by Ram Sundaram
Many horrendous tragedies befell the millions that came before me in this world, and I give due respect to their suffering. But the frustration of being buried neck-deep with an itchy nose is unlike any other. It is a fate that would likely drive even the sanest to madness. More than the unpleasant sensation, it is the simplicity of the condition that I find frustrating. It would take but a moment to scratch my nose, and yet I am unable to do so.
I pause to consider the value of friendship. In the past, when I’ve been helpless and vulnerable, I’ve usually had a friend nearby to rely on. But now I’m not only incapacitated, but I’m also apparently alone in this terrifyingly small world, devoid of companionship.
“Help me!” I cry out into the sheer silence.
A squirrel appears by my side, his own nose twitching as he hugs the earth, searching for food. He stands before me, oddly entranced. My head must seem to him like a giant nut. He comes closer to investigate. I can imagine him pulling out a measuring tape to check whether my head would fit in the trunk of his car. Or he might have been wondering whether his wife would approve of such an extravagant purchase. Humourless as my predicament is, I cannot help but smile at the idea of this squirrel possessing such human characteristics. His nose twitches again as he contemplates me further. He does appear human… perhaps even more than I do.
I feel an odd sense of kinship towards this creature. I remember having driven down a dark street one night, when a squirrel appeared suddenly before my car. I had swerved desperately to miss him and had crashed into a parked car as a result. My mercy had cost me a fortune in insurance. Perhaps this squirrel is here now to repay that act of mercy. It might not have been the same squirrel, but perhaps it came here on behalf of its kind.
My hope turns to impatience though, when the little critter merely stands still. “Do something,” I demand. The itch is becoming unbearable, and I begin yelling curses and profanities at the creature, threatening its life and the lives of all squirrels everywhere if it does not come to my aid soon. But despite all my abuses, it remains unmoved. I begin to wonder if it is here simply to mock me. Days fade to night, and nights drift into days…
The squirrel hasn’t left my side—in fact, he’s hardly stirred.
There was a time when I had caught butterflies with my fingers, a time when I had chased birds away with a wave of my hand, and frightened squirrels just by walking towards them. Is that why I have captured this squirrel’s interest? Perhaps I had chased it away once, back when I’d been a large, looming monster, fearsome and capable. And so he beholds me in disbelief now, wondering how I became this pathetic, helpless object, unworthy of awe or fear. He obviously doesn’t fear me, for he knows that with my circumstances being what they are, I don’t pose any sort of a threat to him or any other living creature. I can yell and threaten him till I lose my voice—he won’t budge, because he knows I can’t follow through on my threats.
Helplessness.
To a living creature, there is no word more frightening than helplessness. I say so with confidence, because I myself am helpless now. Whether I live or die depends on sheer chance. I am utterly reliant on the hands of fate, as it shoots darts into the board of my life. I start to wonder if I had ever possessed any control over my fate, even back when I’d been a fully functional, mobile being. Or had the reality I had taken for granted been the most consuming dream of all?
Am I dreaming now, or is this real? Am I real, or is this a dream?
I consider how similar those questions seem, and yet how different they actually are. In one question I am the dreamer; in the other, I myself am the dream. It had taken me a lifetime to recognise that distinction, and even longer to understand it. But understanding the difference now hasn’t helped me decipher an answer. What I find frustrating is not the absence of answers, but the sheer abundance of them. They’re everywhere, and yet, like fruits that dangle teasingly from atop a towering tree, they are beyond my reach.
The itch is still there. Its persistence has been met by my defiance, and the two are locked in a battle for supremacy. However I have a more pressing concern: boredom. I am bored and have grown weary of this tedium. I crave some colour, something eventful—anything, really.
As if in answer to my wishes, a lone traveller passes by. He carries nothing on him, and is dressed in a black suit, with a tall top hat. He bows to me, quite ceremoniously, and I indulge in a chuckle as I imagine myself trying to bow back. Thankfully, my behaviour doesn’t offend him.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“A performer,” he declares, with another bow.
He juggles artfully, emulating the skill and prowess that I myself had once boasted. His timing is impeccable, his routine ambitious, and his execution flawless. At the end of the first act, he bows again, but with pride this time, and a sense of accomplishment. When he tips his hat to acknowledge my cheers, a squirrel jumps out of it. Boldly, it scurries up to the other squirrel already staring at me, and the two sit together, still as stone. The magician (much to my annoyance) doesn’t appear to have noticed either of them, and continues with his act.
He rubs his hands together, while smiling knowingly at me. Flakes of lovely, white snow fall from his palms. The world around us turns dark, and the noise of his low whistle drifts eerily through the silence. His eyes never leave mine, and they shine with the brilliance of the silver white rain. His whistles echo loudly until the wind answers them with long, mournful howls. With the wind comes more snow, falling directly from the sky itself and not just his hands. He spreads his arms and gazes at the Heavens, as if claiming the skies as part of his act. I recognise the smile on his face, for I myself have often worn it. At once proud and reckless, it reveals a man who is smart, wise, and yet undeniably naïve. I find him so familiar that I wonder if he and I are the same person, trapped within a common world. Or rather, is the world trapped within us?
