Darkness and Colour

The Darkness

The world is a very cruel place. Dark and desolate. Being born in such a world is bad luck in itself. But being me, well that’s just something more than bad luck.

My life is more or less a routine. My existence , a shadow. I go about each day, unnoticed and unheard , without most people acknowledging my presence. I feel at home in the shadows. At least, they shield me , make me feel welcome. People, most of them – sophisticated hypocrites , wearing a mask of civility to pass of as ideal citizens. Living a fake life.  Not even such fakes acknowledge me. Where does that leave me? Friends – I never had many of them. Still don’t. I find that people don’t tend to stick around much. Family ,  I try hanging on to the people I love and people who have loved me and continue to love me still. But they continue to leave me to a life of near solitude. This cold solitude which I have become so used to. A void of silence. Every day, I think of giving up. Every day,  I think of quitting. Every day , I unmake myself and carry on .

For every day, I remind myself who I am. A wraith – who can look upon people without them noticing me. A shadow that cannot be seen unless I wish so. An embodiment of the fear and hypocrisy  the scum of this society feel. A person who keeps the darkness away from the light.  A person who has few people he loves which make them all the more precious. Focused and analytical because of the lack of distractions. Yes , this who I am.

I am Batman.

The Colour

When I was 3 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’  I said Purple . Like the shoes of clowns at the circus.

When I was 5 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I said , Black. Because that was the colour which enveloped me into comfort when I was thrown into the dark closet by my beautiful mother and psychopath father. It was as an escape from the present.

When I was 10 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I answered, Red. Like the colour of the thick blood that dripped on the floor. The red on my face. The purple it turned into.

When I was 15 , I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ Blue. Like the eyes of the girl I first set my eyes upon. Who  haunted me . She would either be mine, or no one’s.

When I was 17 , I was asked , ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I answered, green. Green like money. It was the colour which ruled the world. The colour behind which humanity was crazed and had unhinged the minds of the people. If you took away the green, humanity would lose their mind. I wondered how that would look like?

when I was 18, I was asked, ‘What is your favourite colour? ’ I answered, Orange. Like the flames that enveloped the lives of people as they destroyed their lives running behind wealth . Orange like the colour of rage in their eyes as they saw that wealth – their life reduced to ashes.

When I was 25, I was asked , ‘What is your favourite colour? ‘ I said , Red again. Like my wife’s blood on my hands. The colour of my rage , on seeing her leave. The colour that covered her after I made sure she wouldn’t.

When I was 34, I was asked, ‘ What is your favourite colour?’ I said, Black. Like the world I was living in. Like the colour of the sky, my eyes and my nemesis.

I think the world needs a hint of colour – a burst of orange here , and splash of red there .

And me? All I need is a good laugh . I am the agent of chaos.

I am The Joker.

Co-authored by Michelle

Regret

It was early evening. The usual sounds of children playing, rung in Sundar Society. It was a normal day with nothing out of place. Little kids were playing around , running here and there , happy and oblivious to the cruelty of the real world. Six-year-old Ananya was playing with seven-year-old Nisha. They were having a nice time counting the number of windows their building had. Their gaze shifted to the sixth floor. A boy was standing on the edge of his open window. No sooner had they registered him as Harsh, did they see him fall out of the window. Their gaze followed the body all of the six floors to the pavement where it landed with a soft thud, bounced and then lay motionless. The girls stood there rooted to their spots not a syllable left their open mouths. After about a minute had passed, a loud  scream was heard in the society. The body of Harsh was soon noticed by everyone else.

Ananya  barely ate dinner that night. As soon as the scream had rung out, people had begun rushing out of their homes and noticed the reason for the scream. The high pitched voice had belonged to Mrs. Saxena the mother of little Harsh. She had seen her little boy fall out the window and had run down to the body of her son and broken down completely next to it in an uncontrollable flow of tears. A throng of people had now gathered around the body and soon all the kids were rushed off to their homes. Ananya had never seen any death before. The shock had affected her as it was expected for a little girl to be. Ananya’s  mom had tried talking her out of the shock, but she still hadn’t recovered.

The next day, the police came around. The death was an accident but they had to complete the formality of an investigation. The police questioned Mr. and Mrs. Saxena. Mr. Saxena hadn’t been home so he couldn’t tell the police much. But he held onto his wife, who in between loud sobs and sniffs narrated the incident to the cops. The police decided to ask the little kids who had been playing in the society on the previous day. Leaving Ananya and Nisha , none of the other kids had actually seen the boy falling. Nisha had only cried on being asked questions by the police so they decided to pay Ananya a visit before closing the case. The cops were received by Ananya’s mom ; who told them that Ananya was still in a state of shock and that she would not say much. Ananya came out of her room holding her mother’s hand.

The cops asked-

‘Ananya , please tell us what you saw yesterday. ‘

 Ananya’s grip became tighter on her mother’s hand.

The cops continued-

‘Don’t be afraid of us. We won’t hurt you. See, I have a chocolate for you.’

Ananya looked at the chocolate. She looked at her mom , who nodded. Ananya extended one hand to take the chocolate , with her other hand still holding on to her mother’s hand. After she finished the chocolate , the police asked her  –

‘Nice chocolate no? Now please tell us what you saw that evening?’

Ananya blinked and replied in a meek voice-

‘I saw Harsh falling out of the window and a pair of hands going in.’

 

 

Harsh was autistic.