Darme: An Anagram

And then just when I am about to shut the door I remember I have forgotten something inside. A piece of paper or something like that. Written. Or typed. Something important. I call out to the someone inside. Someone who I've just met and said goodbye to. I call out, "Can you please gimme that... I seem to have left it by your bedside". Bedside?

I remember suddenly that the someone I am calling out to can't leave his bedside. I can't remember why. Maybe, he's unwell. Or maybe, he's an invalid. And that is why I have paid him a visit. I am thinking all this yet not making any effort to go back and collect the piece of paper or that something important that I have left behind.

I am probably waiting for a confirmation from inside that the piece of paper or that something important that I think I have left behind has been actually left behind. There. Or at some previous place I have visited. Like the place I am coming from. Or the place where I live. I am expecting this someone, who is inside to call out to me and say something like, "It's not here," or "Come and get it". But instead at the door, where the doorbell is, suddenly appears a hand... just a hand... a hand holding a piece of paper. Or the something I had forgotten inside. A voice, belonging in all probability to the hand, calls out from inside asking, "Is this what you're looking for?"

And I am thinking, 'What a lazy motherfucker!' And then I think, 'No, it's more than just motherfucking laziness'. And then it hits me. The hand. And it being there at the door all by itself. And as it hits me, the hair at the back of my neck begin to rise.

An uneasy feeling of being watched from all sides by invisible eyes overcomes me. And an electric impulse coursing up from the base of my spine to my neck, forks into two and goes round and round my head telling me that I have been asking all the wrong questions. At the wrong places. And suddenly I decide to flee. Too scared to look back if the hand holding that piece of paper, or that something important, is coming after me.

And then sleep, that had come riding on soft sheep shoulders, flees like a gust of hot afternoon breeze leaving me in a sweat so cold I could freeze.


  1. Are you sure about anything that happens around you?
    maybe its your surroundings, or then, maybe its just you.
    what you upto now-a-days pothead ?


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