A Million Bifurcations.

“It's maybe the rain of doubts that have suddenly begun their burst. Or perhaps the obvious cul-de-sac that hits you right in the face. Could even be the apparent bleakness in their words that slaps you in the face.

“I frankly don't care how you managed to get yourself to this point. But I think it’s rather futile to contemplate and ruminate when there's nothing that you're doing. You sit around and fight. I wonder what's your cause. How long will you fight for yourself? Alongside battling their masked venom? I know that you're scathing yourself long enough for the ultimate move.

“There's no joy, no joy at all if you don't understand the juice of the reasons why. There's no point, I say, if you lapse into your pensive mood. Ponder, but not for so long. The line is only getting pushed and what's the use if you jump it when you're devoid of that passion. It's diminishing and you're losing hope. There won't be any sheer bliss..you won't enjoy the utter horror in their faces if you take this much time.

“I cannot fathom why would you bear it all the way till now. Tell me, what have they been for you? I told you that what they are transcends what they do. But do they understand? They've alleged you of having a weird way with things and people. They've hurled their sharp daggers and you've always succumbed. How easily you gave in this time too! You've responded and you've doled out. What a mechanical life you've begun to lead!

“And where do you think this entire upward climb will lead you? How do you think it'll serve any purpose? You think you can find happiness in the folds of the forever? You believe the futility of your now will suddenly morph into the answer waiting in your tomorrow? Your dreams are going to rapidly uncoil into reality?

“I told you you can't win all the time. Sometimes losing will put your point across to them, man! You just go plodding on. Like some humble goat. Like stubborn faith. I'm sick and tired of you. I'll join them too. I'll show my lack of belief in what you feel..in what you are. I want to see, I want to know, I want you to do. I too will join the lot who have taken each grain of you and managed to burn it to bits. I shall also slice you with my exquisite ire and disappointment. I can tear you to bits and scatter you in the fields of the shattered. I too can frustrate you when –

Tom stops abruptly to take a breather. Stephen is gloomy and, quite obviously, depressed. Tom is a large man with an awkwardly jutting jaw. He chews on a toothpick and has the most unkempt hair. His tiny, keen eyes watch every newcomer and he takes it upon himself to train everyone to the ways of this place. One might almost think he's the one who runs this hell-hole.

Stephen is sitting on the grey ground. He always carries a cricket bat with him. He believes that his ancestors had invented the game and that's a bat passed on since centuries. Stephen is a slender man who looks too young to be his age. His constantly darting blue eyes and disgruntling lisp are the biggest joke around here.

Tom opens his mouth to resume. He knows he has all the men in the cells around enthralled by this grasping speech. Stephen had a bad day and Tom's his closest pal. Stephen's family came visiting today and the head-nurse sympathetically told them that he could not be taken home this time too because he was back to his 'odd ways'.

There was silence everywhere; it had slithered into the room like an eager audience. The soft, rhythmic beating of Stephen’s cricket bat was all that they could hear. The darkness had fallen upon them with a thud at 7 p.m when the nurses had all left. There was a tender moistness that hugged everyone. The slight breeze seemed to lull everyone into a crevice between the sternness in Tom's thundering voice and Stephen’s corroding despair. They all knew that struggle. They all knew that trauma.

Tom, melodramatically, drew a deep breath..as if everyone could watch him.

"There's no point in contemplating death's duality, Stephen…"

___

It is 7:23 a.m and the head-nurse just rang for Dr. Carey to come to S-ward immediately. She told him there is quite a mess in one cell.

Stephen is sprawled on the hard floor. His mysterious eyes are gazing dumbly into space. His mouth is suspended in between curving into satisfaction or incredulity. His body is arched like a comma turned outwards and his hands seem like they are cupping him. His blonde hair is a startling red and his cricket bat has a shock of it too. It is innocently sleeping next to his back..

Another defeated warrior says his goodbye.

___

Tom will be sitting on the same grey ground chewing his same old toothpick. He shall think of the days that passed and grin to himself. Tom never told him that there's always a middle way. Tom will shrug, laugh quietly and softly say, “Now, who told that that wasn’t quite a bit of fun, aye?” There are so many kinds of deaths that silly Stephen never thought of. Tom will snigger to himself as he strokes the slightly battered bat and relish the thought that he had never explained to Stephen the rose.

A rose can live on a thorn-bush, on a blazer, in a vase, in a bouquet, on the lazy mud, on the chest of the dead, in a woman's hair, in a dancer's mouth, in the 133rd page of a forgotten novel, in the plate before a god..

How ever did he miss life’s many dualities?