I come back from Majuli – the riverine island that had held my mind and body for three months.
At first, the house was as it always had been, compact and inducing claustrophobia. Each corner has been stacked with carton boxes (the ominous multiplication of the past). The layers of paint chipping off from the walls. This sight has stayed within my elementary vision as rust stays on exposed metal.
Going away from home meant literally that. An attempt to bring some sanity to the depressed underling that I had become in the past few months.
Coming back home was unprecedented – at least in such circumstance. What came together with it was a feeling of having been defeated, maimed, and hurting pride. It said nothing to soothe things. Instead, I fell ill the day after, and the calming sounds of my mother’s affection and my sister’s love settled me into a nervous breakdown.
I was not ungrateful but I was overwhelmed.
The days after, in the house, was purposefully demented (a maniac having been asked to settle for a sedentary life). I don’t show all this but inside I am dreaming of running away. What is my pain when one cannot see it?
I am a fool. A misfit – wanting to be uncaged but even after freedom comes, I lead the way to be captured.
The house, my home, is a gaol.