From where do impulses generate? We can’t say, but maybe they generate from thoughts, as a violent man can’t get poetic impulses. But they are connected to the subconscious too, as humans change their lives on frantic impulses. Impulses turn our worlds upside down — they are dangerous. So, should we follow them or not . . .
And I ran, responding to the impulse.
In the auditorium there was an interesting lecture — at least the brochure stated that — so we got separated. Me and my friend and all the other students and teachers. After I got bored, we came outside. The reason my mind was not in the auditorium — was it the heavy, word-awarded lecture itself or the absence of the person I wanted there — I can’t say. Just before I experienced the surge to run, I was observing the dark violet flowers in the science garden (no, not the botanical garden). These flowers are common in summer, but I never knew what they are called. I just know how to translate their language. Then suddenly, I was told that she had left, alone. Swapping my phone with my friend’s, I ran, responding to the impulse.
Running through the crowd, I got over the parking lot, clearing the bikes and all, then I became the wind. It was the town I spent my whole childhood in.
Not so fond of group visits. As even though every individual in it has their own aim, plan, when the mob is formed, it gets aimless. That’s why I prefer to visit/travel/explore alone or with the person I want to experience it with. Although both of these scenarios were absent today, there is a terrorism called ‘compulsory’ you have to experience in academics. So, I left for the destination very late. On the way, I came to know that the second condition had been met already — the person I wanted to experience it with was already there! And I became the wind.
As I ran, responding to the impulse, I flashed through the possibilities and routes for the buses from my old town to her destination. There were two. I chose the second one, which was likely to have high chances. Though my mind was telling me to check the first one. And . . . she was not there. Sad, cursing myself for parting with the group, I sat there until I remembered the color of violet flowers, which was exactly like the color of her top today. And the second thing I came to know — I had called her through my friend’s phone . . . She responded with the name of the first bus stop, and I started the bike. And responding to the impulse, I became the wind.
The day was tiring. Yesterday was another function held in regard to science day by our department. Last year, we both designed that function, and it was then I had known that she had my wicket, clean-bowled. Many more incidents followed, much water has passed under the bridge, different news like her upcoming marriage, some more questions and some more NO’s. After writing through the night, restless sleep, with zero enthusiasm, toaday I left for the destination very late. On the way, I came to know she’s already there! And I became the wind.
So many places I had to show her — one of them is my old town, the old streets, the old buildings, structures, places, my school, college, the parks, grounds, temples, my hardships, my breakovers, my past, the apartment of my bygone love, and my people from a gone era and what was left behind. Even if now they are changed, I wanted to show it all to her, guide her through it, Why? She had something out of words that the town had or the town had something I experienced which she was made of. The second I noticed this, I got clean-bowled a year prior. The second thing I came to know — I had called her through my friend’s phone . . . She responded with the name of the first bus stop, and I started the bike.
The whole day, I was in her circumference, in the Bluetooth range. We walked together — not the way I wanted, but okay. Ate together — not the way I wanted, but okay. Sat together — not the way I wanted, but okay. It was a soothing breeze before the tornado. The tornado of her marriage, and I am here to face it. If I don’t run through it, I will never be the same again. I knew it, and I want to change. I still write for her, though I know she never reads it. I was carrying a letter today for her, which was meant for a special day, but before today, I never carried it. Why today? Impulse. Then suddenly, I was told that she had left, alone. I ran, responding to the impulse, through the crowd, flashing through the possibilities and routes for the buses from my old town to her destination.
Hopping and huffing, I was standing in front of her, left the bike before the bus stop, because there were zero chances to make her directly sit on it right away. Silence followed. After sitting beside her, settling down, rambling through the right words, I asked . . . Every time I approached her in a hurry or under her aura or my nervousness, I uttered some crazy words, then watched the flow break. From my experience, this time I was not letting it happen. Gathering courage, I asked . . .
‘Shall I drop you?’
Not a single word more. Not even ‘Will you come with me?’ or ‘Let me drop you’ or anything. Then I heard one more NO of the many. In soft language this time. At least something is changing — not the way I wanted, but okay. Silence followed. Then I watched her trembling under fear, I think, felt sorry for her that she had to deal with me. Then I watched the closing bus door.
The impulse, the old town, and the violet flowers returned with me today. Today, the summer starts. Or did they leave in the bus? can’t say for sure.
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