Many regarded his mood swings and bitterness merely as symptoms of his millennial angst. But that did not begin to compare with his daily self-inflicted torture of goading his reflection in the mirror, reiterating his own worthlessness. He would then refuse to reply to anyone’s texts, avoid nights out and conversation, preferring to wallow instead, convinced everyone was better off in his absence.

Immersed in the memories of his past, he went through his e-mails and found one response to his poetry submission.

Dear Madhav Mehra,

We hope you’re doing well. We read your synopsis and unfortunately it doesn’t fit our publication criteria. We wish you the best for your future projects.

Another publisher had rejected him. Well, he was used to it by now. A feeling of loneliness plagued his every waking moment. It was this that blurred his thought, rendered his creativity impotent and saturated his soul. It was present when people lauded his achievements at parties. The only questions that echoed in the twenty-five-year-old’s mind were, ‘Who is Madhav? What does he actually want to achieve? What led to this state?’

He read another e-mail.

Hey, Madhav! I love your poems. I was crying by the end of it. I feel like I’m stuck in this vicious cycle too.

Such e-mails and messages made him shudder. There were thousands of them and they dogged his thoughts even though he tried to ignore these strangers’ attempts to resonate with his art.

He poured some more whisky into his glass, and tried to empty his mind. He played some Bob Marley as the alcohol’s familiar burn began to overtake his senses.

He closed his eyes, his lids weighing down heavily. Something was consuming his thoughts, something he had never shared with anyone.

He’d recently moved into a room on the terrace of his family’s house. He had just finished the last semester of MBA from Delhi College of Management Studies after completing his graduation from an engineering college, where he was the university topper. Companies had started visiting the campus and he was supposed to suit up for an interview with a big marketing firm. He went through the guidelines he had received from the person in charge of training and placement.

He couldn’t find a reason to stay awake. No words, no friends, nothing except those fan mails and a nagging girlfriend.

He went out on to the terrace and looked at the sky exhaling its last few spurts of rain before the onslaught of the Delhi winter. He gazed upwards, but could not see any stars.

He returned to his room, gulped down another glass of whisky and stood in front of the mirror placed in a corner of his room; the only thing that he would talk to at night. He stared at his face, framed by thick black-rimmed spectacles. His vision started to blur. He realized with a slight jolt that he’d become markedly lean and pale. The image became hazier. He placed his hand on the mirror and slowly caressed the bearded cheek in his reflection.