Dating : Immortal

Time seemed to have halted in its place in that little villa — that little dilapidated villa. Everything happened to be in normal motion around it but the air suddenly mellowed the moment it crept inside.

The roof was for a namesake. The mossy wooden layers had given way to a thousand crevices and water oozed out of each of them like protoplasm from a dying cell. The curtains had been reduced to dust, brittle and unkempt as they were since ages. The cobwebs were the new replacements, they veiled not just that little window but all of those dusty walls like a thick shroud covering up a deep, dark secret. The walls were scribbled with charcoal forming blotches of undecipherable verses.

It was just that small window that peeped out into the woods, eavesdropping the conversations of the silent community that dwelled outside, un-privatizing their lives and giving a blurred vision of the vibrancies that bred outside.

The only un-dead corner inside the entire villa was around the firewood. Although the fire had been dead, so long ago that probably carbon dating was the only way to figure out when and the ashes had been reduced to a muddy puddle, the armchair that rested alongside was perfectly brown, fresh and untarnished as if it had been refurbished precisely a day ago.

A table stood aligned to it and a bland green typewriter in full action. Probably, the most perfect setting for a writer’s imagination to explore the realms of existence. Bundles of paper lay scattered on the table and on the floor- some marred, some mustard-ish and some still afresh. And with every waft of air that coped to shudder in, a coy rustle of these pages let away something unsaid.

They weren’t all compiled. Some spoke of fantasies, some of victories, of emotions and of tales while the typewriter busily churned out more of them. And, while the leather-less hands of the writer rested on the arms of the chair, the levers of the machine jazzing in ecstasy, engraved ebony characters on trembling papers. No real body with a soul, just a void of pressure, a vacuum in the continuum that was causing the keys to nimble deftly and pour out all, the heart of a living soul in its lifetime, couldn’t.