The scab hasn’t healed yet. K shall borrow The Most Beautiful Analogy from P. The wounds are still fresh and ghastly, like the dagger sank in last night. The clamor of hope drowns out the prudence, or whatever of it remains. K digs his nails into the thick brown scab and peels it off gently. The wound is frighteningly ugly. Hope kills. K’s tear glands are eager to jerk off. K watches the blood drip down and spatter. You’d expect the blood to be blood red, but K’s blood is darker, thanks to H and all the sins.
K hung his head in shame, for his lack of heart and guts to speak the truth. He only hoped that, someday, he would be forgiven. “For all the pain that I'm causing, I'm sorry,” said K.
K would like to think that it happened one warm summer night, on a dramatic trip outside an old church in Colaba… or standing in the Andheri station, bathed in sweat and feeling alone in the crowd … alternatively, it could’ve been the first time K stepped into The Loo With Green Tiles, hand in hand and Torch in hand... it could also be the silly telephone bill under a starlit sky in The Land Of Dangerous Snakes, Frog Tikka and Worm Fry, leading to the first flare of orange. It could also be The Scribbling On The Sand during The Beginning, or the fire-lit drunken death dance with random people on the shores of the
K likes his instincts… perhaps a little too much. Regret is smoother than having to deal with the perpetual haggle of hope.
It could be the night K met 4 strangers from another school on the train… or the cold night in the mountains when he fought with The Mad Georgian. Maybe their paths were destined to clash. K beat out 99 others to get out of the black hole which was so rotten that even creativity couldn’t escape. K was
It could be traced back to the time when flocking to the dirty beach was cool and K knew every other guy worth knowing at the beach, including guys from other schools. The seeds were sown stealthily, as the bunch of kids grew up on their own precious La Poderosas.
Some hormone tells K that boys don’t cry. Almost all of K’s happiness and pain could be traced to a bunch of innocuous hormones. The fundamentals are gorgeously simple, like kicking the ball into the goal.
It could be traced to a million silly decisions made, words said and unsaid and some inconspicuous muscles, all of which dissolve away like the dreams from last night.
The pain is unbearable. No, not the blood or the wound, but the torturously morbid muck-path back. K listens to a trippy old song and slithers into a dream.