A south-facing window. An intimate afternoon lying on the idle field outside.
Every sudden breeze blows the fragments away. I collect them again and put back in my mind. From morning to dusk. They close the window at sundown. I don’t see the moon, but I can see her in my mind.
I’ve told them. It’s my world. The entire field – the afternoon sits on it outside the window. The trees don’t talk to me. I don’t like them. They are not in my world. I’ve told them.
The afternoon and I like acting. Yesterday I was acting myself and the afternoon was acting afternoon. It was fun! The day before, I was acting myself again. The afternoon acted as her. It said, I’m supposed to act like a villain. I wonder! Would a villain end up here? Is a villain supposed to cry, ever?!
The afternoon says I become pensive when I listen to songs. I cry when I read that book. I writhe in pain when I see those sketches and letters and photos. I laugh at the afternoon. Wonder what’d evening say ’bout my pain if it could see me; once they forget to close the window some day!
The person in the adjacent cell is singing ‘(hindi) woh aake pahlu mein aise baithe …’
January 31, 2006
"An asylum, Ms ……"