The Wavelength

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It was in this moment that all my insecurities, fears and inhibitions disappeared in the air. Though, the place was a little crowded and children kept complaining about going back to the park and the men in the room smelt of alcohol, I had managed to find my spot. My little space in the world, as I call it. The abandoned church is a part of the Diu fort and a place which not many people will find amusing. However, only if you listen closely, place your ear on the wall while breathing in the scent of waves mixed with the smell a building that has started to fall apart, brick by brick, you will realize that some places are simply meant for you. A century ago, the Portuguese architects who built this space merely to look out for smugglers wouldn’t have thought that putting a hole in the wall could possibly bring back someone from the dead. Now, as I look out towards the crashing waves of the sea, so enticing and yet, so alarmingly near, it falls upon me that somethings and some places are solely meant for you to forgive yourself.

Recovery doesn’t happen overnight. It takes years to heal and come back to who you used to be before everything happened. The skin changes tones and the sky reflects several moods, going from shade to shade, on some days a hue of blue and on some days a gloomy Grey. The earth rotates at its own pace while the whirlpool inside keeps twirling and twisting until the mind adapts to the movement. Gradually, the wind doesn’t seem as cold and you start embracing the breeze like a friend that you’ve met after a long time. It still talks, just not of the past. Do you remember how everything used to get blurred out, as if there’s an invisible shield blocking voices from reaching you, there was a sound, definitely, but only a whisper. Now the shield has cracked, its widening everyday. The sound of waves pacifies and the gurgling of the waterfall doesn’t petrify anymore. The body seems to be have a revolution too, the back, once arched and stooping now straightens itself with every step the legs take, willingly.

Every time a wave crashed on the rocks below and sprayed my extended hands with its foam, I felt cleansed, as if every drop that touched me, evaporated along with the little thoughts that kept me up at night and every whiff of wind blew away with it the stench of memories that should have been long gone. The huge symmetrical arch that I was standing under adorned a crack right in the middle, showing it off almost as if it was this little darkened space that it gathered the strength from to stand through all the storms that it had survived. Reeking of moss and stories I found it hard to bat an eye lid as every time I heard a tick from my wrist, another cell of my body replaced itself.

Once you’ve recovered, from whatever it maybe, there’s one thing that you cannot stop doing. Even if its involuntarily, you’ll often find yourself looking back, but this time, not because it’s a nightmare that you can’t forget, but because it’s a war that you won.

The little hole in the wall, opened to the ocean and the part of me that had been long gone, travelled back from the horizon

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Bansuri ChoukseyWritten by Bansuri Chouksey ·

My soul is made up of stories. Rumi | Dan Brown | Poets Of The Fall | Agatha Christie | Imtiaz Ali |