Ankur Sharma

From His Drafts

As written on:

6 August 2007

I remember that day. The scorching heat. The sun was frowning down at me – hurling at me an apocalyptic beam of heat that could have melt even the intangible. Yet I felt cold. My soul was condensing, leaking through my skin. Silence. Stillness. Numbness. “We need to talk” the child psychiatrist ushered me in. He talked. I listened. The assistant came in and whispered something in his ear. When you are suspended, your sense of perception heightens. Everything happens in slow motion. You move slowly, as if you are walking under water. You can see the ripples in the air. You don’t need to pause or rewind. It’s just all very clear, very slow.

She looked in my direction. Her eyes. Beautiful. Blue. Kind. They blinked. And I understood. I looked up at the ceiling. Looked around. Got up and left.

Mozart was 5 years old when he composed his first piece, I thought. The resemblance was unsettling. With one strike, fate had crushed my vanity. “You fool! You thought this couldn’t happen to you? Who’s laughing now?”

– Do you remember when I took you to that game last year. You could not fathom the expressions on the faces of people around us. You couldn’t understand the joy or the sorrow that was all over their faces. You could never understand why they were silently praying with everything they had, for us to win. You had computed in your head that the odds were totally stacked against us, and we couldn’t win. But they hoped.

Hope is the flame that lights up the darkness within us. But how do I explain to you that you can’t feel that darkness and the flame flickering within your soul? How do I tell you that the even though your mind is boundless, your heart is surrounded by the impregnable layer of logic that won’t ever let feelings come through. How do I tell you that you become a man by taking off your armor, and letting the arrows of love, pain and hurt pierce through? You can traipse down the winding road in your mind, but you stumble along the labyrinth of your heart.

You’ve always loved numbers? You see beauty and perfection in them. Maybe someday you’ll learn what these words mean to most people. You might understand me when I say that Logic will be your symphony, and you’ll make numbers dance to your tune. This is called hope – Even though I knew that you will never, since God made you this way, but I hope in my heart of hearts that you comprehend what I am talking about.

You say you like Mozart. Bach. Beethoven. But how do you feel the foreplay of notes, in an ethereal intercourse that becomes the cadence, climaxing in the unison of the mortal and the divine. How do I explain how illusion and reality, symmetry and asymmetry, white and black, flesh and spirit unite to create something so elevating, that you defy the gravity of reason? How do I tell you what freedom is to a bird trapped in a cage, or an animal in a leash? You are from an Orwellian world where your mind is your master and doesn’t let you in on your heart.

When you grow up and look at the stars, you’ll never be in awe of the flawless beauty in every atom of the universe, every grain of the sand. Can you see those beautiful patterns in the sky? Yes there are million galaxies. There are billions of stars. No, you can’t count them in your head even though you can add up numbers up to a trillion in your head. Yes, constellations are silly, you can make any pattern you feel like with any stars. What? Yes, I’ll tell you about Big Bang, and black holes, and nuclear fusion, but not today.

When you grow up, you’ll never understand the beauty of the contours of a woman. You’ll find solace in geometry. And if I tell you about Mona Lisa, you’ll insist that I talk about Archimedes or Newton. Prime numbers indulge you. But can you ever feel that way about the surreal equations that exist between us, transcending barriers of mortality and reason.

Picasso? Monet? No they were not like Einstein. Well no, they didn’t come up with the Big Bang. No, no they didn’t draw big bang on canvas. No, that’s not a picture of the Sun and the stars, it’s a painting – it’s called “Under the Starry Sky.” You like it? I am glad you do! Yes, I remember you asking me why I got goosebumps when I looked up at the Sistine Chapel. No it was not designed by a computer, it was made by a man. Yes, without a ruler and compass. No, you cannot draw it on paint. Well, you can still try.

That lady? Why is she crying? She’s crying because she’s in pain. No, she’s didn’t fall, son, she’s sad. Her son passed away. She’s hurting. Yes, you cry when it hurts. It hurts here. Right up here. No it doesn’t bleed, it just hurts from within. I do not know how to explain. No son, not everything can be explained.

Why people kiss? Because they love each other. No, it’s not gross. It makes one feel good. Yes, like you feel when Jimmy runs up and licks you on your face when you are back from school. No, it’s not the same kinda kiss. Don’t worry, no one will kiss you like that, not if you don’t want it. Yes, I won’t hold your hand either. I know you don’t like it. Yes, we’ll touch only each other’s finger tips like you want.

Well, no you’ll never hurt. Because, you’re God’s special child. Yes, even when I die, you’ll not cry. Just like you didn’t when your mother passed on. I know you love me son, I love you too. Yes, love means caring for another. It means a lot more. No, go to sleep now. I’ll tell you some other day. Yes, Jimmy is right here. Good night, my love.