Sluggish eyelids peeled themselves off languidly. The day had woken up and the first blush of the morning was awning all across the unkempt bedspread filling it up, lighting the un-sacred body which was curled in all its slumber-some glory.

As she lay sprawled, parts of her covered in a mightily wrinkled and mussed up sheet keeping her warm in this particularly dewy morning, yet.
Her slender arms spread over vast landscapes of hills and valleys of her turbulent coverlet and feeling their way through the patchy terrain of her linen, put an end to the roaring alarm clock.
Peace reigned again.

But just as all bad things, inevitable and impending, her sleep too had to meet its grievous demise at the hands of wicked pragmatism.
Our protagonist wakes up and goes about her usual tedious morning-ish affairs with the enthusiasm of a de-winged mosquito.
A mouthful of toast, eggs, and a glass of milk later, she locks herself out and ventures into the indubitably real world.

Some mornings, when she walked to her workplace, the world seemed to be thriving in technicolour and again on some ashen mornings, it seemed grey. Her mood shifted according to the vision her subconscious conjured. Today, the peppery sky seemed rather sombre as if contemplating its death when the decline of the day would come to sing its nightly song. But she was determined not to let her imaginative visions deter her today. She had work to do.

“Good Morning, this is Airtel Customer Care. How may I help you?”, she rattled off her daily routine in her bright falsetto voice.

As she worked diligently, she could feel his eyes on her. She knew he was waiting. In fact he was always waiting. She had never met a more patient human in her 26 years of existence yet. “*By now any normal male would have admitted defeat after crashing and burning. But he confounds me*.”, she would think to herself.

And as sure as she was of the sun rising every day, she knew he would come by and pour large dollops of his kindly courteousness and drench her soul with unreasonable guilt.


Kind and desperate loving eyes found shy flinching ones that quickly lowered themselves.

And like every other time, after enquiring about her well being (which was painfully obvious, her sarcastic bent of mind would repartee) he would go away. But always looking. Not in a creepy stalker way, but nevertheless in a
yes-that’s-the-right-amount-of-uncomfortable-you-make-feel way.

She was single. She lived alone. But she was happy. She had good friends, a good taste in music and books. A good life.

She had a steady flow of admirers whom she ducked and evaded from time to time. She was amicable and misanthropic. Shy and aggressive. Lively and deathly dull. A kaleidoscope of eclectic sentiments.

So when unwanted extolment hopped her way, her reaction would be anybody’s guess.

But she dreamt a lot. Her dreams were the stuff of the paragon of chimera steeped in fancy impressions.
But it would always be in yellow. Heterodoxy breathed in life where reality just couldn’t trickle in.

Some days she wanted to paint the town red; some days she would rather just be the idle ball in a corner. Some days she wanted to fling the rules of her society and some days she was a docile little chit.
She had ravenous appetite for unclothing the dream beyond the dream.

So it was not expected when one fine day, her maid came home to her to find her body hanging from the ceiling.

*Or* *was it*?