The light seems to be fading and darkness slowly creeps in. No, I won't switch on the lights. I like this semi darkness. The street lights illuminate the room slightly. I can see the part of the painting on my wall and somehow the face of the girl seems sadder. I do not know whether it's the light which is doing it or is it that I am trying to see myself in that face. I shift my eyes away from it; it seems to haunt me. I light a joint, yes I want to get high; the strange one where I feel that I am flying. I take a puff and slowly breathe out the smoke. The smoke forms tiny patterns before it fades away. Scenes from the past are enacted in front of my eyes; the same faces, the same emotions, the same things. Every night it's the same. The past unfolds reminding me of what I am or perhaps, of what I am not. It has been more than a year now. Yet, why does it feel so real, so fresh? Why does it feel like the sharp sting of the bee? No, STOP AMODITA, YOU CANNOT START IT ALL OVER AGAIN, I shout at myself like I shout at myself every day. It feels strange that I have been named Amodita. Of all the names, my parents had to choose Amodita which means Happiness. I guess they had their reasons; they wanted their daughter to be one. But, today, it's feels like an irony to me. Happiness, that's my name. I laugh again, at myself, my name and everything around me.
U2 song "with or without you" wakes me up from my thoughts and I realize that my phone's ringing. Ma calling. Hmm, a long list of accusations now as I did not call her up for 2 days. I answer her call and she starts it "you do not care for us; you do not need us, etc." and it goes on for some time. Finally she asks with all her motherly concern how I am. I smile, it feels nice. I talk to her for sometime or rather I listen to her as she goes on and on about happenings back home. I reluctantly get up and switch on the lights, its 9 o'clock, high time for me to prepare something to eat. Bread and butter should do. I eat the modest meal and retire to bed. Something is missing, yes music. Pink Floyd; listening to him has become some kind of a prayer ritual, like a Muslim prays five times a day, I have to listen to him at least once. I light up another cigarette. Again, the images from the past are in front of my eyes.
2 years back: I am in a pair of denims and a bright red kurta. I am happy; I just bought 2 new kurtas and 3 books, I am suddenly interested in Quantum Physics, so I went ahead and bought works of Stephen Hawkins. Lost in my own thoughts I got on to the elevator. There was just this other man in the elevator. He had the most "do not mess with me, serious, boring" face that I had ever seen. Arrogant man, huh. As, I stepped out, he called me. I was a little surprised; I turned and realized that I was leaving my carry bag of kurtas behind. I thanked him and left.
