i woke with a flicker in the corner of my sight, the ceiling fan spun like a buffering byte. my bedsheet shimmered in 480p, and my own hands lagged behind me.
outside, the trees refreshed in loops, birds chirped in tones from whatsapp groups. the sky had a filter, warm and fake, the clouds swiped left before they could break.
my coffee steamed like a netflix stream, my mirror pixelated mid-daydream. when i blinked, my face would freeze, like a paused call in a foreign breeze.
i ran to a doctor, then three, then more, they said it was stress – or metaphor. “your mind’s a modem, overfed,” but i knew it was my soul instead.
i lived on rectangles, scrolled to sleep, sought dopamine in every beep. i loved in texts, fought in threads, and cried in memes while breaking breads.
my work was slack, my rest was screen, my prayers – just playlists in between. even silence had a buzzing tone, and i felt most distant when never alone.
so i fled.
not a wellness retreat with leafy tea, but a forest with no electricity. no signal bars, no glowing keys, just dirt and dew and dragonflies.
the first night, my fingers shook, reaching for screens that never looked. i whispered “okay google” to a stone, and wept when it did not answer the tone.
but then, a curious thing began – the stars showed up, unfiltered, grand. the moon said nothing but stayed so still, and i felt a fullness i couldn’t fill.
the rain fell like applause on trees, the wind told jokes in rustling leaves. and slowly, my breath began to sync, with the universe’s ancient link.
i watched the sunrise load in full, without a lag, without a pull. and i didn’t share it. i just knew – it was meant for me, not the algorithm’s view.
now, i walk where no cables hum, where tweets are sung, not thumbed. i listen more, i speak in tone, i’ve updated into flesh and bone.
once, i feared disconnection’s gate, now, solitude feels like a clean slate. this isn’t exile – it’s a return. a flick of a switch – the soul’s concern.
so no, i’m not off. i’m not away. i’m just on airplane mode.
i wait by the shoe rack, wag on low speed, they pat my head and leave – like they always do. the lock clicks twice, like a closing heartbeat, then it’s just me, and the ticking, and the view.
the sunlight creeps in through the drawing-room lace, it warms the floor where i sprawl and stare. sometimes i bark at invisible things, sometimes at echoes that aren’t really there.
by noon i’m pacing, checking the door, wondering why it smells less like them. the silence feels like it’s got sharp teeth, and even my tail forgets how to wag then.
i nibble the toy that once had squeaks, but now it just has memories and dust. i curl up near their old worn shoes, because even the smell of them feels like trust.
sometimes the neighbor kids giggle and shout, dangling biscuits from their big white flat. but i know that game – they won’t drop it down. it’s not food, it’s just fun they’re laughing at.
once, i couldn’t hold it – i’m sorry for that. they were late, and the tiles got wet. i buried my nose in shame and fear, thinking – “will they still love me yet?”
and when they go to “goa” or “rome,” i know the brown bag with my leash means not home. the kennel has bowls and smiles and beds, but none of them sound like their footsteps.
still, i try to be brave, make friends and sit, but at night i howl with my old street grit. the concrete cold feels like déjà vu – abandonment wears the same old shoe.
i’m jealous of kids with stay-at-home mums, of lap dogs always getting picked up and swung. i’m sorry i growl when they hug a stray, i just don’t want to be replaced one day.
i was once a shivering pup in rain, with bones for ribs and fleas for friends. they gave me a name, a bed, a bowl, and i promised them love that never ends.
so every time the sky turns gold, and scooters hum and lift doors slide, i rush to the entrance with all i’ve got – just hoping it’s them on the other side.
they think i don’t know the days of the week, but i do – weekends smell stronger of love. those are the days when they stay home, and i get belly rubs from the heavens above.
i don’t need words, i don’t need much – just a gentle call, a familiar touch. they may leave a hundred times or more, but i’ll be waiting by the same old door.
through thunder, boredom, hunger, or sun, with stitched-up toys and dreams that run – no matter the silence, no matter the burn… i’ll be here when you return.
