For you, you idiot. Choose the right door.

He walked into the room. It was a big, empty, cavernous, dark place. Empty, that is, except for one corner, over which was hanging a dim bulb.
There was a large window along the side of the room, covered by a curtain so black that it was almost blue. At the other end was a closed, black door. He trudged towards the corner. It was a mess, overrun with CDs, pictures, books, files, letters, cards, a large black bucket and an equally proportioned black box.
He peered into the bucket, and flinched. It was filled with alcohol. All kinds of alcohol…all mixed up. One deadly cocktail, he thought to himself, and smiled drily.
His gaze shifted to the box. He didn’t have to look deep into it to know what its contents were. He’d always hated the smell of old, stale cigarettes. The box was practically overflowing with them.
He noticed a file placed on top of the stack of CDs, next to the amplifier, next to his guitar. He sank to his knees. The guitar he’d clutched tightly, with sweaty palms, just before he went on stage for his first ever performance. He’d been so nervous, acting uber cool on the outside, but shitting bricks not so deep on the inside. There was anticipation, excitement and fear in the air, but it was all overpowered by the desire to go out there and have the best time he could. He remembered it all- the initial polite applause (for the unknown band from the suburban engineering college) from the predominantly female audience. And then…the screams, shrieks, and completely off-tune singing along that had made his and his band mates’ day….days.
He got up. Ouch. His knee still hadn’t healed since the accident. Although it looked pretty cool now, with that large purple scar and shit.
As he walked around the mess that meant the world to him, he saw his laptop. As he switched it on, he couldn’t wait to see the pictures in that special folder. They’d be the solitary thing that would light up his face like nothing else possibly could/ There she was- smiling, laughing at the camera, her tiny arms stretching to encapsulate the both of them in the frame…her hair cascading down his shoulders…peeping out from behind his back. God, he looked stupid. He’d relived Laila-Majnoo. And it had been worth the wait, as he’d told his friends. She was so beautiful.
He almost stepped on something, only to realise that it was his cellphone. He read the message he’s received at 5.10 A.M: “I love you, J___.”- His best friend.
If he had to make the most impotant people in his life assemble before him in a line, the first two would be his parents- God knows they deserved it.
Third would be the adorable, spunky girl who had told the cops that she liked, no, lovered his hair long.
Next? His best friend. He kept trying to make her understand that she didn’t have an inkling of his love for her. How he felt guilty because he couldn’t be there for her when she was going through bullshit. How he’d fought someone for her. She’d always told him that it was okay, and that she had learned to stop expecting anything from anyone. She didn’t want to burden people with her problems, she explained. She wasn’t hurt, she reiterated…time and time again. But he knew she was lying. He could always tell. He wished she’d open up.
Maybe she was right, though. Maybe he really didn’t have any idea of what an important, crucial part of her life he was…this would require another heart to heart at an unearthly hour of the morning.
Next would be his room mates. People who supported him in everything from girl problems (solved by drinking in seedy bars and/or throwing around furniture), or being a part of the firm they had just set up.
Who came after that?
Well, it didn’t really matter, did it?
He came a full circle, and picked up the file.
His head was swimming with memories. Each one was falling over the other, stumbling in its effort to make him remember it first. He remembered them all. Every single detail.
Would he ever know how lucky he was? How loved? How valued? How his opinion meant everything to some people, more to a select few?
Would he ever realise that all his views about himself were merely in his head, and that, maybe if he wasn’t so bloody pig-headed sometimes (most of the time), people’s words, sentences and feeling might actually have gotten through to his very core?
He knew the choice he had to make. The choice he had to make now.
He opened the file: “A.A.C- March, 2010.”
He looked towards the black door in front of him, and at the white door through which he entered.
He took a deep breath, drew the heavy curtains in front of the window, looked at the rising sun, and knocked on the door.

~ by cranialrumblings on February 8, 2009.

9 Responses to “For you, you idiot. Choose the right door.”

  1. too good!!

  2. Thank you so much.

  3. love the detailing!!! 🙂

  4. brilliant woman..brilliant…btw..”J”?….black door maybe?

  5. spectacular!!!!!!!!!

  6. i love this… the astonishing level of detail and yet to make it so gripping… this is a bold statement.. mostly wont be well received… but if tolkien had given all that detail in such a gripping fashion… i perhaps may have even liked LOTR… the book tht is… but is this story gonna continue.. or not… ?? if it is.. waiting… if its nt… i think this is a lovely metaphor… in itself…for the self perception that often leads to false assumptions… for the confusion that governs out lives.. for the purpose that we seek… great stuff…

  7. painted vividly, and to be remembered hauntingly……

  8. I chose the right option! and damn you woman, I relived it!

  9. My knee is better now….but ya the scar does look killer. Yes, I loved my first gig…if for nothing else then the mindless cheering.
    The seedy bars are picking up….and yes I alway know when you are lying.
    And yes…nothing can make my face light up more than that 1 folder…
    I will choose the right door. I promise.

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