And then a blank sheet of paper lay right in his lap, a yellowish piece of wood, so rotten its smell

that it repelled any thought and every idea worthy to be presented or showcased. But it cant be said that it wasnt tempting, the thought of writing about his story, his life like he lived it and not like any second hand experience gathered recklessly on the streets filled with teles and display screens. He conjured every eon of strength left in him like a little boy trying to gather a falling house of cards. A young writers anxiety overcame his senses. He held his breath for a moment and then surrendered himself to his finest moment. It was August 23, 60 N.A, he could recall the day when his dominion was expanded when a beautiful girl joined-in with his expedition, and when he became one with the love of his life. About where he was, wasnt quite certain; even to him. As his senses rebuked the facts that he knew. He could see a wide landscape of trees and mountains all around him, dominating his view. But the view is not complete, as when he turned towards his right the landscape seemed to abruptly end from where a white wall started, impeding the further inspection of his surroundings, though he could feel and witness the change as the walls around him crumbled, and the landscape developed. The sun rays like arrows parching the white walls as the walls turn into powder, falling and then disappearing, giving way to a forgotten landscape, a forgotten time. As unreal and undeniable it might seem while the white walls of conformity were flaking off. Now standing, with one arm partially covering his eyes, providing some respite from the high sun he gaped into the large valley. The sun blazing like a ball of fire hung covertly in the sky, increasing the heat, like a man with low temper disturbs and angers everyone in the room; A hot sunny day, so to say. To him, all this seems real but it isnt. It is but a brisk walk through memory lane but with great an eye for detail. A flood of foreign colors splashed out on the canvas obviously hurt his dark brown eyes, which had painstakingly adapted to the pale white of his seclusion room. The effects of the daylight reverie did not confine themselves to the visual sense, the sounds around him change too. The unfamiliar chirping of birds and the unbearable noise produced by many vile and anonymous crawlers come crashing like an unexpected smack in the face in a city brawl. While physically seated comfortably on his bed, with back towards the wall and legs stretching out perpendicular to his upper torso, his dreams deceive him to believe that he is walking; walking taller, jumping, gliding over the forest trail. A girl about his age came swiftly from behind and slipped her hand into his, quietly making her presence felt, epitomizing the sweet touch of belonging as the couple walked hand in hand like flamming love birds set loose in the garden of Eden. They both reek of love, the scent more pleasing than the smell of a million roses and more subtle than the smell of daises. And in bloom the two flowers parried the stark stench of the city gloom, which accompanied them to the wild forest. Ramona, he exclaimed, my wife. The utterance of the words brought back the same feeling of youthful excitement and the resolve of a crying baby in a store which showcased his favorite toy. He knew, as he knew at that time about the consequences of his impending actions, a life marked with conjugal suffering which he had resolved to lead in love and harmony.

Treading on the trail paved with wooden planks which made it formidable for the pampered city feet, two who are now one, hand in hand, carried each other to the parapet on the mountains edge. There they stood, peering into the wide landscape that faded into the horizon, hand in hand and one. A faint smile reappeared on Arvinds face as the crack between his lips widened which seemed quite much like the valley he saw in front of him, slitting the two mountain ranges into two. He smiled because he knew what was to come, he knew that this was the moment that changed his life and the recollections of which have so impersonally tormented his heart and yet he wanted see himself kneel and present his token of love, a diamond ring, and beg for approval. Still abuzz , Arvind stole that moment from the great show and gazed with full concentration at the still picture, mesmerized by the magic trick. But then that was the end. A stupid dream the words that fell from his mouth at culmination of the dream. The trees and the mountains, the river and the valley and everything that was merely a dream disappeared. Rising sense anticipation flooded his consciousness; the images of the past came with the novelty as new as the touch of the ink pen in his fingers left him just before the moment he had been waiting for; to his wifes face. Years have past since he has even looked at a picture of his wife and every time he dreams he tries to recollect bits and pieces of the most beautiful face in the entire universe. The effects of being constantly drugged can be easily seen in his dreamy eyes that look like black holes have also left holes in his memory. Disappointed and deranged, he tries to concentrate on the work at hand. The various trains of thought converged as the moment of real importance makes draw him towards writing. And then with a sweet pain in his chest he wrote the first words, Far away he wrote taking a deep breath like a swimmer before making a dive. He silently weeps as he writes lamenting the days that he once lived and can only be turned into chapters. With every page he fills with words, he tears one from the from the book of his life and no matter how clearly he tries to describe, his failure to relive those times shows on his face as streams of sweat appear on his forehead and the dark brows are constrained. About a home and a vase, about the daily race the words they come and take shape, the hands that are sturdy on a touch-screen are as shaky on the rough paper. The hand that felt at home on a smooth glass screen feels like a foreigner to the leafy sheet. Still he manages, stumbling sometimes on the uneven surface; to pour out the last words left in him perhaps the pain does not hurt any more, fighting like a wounded warrior. A 3 BHK apartment on the 19th floor, in the heart of Delhi. Just another window among thousands strategically stacked one above another to accommodate everyone. A rather plaintive definition for something as holy as a home perhaps that is all it is. The constantly changing city has place no one and everyone, it keeps the ones it requires and sends the useless away like a politician hopping between alliances for its survival. He knows in his heart that the listless mass of steel and concrete might have been replaced by another one for its accommodations might have wished for more or something new, something grand or just for the sake of the economy.

He obnoxiously shudders as he writes about the lifeless furniture and the condos he had accumulated to support and keep his family of the living. A jolly good home. A cream colored, wooden door waiting to be opened, to be pushed aside as the weight of the treasures inside is too hard to bear. He releases the pressure and pushes it aside, slowly rotating it on its hinges using his right shoulders; he feels the touch on his arms entering a faded memory of a place called home. He knew it wasnt the door next to this one or the one adjacent it or the ones he liked on his way because it is not the place that makes a home, it is the people. Wife and children, mother and father the ones related to you. A relation of blood is important too, a home is not with friends or with enemies it is with ones who bear your debt by blood or ceremony. Arvind, is that you? The lone question resonates in his ears and he hastily registers it on the paper fearing that if he did not it will also vanish within the labyrinths of his memory like the voice of the speaker, his wifes voice. The voice is without the charm of the speaker, it has lost its tone and expression though it still has its description but only in words, a female voice sweet and melodious. It did not matter then when coming back home was in the daily routine, the very words that pleasure him now were the subject of loath and discontent. If his wishes were to be granted he wanted his wife to greet him with more love and adulation, Honey, are you home? or Darling is it you? a more raunch and rauffle.