Just after a few threads of serenity rebuked well written ordain of my ego, I let the bubble of fury burst. The bang like my quiet wreck, bashed likewise. No one was troubled save my spirit.
What made me walk leisurely up to this majestic mirror columned opposite to my desk? Something happens and just happens. I let my mind read what is reflecting on this sheen of shame. I never found myself in it, the real me. Shame on me, for this lustrous luxury has been in my room from my first cry, yet my actual looks stay mystified. It only humiliates and I am always the same old frame wrapped in a carpet of skin, hiding my shame and sins. Beneath my bones many pomegranate streams run day and night tirelessly, giving my appearance a glow. I am a certified mankind and licensed to be sadistic.
This mirror is breast feeding all my babies. I have too many babies. And I am heavy with child not once in a year, but thrice a minute. My issues are countless and counting. Few living with me like my pulse. A few lying down like my dreams. The few dancing like my demands…... never ending demands.
Most often my preferred kids sleep in my frayed lap like lingering dust on this majestic mirror. The dust is precious, very valued. Dust is my origin. Dust is my destiny. These chosen kids shall grow in this dust and I let them settle. Why should my kids be a casualty of bad parenting? But anyway a harsh parent knows his role, let others bark.
“How long shall you write my history?” I asked.
“I write history not his story”, the mirror responded.
“Whose voice?” I muttered.
A spell of shiver branched over my mountain like physique. I failed to recognise my own tone of voice.
“Shame on you”, the mirror affronted
My hands like my naughty kids ruined the cold coffin of delayed dust from its glossy body, by this means violated the slim lines of existence. Lines are sharp and spiky. These latitudes of loyalty penetrate deep down the folds and put down impressions, hard to heel.
The echo is horrible.
“Who is taking me in hand?”
There was someone like me enveloped in silhouette over the freshly bared genteel façade of fortune, writing my history but not ‘his story’. I tried to read between the lines, but most of the lines were either missing or grown fainter.
“Come close and be on familiar terms with me”, the shadow suggested.
All my kids in one voice reverberated, “Negligence knows no rule”
“Do I really neglect my kids?” my concealed voice asked.
Words are swords, sharp blades with vagrant edges. At times without seeking permission, surpass the lobes of inner heart and perforate it beyond surgeons thread and bread, but beneath these razor edges something hidden sooths.
The face in the mirror made all ill faces. A cussed impression squeezed life out of my wits. I am facing my own face, my own person but in this majestic mirror which hides nothing. Nothing, surely nothing, spares nothing and displays the whole lot irrespective of responses and reactions.
Why on the earth one fosters a kid? Why can’t a man think of ‘singularity’ when all other forms are composed in the hearth of plurality? Has a man ever on the earth killed his own kids, his own limbs and locomotives?
Yes, surely men are men, heroes that act upon at all odds. They burry their loveable lads deep into the belly of mother earth and never employ a stone crusher to raise a tombstone on the graves which they dig with pride. Some grave look stunning and some horrible. Some provide a couch to saints and some a booty to worms.
My hands again like my badly behaved kids let the fingers ruin the forts of dust. My previous empire before my eyes kissed the thin air and vanished like my own doubts. These careless fingers marched chaotically. Chaos encourages order. My old face smiled at me. Suddenly I looked a bit smarter. Smile was heart throbbing, enough rich to pull the diaphragm out of brittle prison guarded by sensations. With the emergence of my countenance, my kids involuntarily dived into the mirror and lodged into me vital liveliness. A funeral one is swollen with pride to witness.
The sheen of the mirror changed its pitch. It was humble, no more hostile.
“I am you, your ‘self’ and I shall reveal you the real you”
“All through your life you have endeavored to rummage around me in books and brooks, but in no way in this majestic mirror, a live writer”, my face in the mirror narrated.
A hazy toddler’s face replaced what all was screened on the sheet of glass.
“I am your past”
The wall clock barked heavily. Its limbs are freely moving, the movement is out of the ordinary, breaking all the laws of the book. Backward movement, anticlockwise sac race, an unbelievable occurrence. With its limbs moving oddly, my room gradually lost its glory. Books from the shelves, clothes from wardrobe, frames from walls and above all pictures in these frames put on display what I had ignored in the past. Past is horrible. It exposes a face hiding behind wrinkles. The choices one regrets in future. A scratch that turns into an eternal lesion wasting the rest of the calendar.. My failures, my half attempted act virtues and some double standards along with disregard forcing my neck to obey the axe, but my honest verses, a delightful moment. For at least my poetry appeared fresh and fair. It moved me a lot. The calendar on the desk before my very eyes turned into a sheet of paper, virgin and unadorned popping up just one date, yes, only one date encircling my first cry, and behind that date there was another I failed to read. My future, my end.