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Ananya Dutta

Abstract Drama


Ananya Dutta

Abstract Drama

Right By My Window

Right By My Window

7 mins 201 7 mins 201


And the window sill stood right there, as drenched in brown as it had been in the very consecutive aftermath following its burnish, nearly blinding, and with the drizzle rather connoting the shine with the light its pearl like drops were emitting by then. It was all however, not as serene as it had been supposed to be. Outside, it had ceased to pour cats and dogs. But inside, it was just commencing in lieu. “There you are with yourself that I assess as rather orthodox – just a cowardly escapist!”, lingered the voice of my father. “

And may I do the honor of telling you who exactly you’re being now – a hypocrite! And one of no shame! A shameless imposter!”, came my mother’s response to what she had just been alleged with. Just displaying her intentions of carrying on any conflict on nearly perpetual paving until there comes an inevitably serious turn as usual, she persevered “I have my eyes to show me. The truth is inevitably ubiquitous. It is so spilt, do you see it?! Indeed, how can you when keeping your eyes closed just for the sake of averting the encounter is all you’ve come on doing so far. Don’t you dare be the one to tell me the first thing about doing a runner!”

“Go on with your fraudulent allegations. I have known you this way all so well.”, replied my father in almost a whisper, except that it was audible enough for my mother to not drop it at any culmination. “Like I am unaware of who you are! This is what you always do, commencing but never conceiving the responsibility of closing the case. Have you ever looked back at what you render me alone with? I am always left to close all of your unfinished businesses! All of them so far, and always!”, commenced my mother afresh as I heard the bolts being unfastened. Surely, father was going out for a jog, let alone tackle the mess but, none of it was to halt anytime nearer.

I was taken aback at how I could resist eavesdropping any further with such an effortless convenience. It seemingly came to my notice then that it was all a consequence of a gradation in my intentions of feeling certain feelings that had caused the smooth advent of some numbness in me moments back. It was however, still leaving me befuddled or, was it rather melancholy I was witnessing? I can’t figure. The transition in my gaze from out the door of the room I was standing by one of the windows of, and back to the pane didn’t summon an unbearable lot of my will. I could consent to the transit quite in no time, except for my gaze to be transfixed on the clean glass then.

Drops of the shower still stuck onto the glass that appeared black owing to the lack of light and the hour of the day outside, some flawlessly spherical, and some appearing amorphous; some gradually resuscitating with a careful motion, while some seldom captivating my notice. And right betwixt the existence of nothingness, I saw a shadow saunter stealthily. I could recognise my father, merely that he was wandering away from home with his coat on. He looked entirely the same as I had known him, reckless about the clumsiness he goes away so easily causing; he wasn’t any different even to any smidgen of an extent. I wondered if it was what Josh meant, every time he would talk about letting go of a few things in life like we never really had them to ourselves. I wonder if this was what he’d been pondering over whilst the distinction in between the land and the sky could no longer be heeded as something incomprehensible at the horizon, but as stitched just nicely enough for some eyes growing weary and too drowsy to rather decipher the perfect separation always maintained in between the two. 

“So oft in matters of the heart does the mind so miserably fail to understand that hearing each other out is all what the former intends entreating, rather than asking to be heard at the first place. You must act wisely enough for you know my truth now Iris. It’s all yours.”, he would say, with it uttered for the sake of reciprocation that he would so demandingly seek forth from me, and I would so gladly surrender. He never read it as my stoicism, nor did I. We both read it as our discipline we were always obliged to, or at least meant to be obliged to, on some really platonic ground. I now remember it so well, and I never despised of the same.

It’s probably why it fascinates me to despise it all now. But I find myself in tears as well. It is bloody infuriating, but so ineluctable so simultaneously. “No, I’m not.”, I murmur to myself, with some scanty concentration hurled at what I am grumbling, because the next sensation I’m having is of consciousness, or shall I call it resuscitation? It’s merely then that I come to realise how beautifully evasive I’ve just been to say so. I am. Oh, I so am. I prefer to give the telephone some time to greet my anxiety thriving inside a narrow lane, and prepare myself for the startle that I’m so obvious of receiving. Because on the inside, I am utterly hopeless. I am aware of Josh’s demise, just another of those lives confiscated by the pandemic. And I can’t be any more remorseful of being conscious then. 

I behold my father stand by the edge of the harbor, giving puffs of smoke away into the invisible presence of the thin air that must linger all in his ambience, probably in an attempt of making it just a little thick, merely to have a little more of the truth befall him that nothing has changed. And I am terrified of just the same. 

Just so may you know... (The poem) 

By the flickering light of an ancient lamp, 

by the twinkling waters of an ancient river, 

the dancer entertains the heathen enemies. 

It's the moment of that azure that I behold, and runs it too coldly as the breeze makes it evident - indeed, it's too abrupt, too harsh, all with a single kiss that I allow. May you reminisce as I do now, for will I be so out of the hands of my own; may I beseech your attention for it won't, and must you know - is it the truth compelling me, and does it wear a vanity of no kind; and amidst the yellow of the celandines, and the white of the lilies, will they all be so captivating - ah! how coloured do me eyes behold the ravine already! may I ask you to be careful, just a little. 

Is it not your eye that defies, for is it merely intrigued to open, varying a form does it own from your wobbly legs - desiring a stance yet, too uncertain to hold - your obsession otherwise; not is it you, not in your most vulnerable either for that, right that is what are you being - too vulnerable to be scarred.

Alas! pardon me my fellow company scrounging! Am I afraid for might have you grown with expectations of such little knowledge, can I not divulge the answer either - am I too convinced that own I a status of no invincible kind.

Have I known that it's hard to love, but harder to admit my dear, but so often are we beneath acceptance; amidst the clouds, behold my eyes above now, there, right there and yonder are wings taking flights, and depart they too with the sun bidding its part of adieu. Hear me out my company in disguise! haven't we suffered the losses so similar, bearing marks burning both the skins, merely different they look? Yet, apart we stand, with paces as distant as close we could be. Do we not have our sins to share, but remain bloody, both of our hands. Is it the truth I try spilling like tears you allow merely in the hours you live - unawareness clouds the minds we now hold within us, and are we seemingly its hostage already, or shall I let deception take the blame? See it through here, has waiting brought you somewhere better. Will you conceive with acceptance, all your shames, too easily, and may you know that it won't hurt; will you know us as the same.


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