Team
Name: Blogstirrers
You
can read Part 11 (Click Here) which was
written by Jaideep Khanduja for Game of Blogs by Blogadda.com.
As
the door closed, Tara breathed a sigh of relief. Picking up the intercom, she
called for a coffee, and then walked to the window. The ground below flaunted green,
as the sky rumbled in the distance, eerie, grey, and scary. The sky was such a
contrasting entity; it could be calm at times, and at times, so tormenting;
just like her heart.
A
month ago, she just had love for Shekhar, but now, she just didn’t know what
she felt about him. Was it love, or sympathy, or care, or hate, or anger, or
remorse? She just didn’t know it. Where was he right now? And where was Roohi?
The questions in her mind just kept increasing, and there were no answers seen.
Shaking her head, she walked back to her desk, as Shekhar’s words came back to
her.
He
had said that he would come back for her, and that Roohi was safe; that he was
being framed. But by whom? And why?
“I
can’t find a motive behind framing Shekhar, but then if he was being framed,
why did he run? And if he’s innocent, then what about the evidence which Cyrus
showed me,” thought Tara to herself.
Photos
could be tampered with, even videos. Was that the case this time with the clip
Cyrus had showed her?
It
was all a muddle in her head. The word muddle struck a chord in her head, and
she remembered one of Shekhar’s pieces, one which he had written when he was
between jobs.
A jungle, this
life, dense,
And bushy, with
a P, so pushy,
Ways too many,
but to few, none,
To depend, to
hold onto, to give,
Support, to prop
up, someone, no,
It’s a muddle, a
bundle, a heap,
Of too much, in
too few, disarrayed,
Unarranged,
random, this life.
The
words played back slowly from the time when he had read the whole composition
to her. Her trance was broken by a soft knock on the door which signaled the
arrival of her coffee. Slowly sipping her Latte, she reignited her thoughts
about the video and images Cyrus had shown her. Most of them had not had
Shekhar’s face, but his posture and figure seemed to be there in them. She
shook her head, and switched on her laptop.
She
went to the news section on the internet, and as she scrolled to the bottom,
her face grew grim. It seemed so tough for him to get out. And if those photos
found their way to the media, Shekhar was as good as dead. On the side of the
article, there was a solo of Shekhar, and its resemblance to the image Cyrus
had shown her clipped her attention.
“Maybe
I shouldn’t trust anyone. I’ll begin with Jennifer and Cyrus, then move to the
top.”
As
the search engine unearthed Cyrus, her mind wavered slowly to one of Shekhar’s
poems.
Time is present
for the believer,
Time is future
for the achiever,
A friend, an
enemy, both together,
Time is
everything, but a healer,
Wounds spurting,
and squirting,
The pain of
being, human, we are,
Trust we do,
especially mistrust,
Belief is good,
above all disbelief,
But the worst of
the lot is misbelief.
You
can read the next part here.
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