‘This is not a conventional story. It deals with more than just a disorder. It deals with discovering buried secrets, lost relationships and the power of love,’ she said, putting her book aside.

‘That sounds fantastic! I mean, why not? We want to hear your story for sure,’ Gitanjali exclaimed. She lived for serendipitous moments such as these.

‘It might take a good while, perhaps the next few hours, till we reach Haldwani,’ the woman cautioned. Her low voice was like that of a midnight radio jockey. She was so captivating that we couldn’t say no to her.

Gitanjali folded her legs under her and cupped her chin. I looked at the woman who had briefly closed her eyes. The train seemed hushed now. The sky morphed from grey to a burnt orange, piercing the rivers and streams that ribboned through the forests outside. The woman sighed and began to speak.

1

7 December 2011

New Delhi

Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was as it should be. That’s what I wanted, to be alone with myself in another world where the truth was untrue and life could hide from itself.

As Madhav read these lines, sipping the last of the whisky in his glass, he wryly thought about how these words had seemed more tangible earlier. He was a tall, fine-looking man with dark brown hair and eyes that had the startling clarity of a mountain stream. His features were sharply defined, especially his lips, which at the moment eagerly sought the alcohol.

It was the time of the night when the dark turns oppressive. A dimly lit lamp in his cosy room illuminated the tiny raindrops on his window. The cold moon was peeking through the clouds, barely discernible in the tar-black sky. Other than the petrichor emanating from the grass outside, he could only smell the whisky on his breath. He had been trying to write a collection of poems for four years now, a glaringly futile endeavour. He was stagnating in an abyss of alcohol and self-loathing.

Staring at the calm face of the Buddha on his wall, Madhav felt a violent urge rise up inside him.

‘I cannot write.’ He told himself this every other night. The last time he had written a somewhat meaningful poem was ten years ago. He attributed the present success of his poetry blog to the trending misanthropy among the angsty youth. Moreover, it probably became popular because the blog’s name was, almost absurdly, Love Makes Me Angry. He never thought he would feel this kind of loneliness despite having hundreds of Facebook followers. But he did.

He had been a happy-go-lucky person once. Years ago, he’d enjoyed the company of his friends and family. But the suppressed itch of mistrust and insecurity had destroyed his will to socialize and connect with the world. He was still talkative and engaging but inherently wary of revealing his true views to anyone. There was something else, something strange he could feel in himself but could not express.