The last few days have been a roller coaster ride for me; collecting tons of info, cross-checking them for authenticity, and sorting out the most suitable— all while trying to relax a bit at the weekend and worrying about running out of time simultaneously. And there is family business to take care of— the most important of them all. So, sparing a moment for me was synonymous with daydreaming.
That’s how contextual responsibility looks like, I assume— doing what you have to do irrespective of the willingness or capability. But it was comforting knowing that all those hard work translates into one thing; happiness. Not necessarily you have to be at the centre of the happiness to be motivated to go beyond your capability or undergo hardship to a certain degree; seeing your beloved happy does the job quite fairly.
That's not the issue here.
While I was distracted by some sickening thoughts I wish I could evade, I noticed this table fan kept in the corner of my bed. It’s a battery-run fan with 12” three plastic blades capable of opening the door of the nearest heaven when electricity takes a nap to recharge itself without prior notice and mostly, in unexpected times, say in the middle of the night or during the day when mr. sun is in the brightest mood.
But the fan looks dejected, devoid of the brute force that lies inside the hood; it is looking outside of the north window, although the lower body faces the east. Lifelessness seems to have sucked all the juiciness it entails. What’s left is the carcass of a bustling soul that would find the greater meaning of its presence by cooling down the guests, oscillating from right to left and vice-versa. The declined load shedding has put its usage at bay, and the speck of dust blown by the mischievous wind has found an innocent host to rest before the wiper takes it all into its custody, as turning in is not the word dust is familiar with.
I take a closer look. Stare at the fan for a while. Nah, it shows no sign of amusement. Overpowered by uncontrollable stillness, the flickering hope of walking in tandem with the ceiling fan fails to illuminate the desperateness those blades seek. Unmoved by the wavering dance of the mosquito net adjacent to the west window, it seems to be crying inside. With me, joins the toys kept opposite the bed, slouching on the wall of the showcase; the yellow teddy bear is whispering to the pink doll about the indifference of the white table fan.
Reminiscing the past, perhaps. The minion with its weird appearance whispers to the long air of that grey puppy. In a matter of moments, the toys from the showcase's upper deck support the gossip below. Among them, that camouflaged tank carrier deems to be most concerned with this stillness. Perhaps it can sense the loneliness. Poor thing, it sighs.
The tranquillity is swallowing the room and has stirred up the emotion of the deserted toys. The duck sitting at the top of the tower has not come out of captivity for days, and the globe hasn’t revolved around the holder for the past few days. The room is tidy, pillows are in their respective place, a plastic elephant is sitting in the corner without interruption.
The kids are not at home— it’s just getting unbearable.
Photo by Egor Myznik on Unsplash