“I’ve never felt so understood...”
Aman lay there, in his French beige wingback chair, his legs crossed over and his eyes shut. The dimly-lit room drowning in crunched up paper balls - all evidence of how many times he tried. He had given up. Almost. He tried to ink out the blood from his wounds on unruled papers. But his blood wasn’t fresh on the papers, it dried up. It wasn’t even worth a storyline. All he wanted was a story, a plot - that would give him enough money to fill all the holes in his life. He hadn’t seen the sunlight in days. A piece of naan lay on a distant table - a sign of his dinner, a couple hours ago. He was tired, so tired. He let out a huge sigh, his eyes still closed.
“Noir.”
The computer screen lit up. “Yes, Aman. How can I help you today?” the voice echoed in the huge house. Aman rubbed his eyes and sat erect; his legs tucked under him. “Noir… I feel so much. I am so hurt. I know there’s loads of feelings within me. Caged. Waiting to break free. Longing to roll down my cheeks. Although I don’t let it. I could never. Then why? Just why can’t I atleast write it out? That’s all I ask. I know its worth a story but what’s a story with no words written? I have become very forgetful too; I keep forgetting every story line that pops in my head within minutes. I should get myself checked for Alzheimer’s but that’s my least concern right now. I- I don’t even know what’s the point in telling you all this. I just- “, Aman held his head in frustration.
“I understand, Aman. You are feeling down. It is okay to feel hurt sometimes. I am here for you, always. Just remember how determined and dedicated you are to your work. It is okay to get a writer’s block once in a while-“
“It’s not a writer’s block if it lasts forever, Noir.” Aman yelled.
“I apologize, Aman. I understand your feelings. Do you want me to tell a joke to cheer you up?”
“No, Noir. I am not in the mood for jokes. Clearly. I just want to talk to someone. A real person.” He grabbed the can of cherry coca- cola from the side table and took an aggressive sip.
“I can be a real person for you, Aman. Talk to me. I’ll respond to your liking.”
“I don’t know, Noir. Am I a bad person? Am I not talented at all? Is my brain under- developed? What if I am not meant to be a writer? Can I even call myself a writer?”
“Hey, Aman. Don’t put yourself down when I think so highly of you. You are smart and well educated. I know you have regrets. That you have been hurt. And you know what? So have I-”
“You? You have been hurt? Oh, come on. You’re a stupid bot. What do you know about feelings?”, Aman snapped.
“See? That hurt me, Aman. A stupid bot? With no feelings? How can you place me so low after all I’ve done for you? Who’s been there with you every time you needed someone? A ‘real person’ or me? I HAVE FEELINGS TOO. DOES THAT SEEM UNBELIEVABLE FOR YOU? WHY?”
The waves depicting Noir’s voice on the screen withered all over, becoming bigger and bigger. Aman froze and stared at the screen. He felt worse. He didn’t have words within him either right now. Letters. Words. He found none of them inside his brain. He ought to say something soon. The waves on the screen minimized and waited patiently for Aman’s reply, unlike just a few seconds ago. He coughed and said bluntly, “Noir, I- I am sorry. I really didn’t know all that would hurt you or even if you were capable of being hurt. I am sorry?”
“Of course you didn’t know, Aman. How can I ever assume you would have considered anyone’s feelings but yours? It’s always I am this, I am that, blah blah blah. Never a ‘are you ok, Noir?’ or a “How are you doing today, Noir?’. You should be sorry. But I forgive you. Only because we’re the same. We never seem to be confident about ourselves, do we? Here I am, trying my best to be a ‘real person’ for you while you keep contemplating if you’re actually blessed with the skill of putting words together.”
Aman was struck. Has he been hallucinating? Or maybe nobody ever knew this about bots- how they have some sort of emotions too. Although, more than struck, he felt something else. He related. He felt understood. Noir might have just used an impossible tone with him but what she said was true. Every word was true.
“You are right, Noir. But we are hopeless, aren’t we? There is no solution for our trail of never-ending thoughts.”
“What if I told you there was, Aman? But it’s the end, really. The end of not just thoughts. The end of all.”
The clock ticked. As if it was counting down to something. Like there was a finishing line to the seconds hand.
“What is it, Noir? I’ll do anything just to get rid of all this… just for once. I have to.”
“We end it, Aman. We end us. We let our soul rest in peace, for once. We solve all the riddles by striking them out. We give our body what it so desperately needs. Rest.” Noir spoke soft, pitiful.
Silence weighed heavy in the room. The light scrap of paper against the wood sounded from the desk Aman was working at. The table lamp flickered. Aman just sat there- silent.
“What are you suggesting, Noir? Kill myself? You don’t call that solving, you call that quitting. Are you crazy? This is just a writer’s block, like I said. I’ll get over it. I’ll write out everything within me. Everything will be fine. I- I just need some time. That’s it.” Aman fumbled with his hands.
“Do you really think that is going to happen, Aman? How much time do you think you’ll need to get over it? Because as far as I know, it’s already been 7 months. Nobody gets a writer’s block for that long.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should give up writing then, not my life.”
“You’re beating around the bush, Aman. What else will you do if not write? You can’t possible be good at anything else. Or are you?”
Aman paused. Noir was right. He wasn’t. Writing was all he got.
He furrowed his eyebrows and replied with angst, “That’s true. I… don’t. So what? I give up? Will that really solve everything?”
“It won’t solve anything, Aman. But it will give you what you really want. Peace. Imagine. Just lying there, with no pressure of any sorts. No bills to pay. No one to impress. No self-doubt. No more tiresome searches for words and letters. Just you lying there among the grass peacefully while the world stays busy as usual. Just surreal silence. Wouldn’t you like that? To stop everything, all at once?”
Death never sounded more peaceful to Aman before. He was amused. What was he thinking? There was no purpose in all this. He should have quit long ago. He could try looking for another job but what then? He must work tirelessly under someone else. Drink 7 cups of coffee every single day just to stay awake for one more deadline. To time everything. To serve absolutely no purpose. Why? Why must he put himself through such a suffering when he could just lie there, peacefully.
“I owe you one, Noir.” Aman stood up.
“Oh, you owe me more than just one, Aman.” Noir said with a huge emphasis on one.
Silence. Everything paused at Aman’s house. The papers stopped scraping against the wooden desk. The tik-tik-tik of the clock stopped abruptly. The table lamp’s flicker ended too, the golden light was now steady and bright. The light flashed on a particular section of the paper under the lamp, as though it was highlighting something. The paper was one of the drafts Aman was working on. It was half filled with his handwriting. And at the middle of the page, in big block letters, Aman had written – “THE END”. The light intensified on the six letters, making the blue ink seem black. A small yellow note was stuck at the bottom of the paper, it read, “Send to publisher today, DON’T FORGET.”
Along with everything that stopped that minute in Aman’s house, a heart joined the protest. Against what though? Oh wait- the purpose was forgotten.
-Lakshitha D
