Laid low
Helpless, desolate :
Scribe did not read anything. He could not. He had fever, and it was
fast taking a toll on his routine.
He laid low helpless, desolate.
He looked at the wall. It was empty and deserted, without ants
queuing up. The fever has left him overly limp. He could hardly move
from one position to another.
Still and all his mind was full of everything, he realized. But
hardly could he pen them down. His hands trembled, half affected by
drugs. He made up his mind to watch a movie. He chose his favourite, but
it didn’t let him for 10 minutes. He felt tired. He felt as if he is
going to vomit the very next moment. If it was the film, he did not
know.
Things are not that smooth. He vomited. It really gave pain.
He was grappling with fear he may collapse any moment. Everyday
counted. With a heap of contracts on books, articles and so on. His mind
commanded him to sit up and concentrate. But sore body did actually let
him down.
He looked at his own fetid vomit strewn on the commode. The thin cake
of vomit still left in his lips. He felt nauseous, again.
He recalled Girimananda Sutta, recited for the benefit of the sick.
He loved phrase, Balha Gilano: “And on that occasion Ven. Girimananda
was diseased, in pain, severely ill.”
He went out to feel the cool breeze. It relieved him for the time
being. When could I get back to normal, he wondered aloud. Those
wholesome days are flushed down.
Back at the study he took a glance at his workstation. He couldn’t
call his agent as yet. His latest book will be due in two weeks. That’s
supposed to be at least 300 pages, though he couldn’t get at even 100
pages so far. He felt like grabbing his Blackberry and key down the
depression – who knows it will be the masterpiece of this century. But
only if he had enough might! Blackberry was off for the third
consecutive day. Butler had instructions not to direct landline calls to
him. Master was not well and he did not want visitors either.
But he was feeling alone so much. He took out the sim and switched on
the Blackberry to flip through some of his own jottings. He was staring
at the screen at least for five minutes. Then it strained his eyes
Blackberry has turned blasphemy! He turned it off. He was too lethargic
to replace the sim.
He took one of his favs to read. He could go on for about 20 pages.
Situation build-up was superb. It was enough inspiration to restart
working on his own book. But still his hands did not cease trembling.
Word by word, line by line the thoughts decorated his mind. If I can
syringe my thoughts right into this piece of paper or the Blackberry
screen at least - then would there be a luckier one than I? That thought
is pleasing, but the concept has to be developed a bit, thought the
scribe.
Cough made its way back to him. He coughed too much so it hurt his
chest so much. Warm water would relinquish that, someone had told him
earlier. But pity he didn’t get butler to bring warm water upstairs. Now
it’s too late and unfair to wake him up just for warm water. He did not
sit up, but the need made him. But he was too weak to get down. He sat
still. Heavy sleepiness flanked by cough brought him a suicidal feel.
That dungeon he was walked down was densely dark, and he had a
blindfold on to boot. He was on the threshold of death that whirled like
a blizzard.
Why god does this to me? To me alone? Then he remembered some
inspirational lines: “sweet roads never make smooth drivers… don’t ask
why me, instead test me…” That’s too smart, I must say, thought he. But
can I really ask god to test my strength? God, you have been so cruel to
give me too many pains at time. Don’t you think one donkey at a time is
enough?
Cough turned worse. He had to get down. Luckily water was still warm
in the decanter. Praise be to the god… What’s this, am I going crazy?
Ain’t I a confirmed atheist? No, praise be to the nature, not god. There
is no god.
After a gulp or two he felt as if it was over. The nightmare was
gone. His body was still limp, but at least he could reconcile thoughts.
Threadbare thoughts.
He took the decanter and kept it alongside the bed. He felt freezing,
so he hugged the duvet even more. Let thoughts forget my pain.
Threadbare thoughts.
When I rise tomorrow I shall have my wits recovered. I will write
down my pain. After a few moments of cough, the scribe finally could
retire into sleep. He saw a dream. It was a sweet one, he told ‘Randome
Muse’.
Well, more anon!
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