another morning, cold and bare your room still locked from night i hovered near with steady steps pretending things were right your plate stayed full on the table your bedsheets, folded still look in your silence, my dear child – echoes of my touch lie still
your laughter changed its colour from sunlight into smoke the spark behind your tired eyes dimmed with every joke you smiled so i wouldn’t worry but your smile betrayed the chill look in your silence, my dear child – echoes of my touch lie still
your friends had slowly vanished the calls, the doors, the noise and even when you said “i’m fine” it felt like someone else’s voice i wished to reach and pull you back but you were far beyond my will look in your silence, my dear child – echoes of my touch lie still
i found the note you didn’t write torn halfway through the end how can a mother fight the dark you never let her comprehend? the medicines stayed untouched again by the windowsill… look in your silence, my dear child – echoes of my touch lie still
and now they say you’re healing slow they say your mind just broke they try to fix you piece by piece but they don’t feel you choke but i remember every heartbeat i remember every thrill and if you ever look behind – you’ll find my shadow standing still
you may not speak, you may not smile you may not know your name but even if the world forgets i’ll love you just the same so if the dark should rise again and bend you to its will look in your silence, my dear child – echoes of my touch lie still
the smiles around cannot dissolve her grey, she laughs, yet something scorches deep inside. she tells herself, “just hold on -one more day.”
she’s learned to hide her tears in disarray, to walk through storms with nothing left to guide. the smiles around cannot dissolve her grey.
they ask, “you’re fine, right?” -she nods, looks away, while broken thoughts like oceans swell and slide. she tells herself, “just hold on -one more day.”
each sleepless night, a cruel passion play, where memories haunt and dreams collide. the smiles around cannot dissolve her grey.
she sees no cure, no sun to light her way, but clutches hope where fragments still abide. she tells herself, “just hold on -one more day.”
and though the ache may never go away, a flicker stirs somewhere she cannot hide. the smiles around cannot dissolve her grey, but she still whispers, “just hold on -one more day.”
i dwell within this bottle, dark and still, unknowing what my form shall yet become – a verse of peace, or blade of sharpened will, a lover’s vow, or warlord’s beating drum.
no thought is mine, nor voice to call my own, yet i am fate’s accomplice, blind yet bold. through trembling hands, i find a path unknown, and mark the truths the silent dare not hold.
i birth both scripture and the tyrant’s law, a saint’s lament, a sinner’s last regret. i’ve drawn the maps of lands men never saw, and signed the bonds they swore to soon forget.
though void of mind, i hold the world’s design a soulless stream that dares to redefine.
A massive stroke of wind gushed through the dusty roads of what seemed like an abandoned and isolated town. It was though not as waste-clad as one would presume since the debris had either withered away or had become one with the stationary. There was no sign of any life anywhere. The absence of any traces of beings indicated how the place had long been deserted. A squirrel came out of a small opening to the sewer. It moved about for a while, searching for something to eat. The window-pane that lay behind her slightly gave way to reveal a dark pair of eyes staring directly at the little animal. All of a sudden, the window slid open as a woman, with her face wrapped in cloth, jumped out towards the squirrel. She chased the animal for a while. Then, a large number of humans started barging out of the different structures and corners of the block. They were all wholly wrapped in rugged clothes and were all chasing the small squirrel. A riot began amid the road as more people kept joining and jumping on each other, beating each other down and trying to grab the squirrel.
Suddenly, the public address system attached to the posts started sounding a substantial and long Siren, the sound of which could’ve rendered anyone deaf. The vast mob immediately started dispersing in a terrified manner, trampling over a few who couldn’t carry themselves well. The stampede left behind a few of them crippled, unable to reach back inside. The Siren went on for a few minutes and then became silent. No one was coming to help the fallen. The woman observed from her window-pane as the injured looked towards one side of the road with terrified expressions. They cried out for help, but no one listened. The winds started gaining pace. Everyone inside rushed further indoors. What followed was an enormous dust-storm. It continued for some time, causing no conspicuous damage to the buildings and other structures. They had apparently become used to it and had shed whatever they could have. As soon as the storm subsided, the woman slowly walked back to the window. She was shivering as she dared to look at the ones who had been left behind. They were all dead, and their bodies had turned black as if charred.
“Three more lost… They could’ve been fed to the scavengers…” said the young and muscular man standing on the window-pane beside her. She slowly turned back and walked inside. She then slid open a wooden cover on the ground, revealing a stairwell. Walking down, she reached a dark and small basement.
“Aasha…” she whispered as her sound reverberated.
“Aasha…” she repeated louder after hearing no reply. A small warm hand came and clasped hers. She took out a solar torch from her coat-pocket and switched it on. The light revealed a little girl sitting beside her in the dark. She was wearing half-torn and saggy clothes but had nothing covering her face.
