FICTION, philosophy, poetry


And I stand in the terrace surrounded by the tapestry of bricks. Weaved into the usual pattern, the bricks are no different from one another. I am here, in a home territory, and there are millions of others like me. I can’t see them; we are all in a blissful ignorance, and they can’t see me either. In a crowd of overlapping dark black shadows, I am the darkest or the brightest of them all, but I am not one of them. They call and talk to me, in a familiar language of the shadows – the hisses and the shhs – they distort shapes to accentuate their words. I stay stiflingly with them, but know not a word of what they talk in.
I jump and pounce on my shadow; I am the master in the ring. The sun is fierce overhead and I love to watch the shadow burn under me. With each passing minute, the shadow is diminishing and soon, will disappear completely. Everything around me will be black. I am the only witness to the arson. I am the only one burning in the dark, brighter than the sun.
And, then the world awakens in the shadows. A filial curtain is pulled down in front of the eyes – you can’t read my story. You can’t hear my prayers. I can keep my secrets and you can keep yours. The night is welcoming, the breeze is ancient. The face of the night is tired for it has been privy to all the wonders. The breeze is heavy for it has been dragging itself for far too long now.
I am in the terrace; and I watch the lights go out in the rooms. I have seen the colors of the day change, and I have seen the birds fly back to their lovers. I have seen the snow fall, and then melt into nothingness. I have seen the rain and watched it burn the skin. I have felt the touch of life, and ignored it like a doormat. I have felt love- do you remember?
And, the shapes under the sheets were us in the intrigues of passion. The fragmented words and the dying heart beats, the truthful lies and fragile promises. The burning cold and the healing aches – we were the poles. We were the universe under the sheets. And, as you whispered my name in my ears, I held you tight to let not a word escape your lips further. The discourses of the nights are not to flow through the curtains. I believed in lies. I believed in secrets. And as my toes touched yours in the cold dead night, I was liberated. The smoothness of your desire burned the heat of my ignorance and you lay there spent, staring at me. I looked at you and just looked at you. I felt nothing. I felt free. I saw you looking at me and we shared that secret. Your eyes kissed mine. You held me. And then I turned and slept. And, you turned and left.
So it has been always! Every night I feel life and I let it burn out like a candle. From the womb of the darkness, the light spills out in a desperate attempt to realize its passion. And once again, the truth is stronger, and the lie left to decay. Once again the laughter is a cry of pain. Once again, I am left without you.

The mountains – snow clad and majestic, never get under the sheets. They let it rain on them; they let the sun burn them. They stand there, come what may. And without uttering a word, they have their say. I stand looking at them from the terrace surrounded by the tapestry of bricks. I let the colors change from orange to blue and then to black. I peep inside the locked doors and see the shapes under the sheets move. I hear the knock and I ignore the noise. I have seen their secrets, they must have seen mine.

Just like the blood from a wounded heart, the pages of Kashiv’s diary form a puddle around his shadow in the terrace.

Image courtesy – Pinterest

10 thoughts on “THE BLiSS OF iGNORANCE”

  1. It’s hard to pick a favourite entry from this blog.
    This made for one amazing read! Each line is so beautiful, startling in its unexpected content, leaping at the reader with emotion. Every line is seeped in rich colour and the images are so new, so spectacular that the reader becomes one with the story.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Isha! No writer just writes, he goes through a whole sensual process of inspiration at a called moment, and, for me this post came up while going through the plethora of wonderful and mesmerizing posts here on wordpress, writing like yours. And writing is painting, the painter does a brain work with colors but the reader who connects to it is no less than the painter who has painted it. I try to paint a story that is not visible in daylight or in plain sight. The story can be seen only in the dark, painted with the darkest and dull colors.


  2. Those who are ignorant are invisible to one another;
    as ignorance renswers on blind to wisdom, knowlege & understanding.” _-Van Prince

    Liked by 1 person

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