Komorebi

It has been six months since I was trapped in this desolate room. As usual, the sun rises, sunlight filters through the trees and revives the grass. Raindrops rejuvenate the soil. Birds chirp. Leaves sway and the breeze scents the earth. Flowers bloom. Dew drops establish their kingdom across grasses. Butterflies whisper from one flower to another. Sunlight sparkles, rain splatters and the moonbeam illuminates just enough. But I cannot see any of these, because my fate decreed a life in a closet for me.

At first instance, my master seemed a kind man to me. When he brought me in this house, I anticipated a royal treatment. I expected him to take me along wherever he went. I admired him and considered myself fortunate to have him as my master. Whenever he touched me, I felt over-the-top bliss. I could sense that he adored me as much as I revered him. I knew I had come at the right place.

But it cannot be spring throughout the year. He seemed to be a busy man, always attending phone calls. He lived alone. For me, he was everything; but for him, I don’t think I mattered as much. He soon began to neglect me.

One fine evening, in a fit of hysteric outrage, he dumped me in a corner. I was injured in several places, but there are no hospitals for us. My spine was almost damaged. I wailed and wept; I despised what my loving master did to me. But he paid no heed to my screams- or maybe he could not comprehend my tongue. Since that confounded day, I have never been able to sleep peacefully. For seven nights in a row, I awoke imploring him to spare me. But he was not there to listen. He walked off, captivating me in this grim place.

I miss my sisters, brothers and friends. I miss my family. We all stayed together in a house which was more like a store. I had many friends back there. The head of our house was a bibliophile and shrewd businessman. There was an underlying tenderness in the way he saw us, cleaned us and always wanted to portray our best side to new prospective masters. With due respect to the warmth he provided to us in this stone-hearted world, we would go to any master he sent us to, without repudiating. This is how all of us would depart without grievances.

At my old home, my room was brightly lit. Every morning I woke up with the sun and slept in the arms of stars. I don’t know if my previous master decoded my preferences, but he always let me station next to the window. That is how I grew up, with nature. My clothes always shone when sunlight touched it. They waved when the breeze swept past me. The room had no curtains, only a door that my master locked each night before going to bed.

I have not seen the sun rise ever since I came here. I arise to pitch black darkness. Nothing is visible in the room before 9 a.m., until the maid comes to clean the room and switches on all lights. I have not talked to the stars about my last crush for so long. They might have forgotten me by now. The moon must be very relieved these days. I cannot see it waning anymore.

I don’t know why my new master didn’t take me along with him. Why couldn’t he release me? Why did he have to dump me? Why didn’t he kill me once and for all? Why did he have to subject me to such a lonely, cursed life? Why was I a victim of his frustration? Don’t I deserve a life in this world just like anybody else?

Life in captivity- it is one of the worst things that could happen to you. I can only imagine how animals stay in zoos and birds survive in cages. It is so difficult to be trapped alone, forbidden from moving. If I could walk, I would escape from this despicable place the very day he mistreated me. Sometimes, life does that to you. It closes every door, shuns you in the remotest corners. Helplessness is being able to do nothing about it. Sooner or later, you shall realize that for others, you are just not worth the effort.

If I am ever able to emancipate myself, I will run back to my old home. But I will also check upon my new master. Is he okay? No matter what he did to me, he had a life- I know he did. I would want to find out if he is fine. I cannot wait to reunite with my family. Most of my friends and family would have been sold to other masters. But there would be new ones and I would be glad to meet them. I long to return to my first and only home.

For most of us, there is no homecoming. Once we are sold to a master, there is no chance we can return home. But I see a ray of hope. Our old master often bought some of us again for a lower price, if the new master no longer wished to keep us. I don’t know how much money I was sold for. I had my eyes shut when the transaction was being processed. I didn’t want to go to any other master. But I could not tell this lest I shall hurt my old master. One of the reasons he kept us caringly was that the better we looked, the more we appealed the prospective buyers. He raised us as pigs for slaughter but we never minded because in the company of our beloved, we did have the time of our lives.

The maid has come again, after a week. The room stinks. Cobwebs have accumulated in every corner. There are so many right next to me. Alike the master, she pays no attention to me. She does not even touch me, she considers me so filthy. If she looked at me, I’d try to initiate conversation with her. I am so tired of keeping quiet. My mouth longs to utter a syllable. I seem to have gone mute since the incident six months ago. Those cries that fell on my master’s deaf years and the screams I awake to every morning- except yelling, I seem to have given no other task to my vocal cord in the past half year.

Imprisonment is not only a physical but also a mental assault. It is imprisonment of thoughts, ideas, voices, opinions, expression, choices and freedom. It is imprisonment of hope, joy, ecstasy, delight, vigour and life per se. It seems to be an end to life but not an end to agony; end to interaction but not to isolation.

Life as an old, torn, no more read book is not easy, my dear readers!

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About the author:

A nineteen year old who loves reading, writing and orating. ​Reads fiction and started non-fiction lately too. Writes a blog, essays, stories, poems, letters, songs and anything else that strikes her mind. Often comperes events. 

Potterhead. Hufflepuff. Fighter. Motivator. Hardworking. Workaholic. Loves her family. Few friends. Loves few but loves too much. 

Takes pleasure in making others feel special. Wants to spread happiness all over and be the sunshine 🙂 

Aishwarya wrote this story inspired by this prompt:

I like how the prompt has been used as a hope for the character in the story, something that in fact, isn’t really a part of the story.

If you like the story, comment here or on Aishwarya’s blog telling her about it! 
She’d love to know your feedback.

The list of prompts was inspired by this article I happened upon, quite a few have stories written about them so do check them out!

This is the fifth story of a part of a series of stories I’m posting, which were written by my friends, I talk about it here.

Here’s the previous story, you should check it out!

And here’s the very first one, if you’d like to read that!

There might be more to come, but it depends on several factors, so as of now I can’t tell you for sure.

In any case, I’ll be posting other stuff as well, so you’ll want to return to the blog for my acerbic wit and humour, which, admit it, you’ve missed for a while now. 😉