Master of Words, Worlds and None

This writer was a master of words and worlds. The desk was his companion for most of the day, and coffee his sole inspiration as a deadline approached. A kerchief placed in his pocket would help him dab away the sweat before they fell on his notes. It was always a few degrees too hot where he worked, which was at the corner of his room. But the location had become as much of a routine in his life as the monotony of dabbing away at his keys, broken only by the ringing of the bell or the alarm of his clock at the end of the hour. 

Today, he was not on his chair at the beginning of the hour, unlike other days. Nor was he thinking about restructuring the last sentence he had written or the last beat of his plot. His novel was the farthest thing away from his mind, because his wife was about to leave for a week. The trip had been a sudden one, with her getting a mail from her employers as well as the plane tickets in the middle of their dinner last night. She had packed her essentials and written down enough instructions for her husband to survive while she was gone. She was often away for work, which at times helped sustain the household more than the writer’s royalties when he was between projects. 

The routine was one both had been through before. With the passing of age, she no longer looked at him with the longing to stay behind for a moment longer. Both their temples were worn, their hair had become grey, and their eyes become wiser at the cost of an infatuation which was once present between the two of them. 

“Stay safe,” was all the writer said. 

“You too,” was all his wife said in return. 

Then, she turned around to leave. Picking up her suitcase, she walked to the rented cab waiting outside to take her to the airport. The writer stood at the doorstep. He waited for her to look at him again to wave adieu, if only till she returned in a few days. But today, she looked ahead. As he stood waiting there, the car started, and drove around the corner of the road. She did not turn back. The monotony or farewells had made the loving gestures formalities, one which she did not engage in today. 

If the writer wanted, he could have stood there for some more time. But the weather was oppressive, and he decided it would be better to take refuge in his study. He closed the door behind him, replaced the keys on the kitchen table, and made his way upstairs. 

When he entered the room, it was half past eight in the morning. It would take half an hour for her to reach the airport if the traffic was favourable; a busier day would take her forty minutes. She always called him when she reached her terminal. 

He inserted the paper into the typewriter, and placed his fingers upon the keyboard to write the sentence he had in mind. It was a personal rule to always leave the job when the hour was up, even if he was in the middle of a sentence. When he would sit down to write the next day - or in the evening of the same day, if he felt like it - he would have no trouble recollecting his thoughts to finish the sentence. Over the years, he had discovered that beginning was the toughest task on a fresh day. If he knew how he would begin, it made the task much easier 

But as he wrote the sentence, he felt something wrong in the rhythm of his fingers, which had become so acquainted with the arrangement of the letters and punctuations by now. He looked down at the keyboard. The keys felt out of place. His fingers did not look like they used to. Looking up, he realised he had been distracted enough to make an error in the spelling of a word he learnt from the papers the other day. 

Nodding away his worries, he embedded a period on the paper to close out his sentence. The error could be corrected later, he told himself, and picked up his fingers to write again. But as he put it down to expect the deluge of movement and ideas accompanied by the images in his head, he felt… nothing. 

It was a strange sensation to feel how most people felt - he did not feel nervous, nor did he feel anxious or angry. He sat there, otherwise normal, except for an absence of the only thing which made him feel alive - the urge to write another sentence and make progress with his piece, no matter whether it was a short story for the local magazine, a feature for a national magazine, or a poem for his friend’s experimental newsletter when he found the time to compose one on a weekend. 

He sat there as the clock on his table ticked along. Unlike many, hedid not mind keeping it right beside his field of vision. He believed it did not disturb his work, rather fuelled it. There was a rhythm to his writing. The clock - which was louder than its cousins around the house - assisted him like a metronome. 

The writer had reached his forties with the absence of a major creative burnout. The presence of a schedule in his professional life helped him learn the art of mastering the necessity of routine in the face of lethargy or desire to do something else. He was tempered enough to give himself breaks whenever he felt he was getting close to a creative plateau. In the few decades he had been writing with a deadline or assignment in mind, his instincts were good enough. He treated writer’s blocks not as an enigma, but a necessary part of one’s creative process from which it was always possible to recover. A few sessions of freewriting, rereads of old favourites, or simply spending some time away from the writing desk to spend it with his loved ones and friends had done the job. 

But the sudden loss of spark he felt was unlike anything which had come before. After hovering his fingers over the keyboard without success a few more times, he pushed back his chair, let out a sigh, and walked out of the room. The clock ticked along without a melody or a recipient. 

The first thing the writer did was take out a bottle of water from the fridge and pour himself a glass. He stood by the kitchen window, which showed him the sight of the front yard where his wife had walked through a few moments ago. She hadn’t turned back before leaving for the first time since they had been married. 

He only realised he was finished with the glass of water when he could feel no water on his lips. He moved away from the window and kept the empty glass beside the sink. 

Then, he approached the wine cabinet which was in the form of an alcove on a wall which could claim to be a part of neither the living room nor the kitchen. He took out a luxurious variant, and poured himself a glass once more. Then, he proceeded out of the back door and into the backyard. It had been trimmed just yesterday. He had done so with a certain vigour which his wife knew came only when he was excited about a piece. He had written some of the best words in a first draft, and spoilt himself by allowing himself to read the same, which was something he usually refrained from doing. The imperfection of the words would usually deter him before completing the project, but every sentence he had typed out on that day seemed to be written in the way it should have been. As a result, the passion of the narrative had preoccupied him on this day. 

