That night the mad man spoke wisely.
It was the night when I was stranded. Frustrated. Failed.
It was the night I was picking up each piece of mine, trying to place it in its
former position, and with a gentle drift in air I was collapsing like a palace made
up of cards.
It was the night when I finally realized how weak I was.
And, it was the night I met the mad man.
Sometimes, time put us in situations where our mind numbs, our reasoning freezes,
and aimlessly, desperately we seek for some refuge, some support. Often we find it
in warm words from our dear ones, which somehow thaws us from inside and
brings again spring. Sometimes, even that warmth fails to melt the coldness of a
heart.
“You seem to be Roger,” the mad man said, approaching me. He was a hideous
figure. A dirty woolen cap - punctured by mouse-bites - kept his long grey hairs in
from covering his face. A crooked nose, face riddled with wrinkles, eyes red-shot.
He wore a long overcoat so immensely patched that I could not determine its real
fabric. A loose pant was flowing over his legs, tightly bound with a rope over the
waist. A toe of his right leg had somehow come out from the torn part of his shoe.
As he neared, the air became pungent. Even in his stink, I distinguished the strong,
acrid smell. Alcohol.
He took a step forward, pointed a finger at something invisible beside me. “You
aren’t Roger. You are Lucia.”
“What? Get away you, m...” My mother’s words rang inside me. Never disrespect
anyone who hasn’t hurt you; these days respect is a rare thing. So I changed my
words at the last moment. “...mad man.”
He took out a bottle from the fold of his overcoat and took a sip. “Tasty.” With the
back of his sleeve he wiped his wet lips. “Tasty.”
The label on the bottle caught my attention. “How on earth did you get a branded
alcohol? You f...” Again my mother’s advice froze my tongue. “...filthy man.”
“Looks don’t have anything do with a man,” he hiccupped, “and what he has
achieved.” He paused a while, observed the road as if it was a shifting like a river,
then with caution he placed his step. The distance between us closed further. The
smell amplified. “You are not even Lucia. She was beautiful. You are like a...”
He searched for the right word as if contemplating a deep philosophy. “...a guinea
pig.”
I clenched my fist. Why was I talking with a mad man in the deserted street? He
was, for sure, crazy. And even I think I was going crazy.
“Now don’t feel insulted. Guinea pigs are cute. Siara always used to say that.” His
expressions changed. Sadness covered his face in few moments. He hugged the
bottle like a little girl hugs a teddy bear, and wept like a girl from whose teddy bear
was snatched away. “Siara, why did you do this to me?”
I remained silent. I knew he was out of his mind, I should be on my way to home,
but watching him wailing moved me. For brief minutes I completely forgot my
grief and wanted to help this man. I was curious to know about Siara and her
deeds. “What did she do to you?”
A look of surprise washed over him. He gauged me with admiration as if he had
noticed my presence for the first time. “Guinea pigs are cute.”
“I know that. Who was Siara?”
He stared at his toe, then wildly shook his head. “No, no. She must remain a secret.
Fool! You should not speak about her.”
It took me a while to realize that he was talking with himself. I wondered about the
voice we all posses that speak in our mind. A voice only we can hear. Seeing the
mad man questioning himself and then answering made me to consider my
condition. Just before I met him, I was mentally bullied by my own questions. And
I had no answers. It added more weight to my head. For an instant, I was jealous
for him. Though he was crazy, but he had answers.
“I must tell him,” I heard the mad man’s blabber. “He looks like a guinea pig. Saira
likes guinea pigs. I must tell him.”
Repeatedly being compared to a guinea pig made my nails dig deeper into my
palm. One more time, and I was sure my fist was going to meet his jaw. Not to
forget to mention, I was not cute, and I was not, from any angle, resemble like
a...you know what I mean.
He stretched his hands wide, one was occupied with a bottle which glinted in the
streetlight above us, and other was empty. His overcoat stretched, revealing a
dirty shirt. “Wicked things lie in life.”
“I know. Life is not a bed of roses.”
“You don’t understand. Wicked things,” he put efforts on the following word, “lie
in life.”
I blinked in surprise. One phrase, two truths. “What did she lie about?”
He dropped on the street, cross-legged. Gently putting the bottle beside him, he
dug his hands under armpits. Something must have attracted his attention on the
street for his eyes were constantly looking at a point. I followed his gaze and found
nothing.
I waited. He was as silent as the moon in the sky.
I squatted before him. The stench was unbearable, but I ignored. The pain that can
silence a mad man was far more than unbearable. I wanted to say something that
could make him speaks, however, all words were lost within me.
Then I heard a whisper.
I inched my head ahead, and I caught his voice.
“...want to tell you it wasn’t me. I swear, Siara. Stay. Please. I just don’t know
what to do. I know I promised a good future, but these circumstances are sudden. I
am not able to see my future. Siara, I promise I’ll do something good. I beg you,
Siara. Stay. You promised that you will not go anywhere. You promised to support
me. Siara. Stay.”
A long moment of silence passed between us. All I could hear now was his breathing.Long and slow.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Wicked things lie in life, man.”
He sighed. “Wicked things lie in life.”
“And this,” I picked the bottle, “is a wicked thing. Not everything, but something
we can control in our life.” I smashed the bottle to the nearby wall. With a burst
and a splash, it shattered into pieces. I turned my head to the man, but it was too
late.
My right ear buzzed with a ring, my eyes were watery. I tasted the metallic flavor
of the blood. I shook my clouded head, and before the man could punch on my left,
safe cheek, I backed away from him. “Are you, of course, you are mad!”
He didn’t move. He remained seated as if nothing had happened.
Sometimes we should leave the people the way they are. Some fights the pain,
some prefers it. I still feel ashamed, but I left him there. I could do nothing good to
him.
The moment I was about to leave, he said. “Remember, Lucia.”
“I am a guy! I am not Lucia!”
“Okay, Roger.”
“Not even Roger!”
“Whatever! If you have survived today, holding yourself up, if you can pass the
night and welcome tomorrow’s sun, if you fight, listen guinea pig...”
It was enough. I raised my arms, hand clenched into a fist, to teach him a lesson.
“...I am proud of you.”
I froze. I looked at him into his eyes. They were a mosaic of many emotions. Guilt.
Regret. Disappointment. Grief.
“What do you mean?”
The mad man used my legs as support to climb on his feet. He crazily smiled at
me. Then turned around and staggered back to the dark alley.
At home, I flopped into my bed. Thinking about the reasons that were paining me
like an acid running through my veins.
I pulled out my phone and goggled the ways to fight this depression.
Note down your reasons, one article said.
Switching on the table lamp, I opened the notebook. My depression and the mad
man’s encounter were contesting to get penned down.
Taking a deep breath, I wrote the first line that appeared in my mind.
That night the mad man spoke wisely.
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