Broken Glass

She looked through the window in front of her. The wind blew decisively, making the tree outside shiver violently. Silence resumed but it offered the woman no comfort. She spent a few more moments looking through the frosty glass before she rose to her feet. She walked towards the door, her steps so graceful that she may have been gliding across the marble floor.

She entered a large corridor, dimly lit. The halls of the mansion seemed to be filled with an emptiness that nothing could fill. Oil paintings, hanging on the walls, came alive in the candlelight, their lifeless eyes following her every step. Yet she continued her lonely stroll, unnerved by the shadows that seemed to come to life when you turned your back on them. The air began to freshen up as she approached the living room.

Moonlight flooded in through the large French windows and its beams were caught by a grand chandelier, the ornamental piece and pride of the living room. It cast a deathly pall on the furniture in the room. Walking past the ornate armchairs, the woman reached for the door. It opened, creaking reluctantly. The air, now clear, was as cold as ice. The wind blew no more and the trees around the house stood still, surveying the ground coldly.

She continued walking and stopped at the edge of the courtyard, in front of a solitary slab of stone. The woman bent closer to read the inscription. "Here lies Lady Alice Penderfield, who lived a contented life and whose passing was eased by a bed of roses. She will be missed by her ever-loving husband Lord Penderfield." A wry smile eased her sharp features, followed by an icy laugh that cut through the night air. "What good is a bed of roses after sleeping on shards of broken glass?" she whispered to herself, as she walked into the desolate night.

Home Once More

Trivial things have begun to matter now. I toss and turn - my bed always seems too hard and my pillows too high. I find myself craving every cuisine that I hear of. To add to it all, I am perennially broke. Staying away from home brings to the forefront everything that was, earlier, too small to worry about. My daily emergencies consist of kurtas running colour and inner-wear disappearing into thin air.

Though the room I stay in now offers some familiarity, it does not give me the same sense of comfort that even the thought of home brings to me. Waking up with just enough time to get dressed and leave has become a luxury that I cannot afford. I lose myself in my thoughts, wishing I was walking back through the doors of my house only to be greeted by silence and a hungry cat. Still deep in thought, my hand moves to the fan regulator, only to remember that it does not work. Like a lot of things in my life.

There are times when I long to be left alone. I am finally learning to shut the rest of the world out. With my earphones in place and a book in my hand, Perdeler by Apocalyptica and Sebnem Ferah provides the perfect foil to Anton Chekhov's engrossing stories. "Ere I had learned to drink of tears from the chalice of life..." sings Yonich, a character from one of Chekhov's tales. And I find myself at home again.