Bad timing

He finished reading it. Seventh time today. Her first love letter.

"Could so much love ever vanish! She'll understand, if I talk."

"Anjali, please understand! We'd fought before also. But we always made up! Why not today? I love you, Anjali!"

She didn't reply. Those suspended in air, hanging by rope about their neck, don't.


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Explanation:

(To be read only after meditating 'deeply' upon the profundity of above piece, and thinking of all the plot-related possibilities)

The protagonist reads his lover's first love letter umpteen times. He realizes the depth of love they'd shared, and how talking things out could help.

He tries to convince his lover to not be miffed and try to resolve the dispute amicably. But actually, all he's talking to is her dead body as she'd committed suicide by hanging and, he's still in denial about it--not ready to believe 'all was over'.

Time Table

Yes, true it is, however much be I bored,

that I’ve to keep walking on this road.

But, how can I not stop and gaze,

smiling by the road, a beautiful red rose?

Its petals spread in full expanse

catch my attention in complete trance.

“You’re so beautiful”, to the rose I say,

and that “thanks for being on my way”

I forget that the hurrying sun,

desperately is headed for the horizon.

Someone a friend of mine says,

“Throw as many a gaze as you can,

when you reach your destination.”

Someone a fiend of mine says,

“Not everyone under the sun can

for that rose’s beauty have such an appreciation.”

I know that latter is nothing, but sarcasm.

So, I ponder and like my friend and fiend choose to move on.

***

Yes, true it is, however much be I bored

that I’ve to keep walking on this road.

But, how can I not stop and trace

ignominy bleeding out of injuries on a stranger’s face?

His downcast eyes bathed in tears of defeat and shame

catch my sympathy in midst of a worldly game.

To him I say, “Cry not and let dreams in your eyes shine,

For the path to your dreams is his, mine and also thine.”

I forget that the hands of clock, swift and slim

incessantly are dancing within the clock’s round rim.

Someone a friend of mine says,

“Wipe many a tear as you can

once you reach your destination.”

Someone a fiend of mine says,

“Not everyone in this world can

for that face have same compassion.”

But, I know that the latter is truth’s great aberration.

So, annoyed, like my friend and fiend unwillingly, I move on.

***

Yes, true it is however much be I bored

that I’ve to keep walking on this road.

But, how can I not stop and bend down

to pick from the surface a sadistic thorn?

The thorn giving the journeymen nothing, but trouble,

would have not broken, been it less egoistic and more flexible.

To the thorn I say, “I’m very sorry for that,

but for your deeds that was your fate.”

I forget through how many chimes have passed the winds of time,

and sonority been thrown about without any rhythm nor any rhyme.

Someone a friend of mine says,

“Pick as many a thorn as you can,

but that’s once you’ve reached your destination.”

Someone a fiend of mine says.

“Not everyone always can

for such trivia, as a thorn have an observation.”

I know the latter is nothing, but mockery’s euphemistic culmination.

So, I spare the broken thorn, and like my friend and fiend, move on.

***

But I see:

That the hurrying sun

drowns into the horizon.

That the hour-hands of clocks

dance twice and at me mock.

And that winds of time

have not left untouched a single chime.

So, a day is finally over,

and on this endless road have moved just a bit, moreover.

So, I close my eyes before sleep in the hope

that tomorrow, rather than walking I’ll gallop,

and to not see any rose, any face or pick any thorn

so as to invite this world’s ever so concealed scorn.

So, to myself I say,

“Yes, true it is, however much be I bored

that I’ve to keep walking on the very same road.”

But, How can I not stop and …

(Written in the first year, when I’ was torn between what I thought was "living" the life--reflecting, observing, influencing, and academics, something that would have amounted to postponing "living").

Residua - Redirect

Please go to the updated version of this story, here (click).