“How many times I told you to cover your face?” the woman said in anger, as she looked for cloth in the little room.
“But… I don’t need it you told me…” Aasha said.
“No… but the world needs one on you or else they’d be afraid of you…” the woman said as she picked a ripped piece of cloth and started wrapping it around Aasha’s face.
“I feel Hungry, Mother…” the young girl said.
“I know… The storm hit before we could get any food. I’d be going out again soon. Did you finish the water-bottle I gave you? Preserve it. Asmit is acting weirder every day. He might not let many take their share of water next time…” the woman said. A rattling sound started coming from above immediately followed by someone saying “SCAVENGERS…”. The woman quickly pushed the child to a corner of the basement.
“No matter what happens… DO NOT MAKE A NOISE… AND DO NOT COME OUT…” she said while shutting her lamp off. She then climbed out of the basement and shut the lid, putting broken rubbles to cover it up. Everyone had gathered near the windows again. Outside, two black motorcycles had stopped, each ridden by one person. They both were completely covered in grey bodysuits which extended as helmets over their faces. They took out some electronic devices from their backpacks and put them on the road. Inside, everybody had picked up a piece of wood, knife, sword or any broken piece of equipment they could’ve used as a weapon.
“I have never seen such scavengers before…” said a young man standing at a corner of the building in which the woman stood.
The two riders were doing something with a signal-dish on the ground. One of them walked up to the charred bodies of the people who had died earlier. The other one said looking at their device “Radiation is low here… So is the groundwater… We can stay here but cannot extract for long.”
“Radiation is low… No Kidding… These are freshly burnt… We should expect company” the other one said while gazing at the charred bodies.
“Guess what… this place reported merely seven hundred thousand cases at peak…” the one sitting at the computer said.
“They must have migrated to the camps long ago… Damn, I feel hungry…” the other one said.
“Grab me that bar when you take one for yourself. I would do a pulse mapping of the place. We then move ahead. Sounds cool?”
“They have food…” said the muscular man standing inside the building. The woman looked at him and whispered: “Please do not do anything foolish Asmit…”
“Sarita… Why do you fear fights so much? Don’t you have that little girl below to feed? Feed her well, or she’d become too weak… and possibly scavengers’ food…” Asmit replied.
Sarita looked back at him with anger. He then gestured towards some people to come forward with their weapons. He reached inside his pocket and took out a revolver.
“Asmit… Where did you?…” Sarita questioned.
“It is just the two of them… We apprehend quick and steal whatever they carry.” Asmit said.
“And what about them?” Sarita questioned.
“We leave their fate outside… Storm or the Scavengers… whichever comes first.” Asmit replied. He then quickly opened the door, pointing the gun towards them. They were both startled. A crowd gathered behind him as he slowly walked forward.
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Silence has always been looked down upon as an indicator of weakness or retreat. The World today is constantly clamouring and reverberating with an endless noise; and in this noisy world, Silence is not a retreat… it is an advance… it is not a weakness… it is a weapon. When we glance the world from the side-lines as mute spectators, we are inadvertently ignored and forgotten; but soon comes a time to remind the world that in those moments of Silence, we are the ones who have actually seen it all, know it all and are now ready to say it all.
‘The Voices of Silence’ is an initiative to give a platform of unhindered expression to the independent writers and poets of India, and eventually the World. Each and every one is equally entitled to this platform so that one can fearlessly and seamlessly say it all.
‘The Idiosyncrasies of Life’, as the name suggests, compiles certain unforgettably strange as well as prominent experiences, imaginations and observations of mine in the form of rhymes, songs, essays and stories. The feelings of dissent, approval, frustration, helplessness, admiration and love are all extremely overwhelming as well as delicate; therefore, they always incite the most honest and raw forms of expressiveness in any given person. In my case, it has erratically switched from poetry to narrations to random scribbles. Travelling thousands of miles and meeting thousands of culturally-diversified people, I realised that no matter how different we are, at the end of the day there is a latent coherence in all our stories. I want to comprehend that coherence and perhaps help you do the same. I hope you appreciate my honesty.
Last but not least, I do not aim to offend any sect, culture, race, community, caste, gender, creed, region, Etcetera. I don’t believe in any man-made disparities and my judgement is completely based on my opinion of what I perceive as right or wrong. Hope you have a nice read.
Rishabh Dubey 'Kridious' 