The Ghost

I was a ghost, I wandered about like a stupid spirit haunting itself days and nights until you came back and told me that you died and asked me to join you.

Then we forgave each other for living our life and I kissed your skull.

                                     1

 It was just like another evening. She was returning to the hostel after a long, tedious day of boring classes. Boring classes? Oh yes, indeed. Boring. This is the word for it. Boring. Boring. Something that bores you, something that does not let you get charmed. Boring. Snoring. She felt like snoring. Snoring? Snoring was also boring.

She was walking and the trees were tossing their heads."Days are worthless these days", she sighed. Days? This was the month of May, or maybe it was a gay month of April. What about it? The cruelest one?Or the Sweet one? Whom will she choose? Grandpa Chaucer or Handsome Tom Eliot?

Why the hell would she choose anything? She will now go back to her room and get a hot bath. Why would she go back to her room? She will now sit over there by the stream and smoke a cigar. That sounds charming, doesn't it?

She remembers how Mr.XYZ scolded her for not being attentive in class."Why are you in class? Get outta here if you wanna look outside the window all the time I'm giving a lecture!"

She did not bow her head. She told, "All these seem nonsense to me."She forgot what happened next. Or perhaps it was too much for her brain to accumulate the aftermath of her giving vent to her feelings. She wants peace. She hated being bored. She gets bored hating people and things they say. She lit a cigar and heaved a sigh.

                                     2

Well. This is what is happening right now. Or happened a moment ago or earlier. I don't know whether this is past or present. I don't know whether these at all happened or not. It is probable that I am now sitting in my bedroom and thinking stuff like these. It is also possible that my stomach couldn't digest a whole lot of wine I swallowed last night. But no. There was no wine here. I drank coffee. Was it coffee? Or beer? I don't remember. What is the point of remembering things you don't care about? She has now reached hostel and she is eating a banana. She loves eating banana. She will take a nap now. She is tired. Longing for feeling needed she falls asleep and dreams of killing an old lady who has no one to bury her. She then buries her and feels needed. She wakes up with a smile and finishes eating the banana.

                                      3

Pablo said that he was going to date her. She said that she would be busy. Pablo is calling now and she will not receive it because she knows if she receives the phone then Pablo will insist her to go and it won't take more than one minute for her to say "Ok I'll go."She hates herself for being so vulnerable.Vulnerable.It was while reading Keats she came across the word with its full-fledged sense. Isabella was vulnerable. Pamela was also vulnerable though it was not written by Keats. So vulnerability can be related to anyone and anything. From the mountains to the sea, from 1914 to 2019, from Japan to Kerala, from rose to thorns."Here where men sit and hear each other groan", she remembers. Pablo called and she smiled and shook her head and rushed to the washroom. Pablo does not know that he has loved a girl who is too delicate to be loved.

                                     4   

 She loves Dali's works and now she is looking at the telephone receiver which is melting. America is a melting pot. There is a bowl and the white receiver is slowly melting and the semi-liquid thing is pouring in the bowl. She is standing there still and she is holding a bottle of cold milk. There is a war going on outside. From the borders of the countries to the borders of the hearts. Your heart is not mine, mine is not yours. I have my heart and I am hurt. The telephone is melting and I cannot remember the girl who loves Dali's works. Schizophrenia is the disorder the world is entangled with.

Some mistake has surely been done by someone. We all make mistakes. It is certainly not certain that someone who has not made a single mistake exists in the world. I am happy I made a mistake. Not so grave a mistake though. But a mistake is a mistake. I just killed her. That's all. Right there she is lying dead. Right there, the girl who loved Dali's works, who loved Keats, who loved to look out of the window when everyone, without understanding the context, noted down the words of the teacher. I killed that vulnerable girl. Trust me, you people, all of you, you do not even know what I am talking about. You are busy with your own worlds. Some of you have got a Nobel prize, some of you have got a kick from someone, some of you have got a stomach ache. These are no madman's words. I can see things that you cannot see. I can feel things that you cannot feel. I killed the girl who was unfit for the world. She wrote poetry.

       

                                     5

Now, you there, you, you and you, you cannot get the meaning of the narrative. Because it is not a narrative. It is not a story. I am a murderer. In one point of life or another, we all are murderers. We kill. That is the first and last thing we can do. We kill people, we kill times, we kill dreams, we kill wishes, we kill feelings, we kill desires. And suddenly, in a beautiful evening, in a crowdy street, in the cacophony of the sweet city, some of us discover the part of ourselves that we have killed. You killed a wish, the wish came back. You killed a desire, the desire came back. I killed the girl who loved Dali's works. The girl came back.

Touch the one you killed. Touch the ones you killed. We all are living with ghosts, delicate some of them are, rest are not. I named this "The Ghost". I do not like this title. Give it one yourself.

 I kissed her skull and we forgave each other.