‘It’ came to bed

The whistle pierced through the silent night. Then came a bang.

Thud! Thud!

She peeked out the window into the dark, cold hours. This time, the whistle rang sharper into her ears disturbing the stillness of night’s dark cloak.

The watchman cycled past, a whistle jutting from his chest pocket, a heavy stick clutched in his frozen hand. She let out a sigh of relief. The man went on sending silent waves of alert no one heard.

She trudged back to her desk, rubbing her sore back and stared at the clock as she sat back down in the spot she’d been glued to for hours.

3:30am, it read.

Her eyes drooped lifting the weight of her dreams. They burned, with both fatigue and exhilaration. She’d not gotten a wink of sleep. How could she? An unexpected guest had decided to overstay its welcome. She loved the guest; she’d freaked out of excitement when it knocked at the door at that ungodly hour. It danced all over the place, bouncing and sprinting wildly. However, as she tried to bid it farewell for the day, it stayed. She was exhausted, but what choice did she have?

It was not a very ideal bed partner. Wait, what?

No, I am not writing an adult fantasy! ‘It’ was an idea. Like Gilbert says in ‘Big magic’, “Ideas are disembodied, energetic life forms.”

How odd! Is this a welcome ritual into a writer’s life? Of course she did appreciate the courtesy, but It would hardly be of much help if she fell asleep onstage in a few hours. It did not adjust its visiting hours according to her schedule, not even an appointment!

“For God’s sake!” she cried desperately as she paced about the room trying to choreograph a goodbye. This was so not a good timing. With every passing minute, the performance drew closer. Surely It should understand how art worked. After all dance was a cousin in the family of art. It often passed between the art forms, passing its energy from one into another, connecting everyone with a thread of its consciousness. It had a will of its own.

Finally, one last attempt. She sat down with It and talked, barely able to move her weary hands across the keyboard. Soon, the blank page that stared at her was now flooded with ideas. How fascinatingly weird. Her fingers danced on the keyboard in a random rhythmic pattern, creating a ridiculously honest piece.

It grew twice the size in no time. What was It about, you ask? Art. As the stage awaited her, she found fear lurking in the wings. That’s when It came in, firstly not to carry her across forms of art but to help her with the nerves. As she accepted the guest in, without warning it grabbed her along the art of words.

Arghhhh! She could never have guessed that wondering about a Sitaharan piece would lead to these ideas. How on the earth did metaphors work! A chain leading from one thought to another until the original one is miles left behind. That’s how something pathetically brilliant is created.

She bargained with It.

“One more sentence, and then I’m hitting the bed,” she whispered to It through gritted teeth. It did not budge.

“Okay, another paragraph and then you leave.”

It is stubborn and never leaves until it gets its work done. However, it has a mind of its own. It hasgot to be blindly trusted but also never to be depended upon. Never know when it might disappear into thin air.

Her fingers shivered and her back gave in to the stiffness. Gathering the little energy she had left, she pressed SAVE and shut the laptop.

The hands of the clock now said it was 6.45am.

Satisfaction filled her lungs as she took a deep breath. And she knew, It had left. She couldn’t help smiling, despite the lack of sleep. A sparkle of energy ran down her spine. She had journeyed across with the moon, along the horizon and over high towers and hills and then dropping back down the other side of earth. She rose with the bold orange sun, as sunlight streamed through the gap in the window. The air smelled of fresh flowers now as the lingering scent of night blooming faded away. She had whispered tales of the dark with owls and sang in praise of dawn with sparrows.

She couldn’t explain it, but suddenly she just KNEW how to balance those arts. It might not return. Or maybe it would, during the program or a science lecture. There was no telling. But for now, she’d played her part. As she hit the bed for a quick nap, she knew something in her had changed. It had been a good guest.

If this was a welcome ritual into a writer’s arena, I am okay with it. Exciting, isn’t it? The mystery and the anticipation. The annoyance and risk. The satisfaction and discovery. Like Gilbert says- “This is how I want to spend my life. Collaborating to the best of my ability, with forces of inspiration that I can neither see, nor prove, nor command, nor understand.” I’d get familiar with the unexpected visits. After all, you don’t win a game you don’t play. And if this is how the game is in a writer’s arena, I’m in!