His body suddenly explodes and turns into ten more squirrels. They leap over and around each other, before assuming positions adjacent to the two already present. A dozen of the little critters now sit before me, with rapt attention and unwavering curiosity. Are they real or am I imagining them? The first one appeared when I wished for relief from my itchy nose, and yet it didn’t help me. Why? I had expected it to help; I had wanted it to help. I still want it to help—
The first squirrel hops out of line and approaches me. Paw outstretched, it reaches for my nose and somehow scratches the exact spot where the itch troubles me. The touch of the squirrel lifts the fog over my thoughts. I feel my consciousness growing. My awareness drifts beyond just my mind, further and further still. It reaches the first squirrel, then the others, the trees, the sand, the sea, and the skies; it spreads far and wide through this world until it encompasses this entire existence. I feel as if as if I am one with this reality.
We are one.
I think of the cow, the farmer, the butterfly, the girl, the squirrels, and the magician. I think of this earth, of this sky and even that marauding sea. We are all one and the same. Our consciousness is shared, and our existence entwined. This then is the ultimate answer: the Universe is one person, one mind, and I am merely a part of the consciousness. But one question remains unanswered: is all this a dream or is it real?
I awake with a start.
Sunlight floods in through the tiny gap between the drapes. What time is it, I wonder? The nurse must have forgotten about me, because I’ve been left here by the window all night. My eyes pan down mournfully to the rest of my body, sitting lifelessly in this old wheelchair. Fragments of the dream echo within my mind… I remember the helplessness of being buried, unable to move my hands or my legs. The vulnerability I’d felt then was no different to what I feel now, to what I feel every day in this life.
I hear a muffled crash from somewhere behind me, and my mind orders my neck to pivot so that it can determine the source of the noise
. But my mind and my body don’t communicate anymore. They haven’t communicated in many years, I would assume.
My nose itches.
I grit my teeth and hope that someone checks on me soon. My hands lie folded under this blanket, unresponsively. I frown at them, concentrating hard in the hope that I might beat my condition, produce a miracle, and regain the use of my limbs. But, like the thousands of other times I’ve tried this, nothing happens.
I think back to the dream… it had been haunting because it had seemed so real. It wasn’t very different from my current reality. In fact, in an odd sense, I might have preferred that existence to this. To sit in a wheelchair and watch my life wither away is torture. But to be buried from the neck below, and left in the middle of an apocalyptic world… in a strange sense, it gave me more control, because the world was within my mind, and I alone controlled it.
I hear a little girl laughing.
The noise startles me. It had come from outside the window, just beyond these concealing drapes. I close my eyes and listen carefully:
I hear the gentle voice of a cow; the rhythmic pattering of a magician juggling; the chatter of many squirrels, and I even hear the low rumble of a hungry sea.
The nurse walks in just then, talking animatedly as she tidies up the room. Normally, I would have treasured this opportunity for conversation, but now my thoughts lie in disarray. I review my past as far as I can remember. What had happened the previous night? What had come before the dream? The questions circle my head uselessly, but I find no answer. I know that the answer lurks beyond these drapes. I could discover whether I am caught in a labyrinth of dreams, or merely paranoid, pushed to the point of imagining sounds that aren’t there.
“Anything I can get for you before I bring in your breakfast?” the nurse asks, at the end of a long speech that I have carelessly missed.
“Yes,” I reply, my voice trembling. “Could you open the drapes?”
The drapes fly open in one crisp, fluid motion.
I gaze into my reality.
V
Reflection
I was told that these stairs would take me home.
“But I live far, far away,” I had protested, gesturing to the distance, beyond the oceans where memories swim, and the mountains where children grow, and even past the sunrise, where dreams begin. “How can these stairs lead to my home? There are so few of them.”
I was wrong. The stairs rose into the persistent fog, and they climbed steadily, while the hours passed reluctantly. I could see nothing through the mist but half a dozen stairs at a stretch: three beneath me, and three above me. The rest of the way was hidden.
I had expected exhaustion to set in, but there was still ample strength in my legs, and enough vigour in my heart. The choice of giving up and climbing back down was always available; but my curiosity had been aroused. I had to know where these stairs led.
In the chilly silence, I heard voices within my own mind. My mother told me that I was inconsiderate, “You should have told us you would be off climbing stairs, so we wouldn’t have worried.” As her voice faded into the echoes, my father reminded me that I was a failure, “You could never climb all those stairs. You know our neighbour’s son? The doctor? Well he could have climbed those steps three at a time. In fact, I bet he’d have already reached the top.”
Their voices renewed my will and I picked up my pace, daring to even sprint a few lengths. Suddenly the stairs ended, and I came upon a dark room. The moment I entered it, a bright screen appeared on the far wall. It was some sort of a theatre, and a movie was about to start. I marched down the aisle and sat at the front. I picked up a tub of popcorn.
