FROM THE LIGHT HOUSE

For Achyuth C. Sekhar. Thanks for picking up the phone and asking me to post something and remembering that this blog still exists.

“Days of my youth wasted on a selfish fool

Who ran for the hills from the hand you were dealt

I flew far away, as far as I could go

Your time is running out

And I'm a long way from home.”

-The Lumineers, Long Way From Home. 

The beauty of walls is that you decide how to make them, and even if they break you know how to mend them. You either make them strong by interlocking, or you stack them up and let them fall on a fine day. Every structure has a wall, and it is a bare necessity. 

You see the world through the eyes of the beholder. Standing on the circular platform three hundred and fifty two feet above, admiring the panorama view. You face the sea lashing against the shore. The lights from the structure falling on the sea, breaking all the possible reflections and guiding those who are lost to their home. Under the searchlights you stood lost, making your hollow bricks. 

Brick one: You hung your legs down the ledge letting nothing block you, feeling the breeze caress you like your mum did when you were young. 

Brick two: Your phone flashed with your pa’s laughing face, awaiting to hear your voice. The green and the red options glared at you, and you chose the one with the longer wavelength. 

Brick three: You slowly untied your shoes and let them fly and crash into the sea. The waves caught them and set them free. 

Brick four: The headlines announced your ship sailing, and you hid under the search lights, living like a ghost.

Brick five: The doors flew open, with arms at the end. You folded yours, and shut the door on their smiling faces. Through the door left the last bit of hope. 

Brick six: You raised yourself down the ledge, holding onto the rusty pillars as wobbly as your life. You hung there, fearlessly. And that was the worst form of fear. 

Brick seven: The doors opened again and they saw your stunt. Curiously, they gave their hands to you. You waved them goodbye and continued to smile. They all left except one, who empathized with you. 

Brick eight: You told your story, you let him listen. You raised yourself up and spoke. The doors remained close and no one knocked again. 

Together, you built more bricks; hollow, flawless bricks with your names engraved on it. Through the hidden spaces, you continued to watch the world; and they all thought you both disappeared. 

One fine day, the stacked up bricks fell apart. 

And that was okay. 

The doors flew open with no one on the other side.

And that was okay. 

You both fell down the spiral stairs

And that was okay. 

The headlines screamed your names. 

And that was okay too. 

In the end, everything was okay. You could breathe again through the paths where the autumn leaves flew along with the wind. For the first time in a million years, it didn’t hurt anymore. 

Krishna J. Nair, From The Light House

19^thDecember, 2o17.