She pushed the window of her room; there was a fray between clouds and the streaks. A frisson of fright branched over her when a jaded streak of light insouciantly made its entry through the hanging curtain otherwise dull and dead. The streak was, however, feeble yet it brought a poignant thrill into her room like a fresh breeze after brutal blazing of the summer sun. She gazed at it like an innocent babe without even breaking the line of contact. There was a wave hurling her breast further than its confines, making her to anchor her ship propelled by benevolent commands somewhere to monitor the demand of the vortex. The streak ended at a flower vase placed a bit higher on the table fixed at the corner. The artificial lace and petals all of a sudden appear pulsing like a human heart; the curves were well visible like Aysha’s own folds packed in her mind. Within a jiffy, she absolved her denser and coiled threads of imaginations and pulled her diary to make a note of the proceedings. Atmosphere within the room was reasonably better than outside the balcony. What made her descriptions more prescriptive, what made her to draw the sketch of the room, was nothing but her getaway from the frame. She was strolling in the valley of utopia, where factual and actual experiences are wrought in the kiln of kindled bowl of love and fancy, where harmony sets cacophony in rows to obey the command of powerful emotions aided with imaginations of the highest order to construct a castle up above the dome of non- violent vapours. Aysha this time hardly bothered to turn the pages of diary to register her current state of mind, but straight away in the ‘Fancy Flying’ section she poured her heart out willingly.
“For what reason, the streak seems shaming at my vase, may be for cultivating a habit of nursing artificial flowers to derive pleasure. Pleasure, is it subjective? How come pleasure is derived from unreal objects, I have bedecked the corner, only natural flowers grow in abundance in garden, not in my room. Should flowers be carried to the bedrooms? Perhaps for a change. Yes, for their fragile frill and aroma, they are welcome guest, just after hours, withering follows them like death to human beings. With this streak, my room is exposed once again; it has exposed all my fanciful thinking. This thin beam of powerful sun has once again melted all my wax sculptures, reduced them to an ugly heap of molten wax, dull and dreadful. How now this room once more looks like a slaughter house, where all artificial things are being butchered brutally, ravished beyond repairs. The dolls and toys on the shelves too appear losing their shape, size and texture. Man is man if only he can manage to live with realities around, no escapism, no midways and no justifications. Real flower though are short lived, yet they carry fragrance that creates a mood, but artificial bunch needs more care. You need to dust them, spray over them scent of choice, they too live with us, yet they with time loses grace like childhood craze. Bringing real flowers, so fragile and delicate in the room anyway is a healthy sign of happy life, yet one has to keep in mind the limitations of time. With us, the flowers both down in the dale and confined to vases too wither with time. Man tries his best to make them lost longer, but like his own impermanence, his ideals, icons and prototypes decay with each passing day, leaving everyone to sigh in seclusion. Now that this streak of light has recreated my room with more power and passions, a change is on cards. A frail beam has taught me a lesson today, I must confess. How my fanciful days have been challenged by a ray of light. Hope is what one has to keep alive. No more nursing to what seems artificial. Reality is beautiful. One has to bear in mind the marvel of real life, the significance of natural objects around. Man has fallen in the trap of beauty devoid of permanence, beauty can never be fashioned by skill, and it must be accepted as in most cases in its natural form. Simplicity is the supreme beauty. No more vases in this room, no more paper toys and dolls, me now enough good to festoon my room with real life objects.
Let the window give place to more warmth, must live to see more light to explore my unexplored recesses of heart, let light be all over the room, let it expose all my limitations, let it bring more blaze into this room to burn my papers , stick notes exhibiting hopelessness, despair and despondency. Let Oh! Sun settle in my room to dry out decomposed and dead rats of my rotten philosophy, self created fears and ill begotten ailments. Now that this ray of light is moving slowly to occupy my desk, every bit of this diary is inhaling like a healthy man with such vigor and valor well placed over the purple cheeks, squeezing the pain of dejection out of the tissues, making them fresh and gelid. Let more light be in this room, let down the balcony Romeo be no more hiding behind the hedge, let him climb like a hope, let me meet him under broad day light, let fear and vanish with dawn of new day promising more sunshine and warmth, reflecting more radiance to identify reckless toys that never satiate my passion to ponder over what is ‘Real’. Light is beautiful, ugly is darkness, it drags one down to den and leaves one there to be ignored by fears and fierce invisible ghosts more fearful than fear psychosis. Darkness motivates a feeble mind to recreate ghosts, but the light breaks the very edifice of fear. Light beats ghosts and ghostly influences, makes everything visible. Even our own heart, our own soul and body”.