A couple appeared on screen, cradling an infant in their arms. They were my parents, only younger than I’d ever seen them. They were smiling at the camera and showing off their new born child. I was a beautiful baby. I watched my younger self on film greedily, a luxury I’d never indulged in before. It was odd to see myself that way, to have no clear memory of those times, of that day or even that one single moment. I kept putting my hand in my mouth, as my large eyes darted this way and that, curious yet confused by the voices of the adults, who kept asking me to look at the camera. I smiled at my younger self and gazed into my own eyes, brimming with more innocence and hope than I’d ever had since. I was filled with a sense of… disgust… disgust? Yes, disgust. I was disgusted. I wanted that child to die in its parents’ arms. I hated it, despised its glaring weaknesses, its fragility and its obvious vulnerability.
“Destroy it!” I cried at the couple on screen. “Drown it! Bury it! Kill it!” I threw popcorn at the screen, broke off the armrests on the chairs and hurled them too. I tore the chairs themselves in anger, wept in frustration, and screamed in agony. I wanted that child to die!
The screen faded to black, and the room went quite dark.
I sat down, breathing heavily. The silence and the darkness were both comforting. I was confused and embarrassed, but mostly I was disappointed. I had expected these stairs to take me home. However, I had merely been returned to my past, and exposed to feelings that I neither understood nor recognised. I felt cheated. These stairs had promised much and delivered little.
I paused long enough to compose myself, and then returned to the stairs, prepared to climb back down. But as I left the room, I realised the stairs hadn’t ended yet—they climbed higher still, beyond this theatre. Where did they lead to, I wondered?
I set off climbing again. Clouds swirled around me. It rained for a while, and I shivered in the cold. It was uncomfortable, but I couldn’t abandon the quest and walk back down, so I continued. Thankfully, the sun soon shone again, bright and clear. I was very high up, and looking down I could see a vast, beautiful world. It looked oddly small from up here, and seemed somehow insignificant. I couldn’t help but feel that these stairs were more important, and that my quest to reach home was more relevant than anything else on earth. Perhaps that was just my ego stretching its muscles, but I felt distinctly detached from the rest of existence. I was alone, and I recognised that this journey was one of personal significance.
An hour later I came upon a circular platform, which looked like a kind of observation deck. I approached the railing at the end of the deck and gazed out into a vast, open field. An enormous army stood beneath, poised ready for a long march.
“There you are, sire!” a man called from behind me.
A General approached me, donned in military gear, and decorated with many medals and ribbons. He looked relieved to see me. “The men were growing restless waiting for you.”
“Waiting? For what?” I asked, startled.
“For you to lead them, my Lord,” he answered, equally surprised by my answer.
“Lead them?” I gazed down at the army. “I cannot lead them…” I murmured, my voice trembling even as I considered it. “I am no soldier.”
He wasn’t listening. He opened a closet in the corner of the room and rummaged through it. “Your armour, my Lord,” he said, when he returned.
In his hands lay censorship, honesty, conformism, and prejudice.
“I cannot wear these,” I declared at once.
“But these are our weapons, sire,” he said, regarding me as if I had lost my mind. “What else can you carry out into battle but the army’s standard issue weaponry?”
“If I am to fight, I will carry my own weapons,” I insisted. I showed him individuality, tolerance, imagination, and fearless rebellion.
“This is madness,” he cried, all trace of respect lost from his manner. “If you insist on carrying those in battle,” he said, eyeing my weapons with disgust, “Then you will march alone, and without our protection.” Saying, he left the room in a cloud of disgust.
I went back to the railing and gazed down at the army. I saw the General ride out on his horse. He was soon at the head of the
ranks, issuing orders to them. Then slowly the entire army marched forward. Their pace was remarkably sluggish; at this rate they would never reach far. Had I an opportunity, I would have preferred to ride alone, to ride fast and without restriction, even if I would have been left vulnerable in their absence. I would have been unprotected riding alone, and would perhaps have suffered harm or eventual death, but I would have seen much more of the world before my death than they. It would have been the price to pay for freedom.
But my purpose was not to fight battles or lead marches.
I returned to the stairs and resumed climbing.
The next door I came upon led into a circus. I had never glimpsed an arena so large, or an audience so boisterous. The stadium seemed to stretch for miles, and each seat was filled with an eager, vociferous spectator. In the middle of the stadium was a large, circular stage, and on it were the performers. They were many, and varied in talent, skill and persona. The audience cheered loyally, laughing at the jokes, marvelling at the feats, and celebrating the triumphs. Personally, I was more interested in the audience than the performers, and studied their reactions intently. Their praise was genuine, motivated by sincere appreciation for the performer, rather than a mere obligation to respond. They seemed to share in the performer’s success, as though they themselves had been part of the act. And I realised it was because they were a part of the act, a most integral part at that, for they acted as a kind of stimulus and motivated the performers to do better. The more I watched them, the more compelled I felt to earn some of their praise and appreciation. Shamelessly, in an effort to share in the performers’ accolades, I too chased the limelight. I leapt upon the stage and performed for the audience.