A message alert on my phone woke me up today morning. It’s a Sunday and I realized that I had overslept. The message was from a dear friend who resides in the building next to mine. I knew that he wouldn’t send a forward message to me on a Sunday morning. Curiosity helped my heavy eyelids open. The text told me to read a particular page in the newspaper. Could it be some sensational news? But my friend knows that sensationalism fails to suck me in. It had to be something else. I grabbed my cup of morning tea and started whipping through the pages of the newspaper.
A man. A young man who had dreams. Though he has a name, I prefer to keep him nameless. He was closely associated with my friend at the institute where he took his masters. The article was about a meeting this young man had had with a popular film-director. This ‘meeting’ was one among many in the basket of his dreams. He had shared his creative aspirations and some of his amateur work with the director who clearly seemed impressed with the enthusiasm of the young man. One of his dreams had come true.
A man. A young man who HAD dreams. He does not dream anymore for, he rests in silence. Precisely a week back, on a cursed day, he decided to bring his life to an end. It had come as a shock to my friend and a few others who shared some kinship with this man. I remember seeing and feeling the grief that my friend shared with me. I do not know this man yet my heart reaches out to him. I don’t want to be judgmental about his decision or the circumstances that drove him to take that decision. All I would do is pray for his soul to be at peace.
Millions would read the article today without knowing who this man is. Some may admire him and some may envy him for having been lucky enough to have had a meeting with that popular film-director without knowing that he does not exist anymore. The director himself may recall the meeting with this man and may be kind enough to go through his amateur scripts and poems which would eventually find its way to some corner of the shelf if not the trash, not knowing that the young man would never come knocking at his door again.
Finally, all will be forgotten. His name may not be remembered; hence I kept him nameless. Elaboration of circumstances is futile because time is irreversible. Why did I choose to write about this man whom I had never met and to whom I had never spoken? Why am I writing today about someone whom the world is going to forget tomorrow? Why write about the grief that is fugacious?
I had not decided to sit down and write today when I woke up in the morning. There was nothing waiting to be expressed. But after reading about this man today, I felt an impulse to give him some space on my blog. He is not here today to read this, but this would be read by at least a few, whose hearts would stop by to pray for his soul.
May his soul transcend this realm knowing that one of his dreams came true. All other dreams are like little lambs wandering…following the sunlight. Wandering silently.
Stop by when you see them... stop by to listen to the Silence of the Lambs.
