I heard a story. It took me to a cliff in the thick of the night - nearly pushed me off but didn't. I abandoned her before it slit my throat with its mocking laugh. I could see the turn straight back to my routine which knew something was wrong and was waiting for me in its cocoon with the engine on. A meek part of me wished to run back but I looked away. Burdened with an empty soul I jumped off. I kept pulling the ropes of the ocean towards me till I met a rock. Blood spilled off it. I let loose the ropes and the ocean breathed. My body which had now turned a pale yellow white dawned on that red sun. I carried that cold body through the water. I saw a door, pushed it - thinking it will lead me to a land beyond agony but it was ajar. I pushed, it didn't open. It didn't open. I did not relent. But it didn't open. Now my body was tired of the red flowing gown. So I laid there naked, waiting for that door to open. But it didn't. It was too late, I realised that meek part of me crossed me. I did run away, I didn't look away, I didn't jump off.
I can't reason why I was avoiding Peepli Live. And even when I watched it after some months, couldn't do so beyond the scene where the stringer dies, the story was constantly filling me with shame and when the old farmer died, I flinched. I have never seen that film again. It haunts me. I closed my eyes and hoped my murder was un-witnessed and deafened by the crowd that was with me - busy enjoying the film for nth time.
From that part of me who reached out for that door.