A Prose of Melancholy

I won’t lie to you. This is a result of an idea that was planted in my head. I won’t mention who it is, because he was quite drunk when he told me the story. But this post is the person I’ve created by adding flesh upon the skeleton he’s provided, and I’m grateful to have him as a friend.


“I shut my eyes and all world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.”

-Sylvia Plath


I don’t know what scared me the most. Was it the fact that I was standing at the edge of a cliff; In the horizon of an endless abyss, waiting; to engulf me. Or was it the pitch-black night that had fallen all around. Maybe it was the thunder and the lightning, that reminded me where was I standing, for a moment and then left me alone,


How did I end up here?


The answer was obvious. The years I’ve lived my life. The illusion of free will and freedom of choices had led me here. The path that I’ve walked, the roads I’ve taken and the place where I stand today, is of my own making. I brought myself here. But where do I go now? Maybe I can just walk back, one step at a time and go back where I came from? Maybe even back to the warm womb where I had nothing to worry and nothing to care about.


But that’s not possible.


I can only regret now. I can hear my mind telling me ‘if only’. ‘Choices’ are the most dangerous thing that any human brain has to offer.


I can hear a clock… tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…


Is my time running out? Are my choices running out? I really don’t know. The thunder cracks again. A storm is coming. I can feel it in my face. I can feel the ice cold drops of water tickling down my cheeks.


Has my past finally caught up with me?


I tried to remember where I was yesterday. But everything seemed bit of a blur. One can easily remember where he’s been for the last few days, that is the basic purpose of memory. But somehow, I am out of luck. Maybe… If I can try a little harder… Maybe I’ll remember something.

“Set Me Free” – (C) Neelotpal Sinharoy, 2016, All Rights Reserved


As I started to think; closed my eyes and rattled my brain. When I opened my eyes, I was in a different place. I was in a city in fact… Standing in the middle of a road, all I could see was cars moving away from me and all I could hear is the cacophony of the traffic. It was daytime. So maybe this is where I was yesterday? The street seemed familiar. I know this place well. But still, something seemed off. As if something was missing. Something that was supposed to be there. But it is not. Then I realized. I can see no colors. And by that,


I mean that it seemed like the colors are squeezed out from everything. What remains are the stains of the ash; grey… lifeless… as if someone carefully burnt all the colors away.


And then I saw him…


A man… walking towards me. Surprisingly, he was the only painted object in this miserable street. As he approached me, I saw a disgusting smirk on his lips. I had nowhere to go… I can’t escape him… I had to stand as he stood in front of me and said,


“Do you write what’s right?

Is right’s what you write?

If you write things the right way;

Then write is your right way…”


This ridiculous poem, (if it can even be called that;) started ringing in my ears, like a loud church bell, growing louder and louder until it turned into a static which rang my eardrums like a merry-go-round. I closed my eyes, and covered my ears with my hands. Before I could do that, I saw that man, saw the whole street, everything is vibrating; as if I’m going into trance.


My eardrums are going to burst. It’s pure agony. I should be bleeding from my ears any moment now…


Then it all stopped. When I opened my eyes, I was in a mansion. In the master bedroom, In a king-sized bed; all alone. Before I could get down on the floor, a man walked in. He looked like a servant. Ever so gently, he put a velvet slipper in my feet, and left silently. As I came out of the bedroom, and came down the stairs, I smelled bacon. A warm breakfast was ready, and waiting by it were two more servants who looked the same. It was a lavish dining room. All sparkling, and a chandelier above my head. I could feel the floor carpet through the slippers. I could see oil paintings of men I don’t recognize. As I came near the dining table, one of those servants pulled a chair for me and the other one uncovered my plate. There was an angel sculpture on the table. It was a cupid. I looked at my plate. I had plenty of omelets, breads and bacons. Even more than one could eat. I looked in front, and saw the servant twins waiting for me to finish. Waiting eagerly. I looked around again. I had that uncanny feeling of things being out of place again. Am I the one out of place? Am I on someone else’s house? Or this is where I belong? As I picked up a piece of bacon from the fine porcelain plate and put it in my mouth. It felt like the best bacon I’ve ever had.


But that too for a moment.


That bacon turned sour in my mouth. It was bacon no more, just raw meat. I spit it out, furiously and next thing I know I woke up coughing in a room. An overly familiar room. A stinky, moist room. The red bricked walls reeked of saline moisture and rat droppings. The room had only one window and one door. The light from the window was sufficient


enough to keep the room lit, for now. I was wearing a shabby shirt and an equally shabby pants.


I know this place, all too well…


This room with brick walls and no furniture, but just a bed. This room which reeks of moisture, cold and… defeat…


“I shut my eyes and all world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)”





P.S : Inbox Me, If You want to know who he is…

neelotpals@zoho.com / neelotpals.sarahah.com





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