A Failed Experiment

The story that I heard today or lived, must be written down somewhere. Otherwise it'll keep transforming itself beyond recognition, using my mind as an alibi. With a historian's inspiration, I am starting this narration.


Already I am not quite sure, whether the events took place in my life or somebody else's. The details are still vaguely discernible : afloat in the wake following a dream. The profiles and genders are gone from the memory, forever. But number of characters (this I remember) in the story were 3.


While expressing my confidence in the last line itself, I am again shrouded in confusion. Is my conviction due to an illusive belief in the sanctity of the number 3 ? May be, I have worshipped it all my life. And now, in this twilight of being, my symbol of deity, has touched me with conviction and inspiration.


The three unknowing victims of my indecent gaze, shapeless hence identical, like three bubbles, changed positions, dialogues, motives between themselves. Were they aware of their identities? I can't tell. It was getting dark and confusing.


It's best to describe the story through a running commentary on thoughts and words without aligning them with certain characters.


If anyone could see me now ( no one does, I know), he/she would see a man of approximate age 28-30 (I look older than I am), walking down a lonely Franklin St. at 1 in the morning. The yellow shirt (untucked, unbuttoned, wrinkled) would draw attention away from other details. Lights. For example, the traffic lights, blinking tirelessly over a deserted road. The empty dishevelled ground after the fair was over. The fairwell day in college and a scattered pack of friends.



Of course, the imaginary observer won't be able to read my thoughts. For that matter, nobody can. And there's the cold. I need some shelter, and lights. The ususal metallic symbols hanging from the doorways, wooing the wind with clinking sounds. The wind is carrying death tonight. Somebody's gonna die.



If only I could ask somebody. Bloody hell! No one's out tonight. Where's 'verybody? Need to distract the pain in my legs ( caused by severe cold). A few more steps and then the warmth of home. This garbage bin, black and tilted. The sudden bend of the road. A man approaches.

A man approaches. A shadowy figure. May be, he can help. His steps are lousy in this dead night. The reason, the indefinite observer can not describe any sound, is that there are no sounds. A girl's memory in my mind. She won't ever know or be in this place, in this night. The tall, unnamed trees paving my way through mosses and nightly uncertainties.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm, All is bright. Hmmmhmmm....

The figure is humming something, indistinct. The slope of the road between us is downward from my side. Over the landscape drunken darkness lies like a bridge : gullible, soothing. I know somebody faraway is remembering me. His reflection I can see in my glass of liqour. The image, I see, is not a clear one. It may be, because I never saw Him. Or, it may be, because I've forgotten Him.

It's not hard to imagine a listener, like my psychiatrist, who'd patiently hear my version of the story. And then he'd paint me. I'd ask him : How are you going to sketch me, Unknown portrayer of human mind? A rage inside me. A futility. A flame can depict me. A denouncer of true love? A directionless vagabond? A foolish girl? Is there any symbol for irrationality? In a distant country, I live as a memory. A girl's memory is etched in my mind.

Hey, man! have got some light?

In this dark island, I had forgotten how voices sound like. The distinct words and tones came dangling down the rope, hung over bottomless void. Can't see the face. I don't have any light.

Sorry! Don't have a light!

Damn it! Now how do I drive off the chill? Who was that voice? Roaming the desolate streets of a little known country in search of light? Whose face was that in the mourning liquid? A few words just came to mind and after a little arrangement they were :

I have travelled that road many times after that night. But never did I encounter that voice anymore.

May be that is how I'll end a story based on the events of this sinking night. May be that voice will relate it to a vagabond in another way. May be, the girl in my mind, will remember this night when she's old : devoid of anxiety and fear. (But memories don't grow old. They're already ancient. ) Or, we will all grow used to it so much that the details will fade; there'll be nothing to tell, write or remember.

Though this is where my narration ends, the events, heedless of our insignificant storytelling, had flown. The characters passed from one story to another, across time : as Borges once said, unknowing of their roles in replaying history, they acted until they were withdrawn.

About my narration, obviously it's plagued with failure and deviations. Thoughts can never be expressed through words. The pattern of words in the text is characteristically mine, not of the characters. And this pattern brings with it my own past into the text. Though, I tried hard to make it as impersonal as possible.