dimmed.
I don’t remember how long I paced the space between the bookshelf and the door. Ten paces to the door, ten paces back. The clock now said 4.30 am. I walked towards the bookshelf again in a zig-zag manner and bumped into the table as I crossed the eighth step. I did not notice the glass of water standing at the corner of the table loose it balance and topple over. I did not notice as it crashed on the floor. I noticed it only when I turned around to walk back towards the door and my naked feet stepped on the broken glass. I jumped just in time to prevent the glass from cutting into the skin.
Weird, I thought. Why didn’t I hear the glass breaking? But I was lost in my thoughts and so had missed out on the luxury of catching the sound of a breaking glass. It is a luxury, when everything is so quiet. Why did I miss it? I was annoyed with myself at losing an opportunity to catch some noise.
I could always scream to create some noise of my own. But the neighbours would hear and I would get into trouble.
The silence was becoming heavy now. It mutely clutched at my throat, suffocating me. A tiny little sound would help me escape.
I bounced on the bed. Nothing! I pushed a pile of books onto the floor. Nothing! I brought the clock near my ears. Nothing! It was becoming difficult to breathe.
I opened my mouth. “Hello?” I said, but couldn’t hear anything as long hours of not speaking had probably constricted the voice in my throat.
I cleared my throat, took in a deep breath and shouted, “Hello, there”. Nothing. “Anybody home,” I screamed. Still nothing!
Wait a minute, where was I? What was this place? Whose house and who was I looking for? It seemed very strange as I couldn't remember what I was doing before coming here.
I woke up with a jolt. Only a sliver of light could be seen coming from a crevice on the floor.
Disoriented, I looked to my right. Bugsy, the glow toy, whom I had had for the last 25 years, was giving out a very faint but warm light from the corner of the bookcase. I was in my room.
Relief flooded through my body. I got up, switched on the lights and reached for a glass of water.
While drinking I looked around my small, yet comfortable room. The study table, overflowing with books, sat motionless on the corner, while the bookcase was trying not to crumble under the load of yet many more books that I had managed to stuff into it.
The orange rug on the floor, which had a tear right down its middle, was looking up at me with morose eyes. It now looked more brown than orange which totally defeated the purpose for which it was bought. To bring some cheer into the drab room with gray fraying curtains, a camp bed and damp walls.
The little table clock showed 2 a.m. "I should get some sleep," I said aloud, to on one in particular.
My voice sounded funny in the stillness of the night. There was no sound, when you thought of it. No night birds or crickets or the small creaks and groans of a house one generally hears in the middle of the night. It was absolutely quite. Pin drop silence, as some would say.
Silence never bothers me. I don't even notice it on most days. But tonight, the fact that it was there and I had noticed it, mildly disturbed me.
It would have been nice if Roxy, my neighbour, was hosting one of his night-long booze parties with blaring music and shouts from drunken merry men and women! Usually, on such nights I would curse Roxy and drown two sleeping pills to get some shut eye. Tonight I missed the noise. If there is any such thing.
I switched off the light and climbed into my bed, which usually creaks to express its discomfort at being burdened with a heavy load. Tonight, however, it made no protests.
I turned and tossed around, just to irritate it into squeaking, but of no avail. It seemed not to bother.
So a bed I never cared for, never cleaned and seldom changed the sheets had now stopped caring about me. 'Serves me right,' I thought as I drifted back into the space between being awake and asleep.
I was back at the abandoned, empty house, shouting myself hoarse, even though I knew there was nobody home.
I woke up with a jolt again. This is going to be a difficult night, I thought. 2:15 said the bedside clock. Funny, I couldn’t hear the seconds arm ticking. One can always hear clocks ticking extra loud in the middle of the night, right?
I needed those pills. I got out of the bed, switched on the lights and looked around the room. I had no idea where the bottle of sleeping pills was hiding, again! The pills were always hiding from me, scared of my touch maybe. I don’t know I loved them so much.
“Where are you dearies?” I whispered, as I moved another pile of moth eaten books to get a better look at all the possible secret crevices in the bookshelf.
Behind Hemingway and beside a rotting apple sat the bottle. It gave a distinctly dirty look at me, not happy at all at being found. “Aha! Found you”. I yanked the top and shook the contents onto my palm. Only nothing fell out. The bottle was empty. I threw it down with frustration, yet happy in the knowledge that it would hit the floor with a loud crash. Only it fell on the rug and without even a whimper rolled underneath the bed.
2:45 said the clock, as the seconds hand moved noiselessly over its face, like the soothing hands of a lover caressing the worries of her beloved.
Sleep was out of question. I looked out of the window. A thick cloak of blackness hung over everything. All I could see were my sleep deprived eyes reflected in the glass pane.
The bulb in my room flickered. Once, twice! I imagined it going out, plunging the room into pitch darkness and then a cold skeletal hand stretching out towards my throat. I gave a hollow laugh, which made my reflection look creepy. I turned away from the window. The bulb continued to glow, although its intensity had dimmed.
I don’t remember how long I paced the space between the bookshelf and the door. Ten paces to the door, ten paces back. The clock now said 4.30 am. I walked towards the bookshelf again in a zig-zag manner and bumped into the table as I crossed the eighth step. I did not notice the glass of water standing at the corner of the table loose it balance and topple over. I did not notice as it crashed on the floor. I noticed it only when I turned around to walk back towards the door and my naked feet stepped on the broken glass. I jumped just in time to prevent the glass from cutting into the skin.
Weird, I thought. Why didn’t I hear the glass breaking? But I was lost in my thoughts and so had missed out on the luxury of catching the sound of a breaking glass. It is a luxury, when everything is so quiet. Why did I miss it? I was annoyed with myself at losing an opportunity to catch some noise.
I could always scream to create some noise of my own. But the neighbours would hear and I would get into trouble.
The silence was becoming heavy now. It mutely clutched at my throat, suffocating me. A tiny little sound would help me escape.
I bounced on the bed. Nothing! I pushed a pile of books onto the floor. Nothing! I brought the clock near my ears. Nothing! It was becoming difficult to breathe.
I opened my mouth. “Hello?” I said, but couldn’t hear anything as long hours of not speaking had probably constricted the voice in my throat.
I cleared my throat, took in a deep breath and shouted, “Hello, there”. Nothing. “Anybody home,” I screamed. Still nothing!
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