Hello, World

Hello, World. Welcome. Come right in, World.

Yes, right in through the porthole. Is it big enough for you? It sure is. Come in to my room.

***

My room has a table facing a small window on the wall. It is not your run of the mill rectangular box shape - the window, I mean, not the table. The table is just rectangular. The window though is special. It is a circular window. What would be called a porthole - if it were in a ship at sea. Sometimes it does feel like this house is a ship at sea. Like we are in a story. But, one thing makes it back real for me. It opens. The window opens towards inside the room. It has hinges in the middle. As much as I try, I cannot completely close it. It remains slightly open.

Can you imagine it? It is quite unlike anything I have seen anywhere else. I do not know why the builder of this house made such a window. Mine is the only house on the street that has such a contraption. I love it. I can see the world from the window - and you can see me through the porthole.

If you were to see me now, you would think I am writing - pencil in hand, deep in thought, notebook open in front of me. But I am not. Not right now. Any moment though. I am ready. They say a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind. If that were true, I am the spitting image of organization. Even the jade plant on my desk - I move it every hour to follow the sun. Right now, the morning rays falling on the window go across the desk to light up the plant. Everything except the plant is dark though, as if somehow the window decides.

Do you know why is it, World?

***

The bell rings just then, startling me. It is a single sudden sound. Abrupt. Tring.

My heart skips a beat. The pencil in my hand falls down. In the course of its fall , it scribbles a wobbly line across the page as it rolls down the table. It makes a slight sound as it drops on the floor.

A crack appears in the porthole at the same time - slowly but steadily growing - mimicking the scribble on the notebook.

I reach across the desk for the eraser and begin to clear the notebook. I am not ready to write yet. There is no inspiration.

The porthole becomes whole again right in front of my eyes - the broken shards of glass reaching across in an invisible handshake - healing themselves. The slight stain from my notebook is still reflecting as an aging print on the glass of the window. It is like a memory of the crack remains. I put a little more wrist into erasing the notebook and within no time, the glass is completely clear - as good as new.

The bell rings again. Twice this time. Tring, Tring.

"Coming!" I shout as I set the pencil back down - carefully this time. The window is precious.

I rush to the door. There is no shadow that I can see from the small gap underneath the door. It is strange but it is possible. If there is no light, there is no shadow.

I see from the peep hole on the door. Nothing is visible. There is nobody out there. I can see the corridor.

"Fear cuts deeper than sword" I repeat the mantra from George RR Martin. "I am Arya Stark." I become the water dancer, replacing fear with strength.

The bell rings again. Thrice now. Tring. Tring. Tring.

Whoever is outside is growing impatient. I wonder why something - is it something or someone - something that does not cast a shadow, is not visible to human eye - still need a door. How can a door keep it out?

I do not know what to do. I press hard but nothing comes forth. But I know the answer is at the desk, the porthole. I rush back to my desk and bring my pencil back up. My hand hovers over the page in indecision. I still my breath, tap into my inner self and with a quick scribble draw. What do I need the most right now? I draw it as if from muscle memory - without any context from my conscious mind. Arya would have chosen a small blade. Easier to turn. Fluidly transfer between hands. But I chose a gun. A revolver. Graphite black. Solid metal. Arya nods at my choice.

I pick the weapon up from the porthole as it materializes. It feels heavy. I can sense the cold of it's metal as well as the gravity acting on it. The gun settles nicely into my hand, as if it was always there. While I stand gazing at it, a quick breeze blows a dry leaf in from the slightly open window.

The leaf settles down on the notebook as I am about to close it. Is it from the Banyan tree across the street? I wonder if I could still climb it - I don't remember how long it has been since I stepped out.

The gun brings me back to the moment. I let the leaf be. It will serve as a bookmark for when I am back.

The bell rings again. Just once this time. Like the one/thing outside knows. It is not abrupt like the first ring, but more stubborn.

Tring.

It irritates me.

It feels as if whoever or whatever is outside is losing hope but hanging on. I go back to the door. Still no shadow.

I hold the gun in my right hand, and support my wrist with the left. I do not know why I think I can shoot. I have no recollection of ever shooting a gun, but still feel sure of myself. No hesitation. My hand is stable and sure. The same muscle memory that drove me to draw the gun - get it ‘draw the gun’ - takes over. My mind quietens, my breath slows down. I press the trigger, again, and again.

I have fired three shots through the door - covering from left to right. One of the bullets hit something. The shadow of a puddle appears in the small gap under the door. You don't need a shadow to bleed.

I erase the gun from my notebook. But what did I kill? I start looking out of the porthole again - waiting for inspiration. Wait! Was that inspiration I killed?

***

My notebook holds the dry leaf where I marked the page. There is nothing on the porthole though. It is crystal clear. Is it only the things that I myself draw?

I trace the boundary of the leaf on paper. It looks life like, as good as the gun I drew - probably better. But the window is still empty.

There's a knock on the door this time. Not the bell, a knock. I turn around. Of the three holes I made in the front door, two are still spilling light in, one is blocked.

There is movement on the third hole. what is it? I move in front and try to focus. It locks on to me!

It is an eye - looking in. Bile shoots up through my gut.

It takes a moment for the panic to subside as determination settles in. I ask aloud.

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

The room replies "That is the only time a man can be brave."

Once again, muscle memory kicks in and I visualize a real door. It is a steel clad, bullet proof, armored door - dark grey in color - three layers of dense material - way better than the cheap rickety medium density fiber wood contraption masquerading as a door right now. The shame of a door that currently stands between me and the eye looking in will not hold. The real door materializes in front of me in the porthole. I look down and the notebook has a description of what I had in mind - word by word in my handwriting.

I hinge the second door in quickly and block the eye out.

So, it is anxiety. Desperation. When I really need something, when I desire it with all my might, I can create anything. Inspiration strikes hard and I start to write feverishly - as if in a trance.

It is seven days later that I look back up from the desk. The desk itself is well lit, sunrays streaming in - lighting up everything. The jade plant is smiling at me. Was I watering it, feeding it during the forgotten week? Was I feeding watering myself? Was I alive for that week or am I alive only now? I look for signs of activity. The notebook is full of words and images now. They stare back at me, pleading. I look up - into the port hole.

There is a blue green sphere right there in front of me. Is it dead? I can sense what it is. I cannot name it. But it’s a beautiful globe - a brilliant glow surrounds it, the glow of possibilities. It is dead yes, but not for long. I smile as I hold it in my hands and bring it close to my mouth. I kiss and breathe life into it.

Hello, World.