He looked at the same field with satisfaction as he settled down on one of the two lawn chairs. The other was placed on the opposite end, and sat empty. There was a foldable table placed between the two of them. After taking a sip from his glass of wine, he kept it on the table. He folded his hands, crossed his legs, and blinked twice to get accustomed to the light. With no clock in sight, and having failed to notice the movement of the sun over his head, he did not know forty minutes had passed without his phone ringing. 

He was preoccupied thinking about his sudden lack of motivation to write. It was this absence of any enthusiasm which surprised him. Usually, a writer’s block was met with frustration, with a dash of anxiety as well if a deadline approached. He had no such assignment which would make him feel so. While it was not in his nature to be affected by volatile situations where people of lesser resolve might have succumbed, the lack of any passion towards his writing surprised him. He had been excited about finishing his project over the next week, winding up the final few plot points as well as a cathartic conversation between the protagonist and his wife. He had been plotting the dialogue in his head ever since he had begun with the first chapter of his novel. Yet now, he felt nothing. 

If he did not write another word of the story, he would not mind such an outcome. As a matter of fact, if he never wrote another word again, he felt assured he would be at peace with life. He had so many stories, so many thoughts, a he would not mind such an outcome. As a matter of fact, if he never wrote another word again, he felt assured he would be at peace with life. He had so many stories, so many thoughts, and so many compositions he wanted to write yesterday. Now, he felt nothing about the passion he had dedicated his life to. 

After a while, he could not care to think about his words or worlds anymore. The master had abandoned his craft, but the bigger treachery was that he had no qualms about doing so. The craft wanted to speak to him from a corner of his soul, but it was diffused before he could be made conscious about its longings. Nothing could disturb the tranquility of the moment. 

In between his thoughts which he had transformed into a casual observer of rather than interacting with them, he thought of his wife again. She had not turned back to say goodbye like she always did. The job was not a pleasant one, but her expertise would be needed to supervise the procedure of the workers at the site. They had planned a barbeque with the neighbours on the weekend, a romantic dinner on the day before that, and a trip to the local mall together. The disturbance in their schedule had left an unspoken air of agitation between the both of them. There would be no other way around her job and its necessities, which were not as flexible as those of a writer’s. He wondered if she despised him for the freedom he had, or the fluctuating contributions he made to the running of the household, even if they were adequate most of the time. He pushed the thought away - she loved him, and he loved her. 

As it always was with love, it had evolved from the romantic getaways in their youth, filled with the adventure of exploring each other and hiding their affair from acquaintances, to middle age and a marriage which transformed it. Love had become humbler, gentler, less intense over the years - yet, it had remained the same. A hand on the other’s while watching the television did not evoke the rush of the years before, but the affection remained in their gestures, words, and movements in the household. 

The writer thought about her passively, like all other thoughts which found a place in his existence as he sat there. He had no comments to make of his own. Rather, his own thoughts conflicted each other to navigate through a chain of thoughts he wouldn’t have otherwise. She didn’t say goodbye. That was the last thought he had about her. 

Time passed away, and the Sun fell over. His shadow formed in front of him, even as the hue of the sky started to contrast the vibrance of the bygone hour. The passivity which had become second nature to him over the course of the day prevented him for realising his wife had not called him; she should have done so more than an hour ago. The silent phone which sat in his pocket was a silent accomplice to this fact. The day had transcended any intrinsic motivation he carried into it. He was experiencing a bliss he did not mind spending his time feeling. 

Until his phone finally rung. 

It was his wife. He checked the time displayed on top of the device, which made him realise she should have called long ago. He let the phone ring twice, startled by her sudden appearance on his screen. He picked it up. “Hello?” 

“Do you know the woman whose number this is?” The person on the other line was not his wife. 

“Middle aged woman with a birth mark on her chin?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“I would be her husband.” 

There was silence on the other end, the kind which one heard and knew what followed wouldn’t be desirable. 

“She was in an automobile accident near the airport around an hour ago. I’m the doctor who operated on her.” 

The writer started to feel again. He was an active agent of his self once more, which made him ask, “Is she… okay?” 

More ominous silence followed. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Is she alive?” 

One could sense the loss of words and grief on both sides of the conversation. “I’m sorry sir. We couldn’t save her.” 

What followed next was a succession of consolidatory messages, an address of the hospital he would need to claim her body from, and queries about if he was still on the line when he did not respond to what the doctor said. 

The writer had abandoned his drink, his lawn chair, and the bliss one often waits one’s whole life for without it ever passing by. He felt again. He cried in the car on the way to the hospital, he thought about how he would always love her, and felt angry about why fate had cursed him with losing his wife. He not in control of his emotions. He was still a passenger of where his mind led him, but this time, he was on the collision course. 

In the days to come, he would grieve over his wife, for she was no more. In the months to come, he would grieve over himself, for he was at the mercy of the world even when he had been the master of his own worlds. And over the years, he would grieve over his words, for he would never be able to write again.