The Aliens

“Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow

Bloom and grow forever…”

                                 

Every day I walk out of my complex, I see a man with dishevelled hair and ragged clothes, scribbling on the path desperately, with a tiny piece of chalk. Faded pink. In big, bold letters. Letters I can make no sense of. I see his clouded eyes, blank and lost, as if nothing in the world matters to him, except perhaps those letters. I look at him with horror, pity or maybe, disdain, and keep a safe distance.

Recently, something has changed in me. I look at him with empathy. I stare and I wonder. I wonder and I stare. What if I too end up like that – deranged, deluded, lost in an alternate universe?

What if there is no question of ‘ending up’? What if I too am one like him? Lost in a blank space with nothing left to bank on?

Strands of disobedient dirty hair fall over his eyes. He picks his pace. With frantic moves he scribbles. At times, he pauses, licks his lips for a moment and continues.

Some call them ‘crazy’. Some tag them ‘madmen’. Some call them ‘losers’. Some pity them. Some treat them as fleas or pests - with utter repulsion. Some dread them. Some ignore them like they were never there.

I call them aliens. Dwellers of another universe. They live and thrive alongside us, yet alien to our universe. They seem to dangle on a thread like worms and insects, without identity, without language, without roots. Yet, in a parallel universe, they exist. They exist with their unique weird ways. They exist with their roots, language and identity.

Colours splash on an empty canvas. The artist pulls another masterstroke. Another dauntless shade of mauve and red.

Years ago, I had a crazy friend. She was one of a piece – a bitch in her passion and love, and a bitch in her apathy and betrayal.

I, for one, never trusted her to be capable of leading a stable life. With her impulsiveness, her mood swings, her bipolarity, her fickle-mindedness and craze for dissipation, she was, well, an indomitable rebel. To me, she always seemed to be a perfect mismatch for this world. A world, that likes to stand unchallenged.

“I am so damn disgusted of your despicable lifestyle.” I lashed out at her finally. “I am tired of your deception, your lack of sensitivity! I don’t think you can ever harbour any sort of endearment towards anyone or nurture any constructive relationship.”

“I don’t want you to contact me anymore.” I said.

“Okay” She said.

I knew every word of mine to be true yet it hurt. It hurt to rip myself apart from from someone this close, no matter how she had marred me.

A couple of days ago, I met her once more. After three years of estrangement. In the female ward of Nightingale Nursing Home. There she was, lying in a bed, her fever rising. Apparently, she had an abortion and as usual, her reckless way of life had led to an infection in the internal organs which may endanger her life or atleast so the doctors said.

They say, three years is a long time. Maybe, it is. Yet, at that instant, standing before her, it didn’t feel so.

She still had that smile on her face - that uncaring ruthless smile. Even when I slapped her.

Her defiant hair played all over her beautiful face just as it used to.  

That was the moment I realized that like the man scribbling on the road, like the guy singing along the street at midnight, like hundreds traveling through that street every day, she too, has been an alien all along.

The most rebellious of the aliens that live among us.

She too has walked those tedious miles, and been scarred all through. Judged, misunderstood, pitied, detested, feared but never loved -  the way she deserved to be loved.

And that was when I realized that she will live. She will live like no one has, ever before.

Strange, huh?

No matter how we try to deny them, they live. They live, blossom, and grow, with all of their beauty and innocence.

Away from this heap of rotting, odious mess, away from this madding crowd, they blossom and grow - in their own universe. They fight like Hercules, live like the Devil and die like Gods.

Medicine dripped through the thin plastic pipe. She pulled her blanket closely around her and talked. She talked and talked.

For the first time, I looked at her with respect and perhaps, admiration.

The artist pulls the final stroke and gazes at the incomplete portrait. It looks just perfect.