It was this line: "feeling emptiness brush over his hands."
This is the line that made me choke up, and then made me take a time out, and re-read this piece about three times before I could get over it. Because emptiness does not have substance. You know that, and yet you used this line. It cannot touch you, emptiness. But with Rudra, its like HE is so empty, he is so adrift, even the ghost of a sensation that used to be Paro--used to be Paro's clothing, for heaven's sake--even those ghostly fingers of sensation is enough for him to yearn for, to turn to and to miss having.
The fact is that Paro, without being actually anywhere in this piece is more THERE than the solid, masuline overpowering Major himself. His loss is embodied in that line. She is the emptiness, her loss is silence, her lack is...khamoshi. His stupidity is khamoshi, the attempts he has made to go on living, have all, one by one, diminished him into emptiness.
He is unable to sleep. He has lost the ability to flop down onto his belly, sprawl like a young god on his bed, sideways, tuck his weary head into a pillor that is just his, that he can selfishly cuddle to himself. Now, he is empty. He tries to fill in his empty fingers, yearns for the missing weight on his arm, tries to wrap his limbs around a too-light pillow. Empty.
He cannot heal. His tablets need to have that missing voice be the impetus for him to put them into his mouth. His food needs that missing hand to prepare it for sustenance to reach his mouth. Hell, his clothes need that absent presence to clean them, clothe him well for his job. His family, his father needs that girl to be brought home, to not be rejected. His empty Haveli needs the sounds she makes, the name she calls out, the presence of her.
And with all of her missing, he is not just empty, he is diminished. The only time he creates a sound in your work, aside from the word "wh**e" is when his bike is roaring. He breaks "khamoshi" when he finally decides to go get her. That is when the khamoshi ends. When he wakes up to what his heart was saying into that silence.
Man, Chotidesi. I dont know what you look like, who you are, how old you are, where you live. Nothing. We chat back and forth via this odd, disembodied medium. And yet I now you are beautiful, and blazingly talented, you are emotionally intuitive and honest and soulful. What a great writer does, is reveals their souls in their work. I think you just did that, and we are honored to see it.
Edited by napstermonster - 11 years ago
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