Break Up

That Monday morning was darker than those nights in the woods, where he had spent hours scampering around for a thin passage out of it, when he had lost his temper over a petty quarrel, thumped his feet onto the overgrown blades and wandered away from his beloved. The birds were singing right at his window, the gardener was scantily visible through the mist. His folklores were tearing through every opaque obstruction to menacingly tantalize his eardrums. He doesn't like it a bit. His throat is parched though he had been gulping down bottle after bottle of water, all night. He had slept scantily. He hears a banging on his room's door, which had actually begun as a courteous knock fifteen minutes back. He doesn't find the strength to get up and open it. He wasn't ready to face anyone. Neither his mother nor his father or his sister. The day ahead had nothing for him. The college, his friends his hobbies, his craze for movies had all unanimously abandoned him, rather he'd abandoned them. He felt no further urge than lying down there motionless. The events of last night were disturbingly repeating themselves inside his head. He couldn't escape those. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to. He became aware of the deadly void growing within him.


He had premonition that this fateful day was coming soon. There was something about his beloved's tone that day, which'd hinted at desperation. He wasn't sure what had brought about that desperation. He thought over and over again, stressing his head to the extent of its residual vigour, recalling all the things he had said all the avoidable things he'd done. There wasn't any particular instance upon which he could zero down. There were quite a few. He felt guilty for having ruined something which promised of bliss and everlasting joy. His friends tried to comfort him by telling him that he wasn't to be blamed alone. But he knew better. He had been so selfish, so eccentric, so self centered all this while. It's almost as if he consciously destroyed the feelings he'd once emphatically planted in her heart.


He eventually got up from lying down on his bed. But he was unsure of the strength in his legs. He felt as if he'd been drained of all his locomotory abilities. He was stuck sitting there, for an eternity, between getting up from his sleep and getting onto his feet. He heard his father yelling outside, frantically expressing his sheer wonder at what's wrong with his son. He gingerly walked up to the door and lazily opened it. His whole family rushed inside like a deluge breaking an embankment. Questions followed, a lot of them. He didn't care to answer any of those. The fact was that his head was split into several bits. One being there in the room, another at the restaurant from last evening, a few others reminiscing days from the preceding year. He couldn't stabilize mentally to either fathom those queries or answer them. In any case he couldn't tell his family about what had actually happened. It wasn't a regular fight between friends or a bad performance in the college tests. It was far more heart wrenching and gut tearing. It was far more unsharable, for the sheer nature of the occurence.


He had arrived at the eatery half hour earlier than the stipulated time. She came ten minutes late. She wasn't her usual loving, concerned, chirpy self that Sunday. He offered her coffee. She agreed. Between the coffee  order and the arrival thereof, she began to tell him how much suffocated she was feeling in his company. She elaborately narrated her emotions as they were, exactly a year back. Things had, in the meantime, changed drastically, for the worse. So she told him that their relationship was no more salvagable. She had had it. She went on relentlessly about how insensitive he had been towards her cravings over the last few months. He had stopped listening after the very moment she'd mentioned break up. It was like she was having a monologue. He squirmed in his seat in a way as if he wanted to say something. But his lips didn't move as if words had called a strike and ardently withdrawn their services from his aid. His heart began to beat faster. His mouth and throat dried up. He felt a growing twitch in his forehead. He began blinking unusually fast. He had heard those dreaded words. She left before the coffee came.




It was excruciatingly painful for him to reconcile with the change that had just been thrust onto his life. He'd be tormented by his habit. The habit of having her by his side, the habit of being around her, talking to her about nothings, shouting at her, running around madly after those meaningless squabbles followed by truces and snuggling in the winter evening, blowing countless kisses and calling it a night over phone and waking up with kisses being showered again over the stuttering metallic earpiece of the telephone receiver. They all came together like the offerings of a hasty torrent, and puddled up in his head, and flashed their grins to say "We're here to stay". Stay they would, like obstinate souls of long dead bodies. He helplessly considered the truth that she'd soon move on. She probably already has. She'd then find someone who would say and act to her pleasure. He'd become a memory that'll often annoy her. She'd be a past that'll never leave him. He kept gazing at the emptiness of the boulevard. He quickly discovered the solitude that'd accompany him. He will try to escape it. He will try to conceal it under his self imposed work stress. May be he'd take to promiscuity and alcohol. May be he'd call her names. Deep down he'll always inescapably remain in touch with that void. Of course he has friends, a lot of them. But their company may not rescue him from the shell into which he finds himself slipping. His folks will surely notice his quieter self. They'll also inquire with care regarding his troubles. But he won't be able to tell them what he felt. May be just the cause, but not what he experienced. Words which aptly describe that suffering would always elude him.                        


    
                                   
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( "Break Up" is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person (alive or dead), place or incident is purely coincidental.)