I don’t have to run anymore...

                                        

Harshitha D. Kumayaa

The street seemed empty all of a sudden. The vehicles and the people on the road froze for a minute, as I passed by. Even the silence in my head was slowly being sucked with a deafening vacuum whirling its way into the mind. I kept walking.

 A thread of thought began to weave itself.  It weaved into me gently, until I was wrapped in it. Tied up in those thoughts, I stared into the path ahead. The dark brightness I moved towards seemed hopeful unlike the rest. I kept walking.

With scores of people fighting their way through the crowded street, I didn’t feel any of it. For all I wanted was to move away from the rumbles of humanity. The sound of footsteps grew sharper as the echoes in the mind began screaming. Incessant mutterings of multitudes of voices in the head grew louder. Peace is all I asked for. Silence is all I wanted. I wasn’t walking anymore. My pace grew faster. Gasping for breath, I began to run.

Daddy didn’t do it because he wanted to. Daddy didn’t do it because he wanted to.

As the shiny metal plunged into her neck, this silence seeped it. This vacuum entered when she screamed for one last time. Fierce red blood gushed into the nook and cranny of every vein in her eyes. Absolutely startled, her eyes refused to blink. A drop of agony and betrayal rolled down her cheek as a tear. She didn’t scream. She didn’t defend herself. Neither did I. She just said, “Harsha, run away from this man. I am sorry I couldn’t stay with you forever. I Love…”

Those were mamma’s last words.

 I ran. I ran like she wanted me to. Away from daddy, away from home, I ran searching for the safe place mamma wanted me to go to.

Sweat dribbled down my forehead and my breath became shorter. Panting hard, I felt like being chased by dogs that weren’t present. I could sense being dragged into the void as I continued to run. I was being pulled into it. It grew darker.

I think there were people looking at me. I think there were vehicles honking, asking me to move away. I wasn’t very sure about it. I kept running.

As the moon vomited its light upon me, I kept running. As the night grew older, I kept running.

Time began to slow down as the dry leaves of August floated down to reach the ground. Reaching the end of my journey towards warmth, I could see mamma. A smile grew at the end of my lips. A sense of serenity and relief hit me, as my breath became calmer and longer.

“Take me with you ma!” “You are the only safe place I know. Take me with you!”

Mamma had sent the red Chevrolet. She wanted me to be with her. The kind man in the Chevrolet let me join hands with mamma.

The friction between the tires and the road and the shriek of a few people followed by the silence was when I knew I was there. I was there at last. I don’t have to run anymore. I feel the warmth. I am safe, in the arms of my mamma.

Passage to the Throne

Harshitha D. Kumayaa

I dodged as the answer sheet pierced through the air towards my face as my physics teacher threw it. Physics and I were never meant to be together. Yet again, I had passed the test merely because of my teacher’s generosity.

 Just like every other class XII student I went to tuitions, after the long sessions of “special” classes at school. I wonder why those classes were called “special”, when they were purely exasperating. The crisply ironed white uniform put on at 6am looked like a flag holding on to the pole lifelessly after incessant rains, by 8pm.

 “What is your ambition in life?” asked the principal before the board exams during a career counseling session. Without much thinking, “Not an Engineer for sure” I said. Shock. A dramatic silence. The tension in the room intensified. “I want to be a journalist”. I didn’t know then that I would grow to be this passionate about journalism. All that my mind said was, “Run away from numbers, calculation and theories! Run! Run!”

Though I preferred calling myself “a free spirit”, a label was stamped on my forehead- a label with the word ‘REBEL’, written in red bold capital letters. Parents of my friends hung an invisible “beware” board on my neck. I was the ‘bad influence’ on the ‘good’ students who had an ‘aim’ in life.

 When my comrades went on to continue schooling for the next four years in an Engineering college, I wormed my way into the English department of WCC. Yes, I did go through the trauma every arts and humanities student faces in Tamil Nadu.  The derogatory tone when one says “Oh English-aah,” had the ability to break down even the strongest soul.

 My aunt described me as a person who has a stone in the place of a heart. Probably that’s the reason why I didn’t care what others thought.

 If I were to be a mess, I wanted to embrace that.

I didn’t bother showing my mark sheets to anyone but my mom. Ranks didn’t matter to the father who thought his daughter was going to be a failure. Performance didn’t matter to the relatives who thought she was doing “some” course in a city college.

With a crazy group of friends, I was not the only rebel anymore. We were the REBELS of the college. Bunking classes, bullying students and getting into fights were regular.

Three years flew.

 Results were announced.

 The best student of the college in arts and humanities over the period of the course, yes! That was me.

 Life changed.

 The five awards did something that I couldn’t do as a person for all these years. Dad started loving me all the more. He said I was “Rancho”- the character played by Aamir Khan in ‘3 idiots’. Aunties started calling up for career and educational advice for their children. Uncles who turned away began having conversations with me.

 I was still the 110^th rank holder among 120 students in class XII Half Yearly exam. It didn’t feel any different.

Probably, tokens of appreciation made of metal could make an outcast, a king.

And, I choose to be free. . .

Harshitha D. Kumayaa

The smell of Dada's perfume spread across the hallway as he passed by, to leave for work. Niki and I jump out of our study as we heard the thud of the door being shut. That was happiness.

Not that I didn’t love him. Not that he was a terrible dad. Yet, his absence made me feel a lot lighter. The sound of that door felt like kicking off stilettos after reaching home. A huge sigh of relief. Though my little brother was there at home, we didn’t engage in any conversations.A sense of loneliness begins to kick in at that instant.

 Being a 20 year old girl living off her parents’ resources, I couldn’t afford to have an option to live alone. So, I tried to optimally use the space I had or rather, the space I was given.

My family loves to bond and participate in every aspect in each other’s lives. Being a loner, moments of utter bliss were hence the short durations in the toilet, warm showers and the drowsy minutes before falling asleep.

Like a blanket, loneliness wraps around me, as the sound of people talking becomes incoherent background music. I drown in my thoughts. An echo  reverberates within me. The thoughts aren’t complex ideas, but are flashes of memories, random thoughts about things that might possibly never happen

Happiness is predominantly a sense of relief when left alone.With impeccable social and communication skills as a part of my resume, it is usually a surprise for many that I cherish solitude. Finding peace in a serene place is too mainstream. The bustling city streets sometimes serve to be a much better source of solitude. Getting lost in a crowd seems so much better than a Sunday’s family meal.

 Probably, years of living with an overprotective dad makes every second of seclusion celebratory. Happiness is when I am all by myself. Happiness is when I free myself from the clutches of the chaotic world. “You are a strong independent woman”, I repeat over and over in my head, to reassure that I don’t end up being my mother, tamed by love and care.