All I want is, for somebody, to turn me on.

Is it too much to ask for?

The blind man dragged these words out of his throat, even though he knew nobody could hear him.

He had been sitting inside the cave for as long as he could remember. He could also remember that, he wasn’t born here. He was somewhat certain that he was old. Older than this cave he thought. He had come here first, searching for something. What, he couldn’t remember. Only this much, that one day a poisonous fog had enveloped this place. He was the only one there to observe it, for he had wandered away from the village, seeking solitude, and freedom, nothing else. The fog blinded him. Put him into a nightmarish sleep. His last vision had been a young baby, shrivelling up, his face contorting, his mouth unable to squeal, his eyes unable to shed tears, his figure devoid of a mother’s cocoon, plunging into the darkness. After that dream with eyes closed, he never saw anything again.

The blind man had thought the dream signified death.

He felt the cold swoop of death as it claimed a new victim. His eyes hurt like jagged rocks were piercing his sockets. With his eyes, his will was also killed. 

He had borne the pain like a true stoic. The free must run the risk of being trapped alone in the darkest abyss, he knew. But what he did not know was that, there exist such designs, that fate springs without notice, that extinguish the fire that carries the brave to the edge of the world, and take away the matches that sparked the flame, and immerse one in deep oceans where none venture. Beyond help of sentient beings, devoid of the inner light, the free spirited embrace, the darkness they so despised.

Lying here in the cave, the blind man felt at home. Not once had he attempted to use his other senses, to find a way out. Why should he ? After all, this was home. Back in the village, there was help to be found amongst the civilized. Food, friends, and family, all would surely rejuvenate him. Bring his will back.

Pah ! Never had he taken help when he could help himself. Here too, in this cave, there was help to be found. It must come from within. Except the inner light, none had the power to resuscitate him. And so, he waited. Waited for the day, when his bones would tremble with energy, his heart would burst with passion, his mind would carve through the thickest of tangles like a knife through butter. Or else, here he would breath his last. Till starvation, ill health, or some unforeseen calamity, brought this adventurous existence, nay, this living corpse, to a soulless end.

Life in the cave wasn’t the least bit dramatic. Each waking hour was spent in contemplation, of the past, and of the future. The present had no meaning. He recalled friends, of which there were few. Also, he recollected enemies, which included some friends, and some acquaintances. Their memories released a cacophony of visions and sounds in his mental eye, leaving him dazed and numbed, as he combed through a million moments in his life, wondering where he went wrong, where he made love, where he earned hatred, where he was indifferent to a fellow soul’s plight, where he suffered from the etchings he bore on his skin, that had marked him since birth, that made the first impression on strangers. His spots, yes, his mind used to wander sooner or later into the story of his etchings.

When he was born, his arms and legs bore absurd marks. From his wrists, emerged colorful markings, blue and green, reaching up to his neck. The only part of his arms that weren’t colored were his hands, which strangely, lacked color altogether. They were black. And so too were his feet. Pitch black. His legs had different manner of colors. They were colored red and yellow, like a feline cat. From his feet to his groin, the colors of reddish yellow flames enveloped him. When he bathed in the village river, naked, the streams of water whirling around him appeared to be on fire, sometimes red and yellow, and sometimes bright blue and devilish green. Needless to say, the village folk gave him a wide berth. He was a cross between a bird, a tigre, and a human, they said about him. He would accomplish that which only happens once in a millennia. 

His parents had named him, curiously, Ansh. A fragment. As if implying that the boy was a piece, a piece of . .

The blind man laughed. If only !

He had lived all his life scorning the myths those people made about him. These etchings, this name, held no higher meaning for him. He had been fond of them, but no more than that. He considered his etchings a blessing, and occasionally, a curse, yet they were only skin deep. His name, that was merely the imagination of his parents, religious and devout. That his destiny was to live a life whose tales of mighty and noble deeds would resonate through the ages, was but a childish notion to him. Legends shouldn’t announce themselves, they should appear out of thin air, and vanish as soon as the wind has carried their tales far and wide. Here he was, an ordinary human, born to tales of grandeur. It didn’t make sense to him.

Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzz.

Snapppppp !

The blind man chomped down the carcass of the beastly fly. He had grown accustomed to the taste. Snap ! Snap ! He chomped down two more. That was it. The flies did not venture close again.   The law of nature. The prey flees from the predator. An absurd smirk appeared over the blind man’s face. At least some beings were conscious that he was alive.

The flies had been his sole source of nutrition in this abyss he called home. At irregular intervals they would wander into his neighborhood, and with a predator’s instinct, he would sense their movements, the vibrations of their swinging wings, and using the only weapon he could confidently wield, his mouth, he would trap the massive fly between his teeth, till it stopped buzzing, and then feast on the gangly insect. He would repeat the process till his belly was full, or the flies zoned away. Life must feed on life, howsoever miniscule. The creator of the universe must be pleased, mused the blind man, that even in this cave where none dwelt, the circle of life kept him alive. The day he would die here, these flies would feed on his corpse. He wondered what else, apart from dead wandering men, kept the flies alive in this labyrinth of caves, that he called home.

A strange thought occurred to the blind man. Certainly this was a new thought. By now, numbed in this solitary haze, devoid of his primary sense, his sight, he could tell what thought was fresh, and what was stale. The latter were usually memories, forgotten dreams, overused syllogisms, existential ruminations, stories and songs. The fresh ones comprised of his imagination. These were more often than not jokes. He had made an immense number of jokes with his idle mind. Truly, if he ever made his way out of this abyss, he could live the rest of his life as a clown. But, one day he figured out that the number of conceivable jokes are indeed infinite. And then, an even stranger thought, that jokes are a dull man’s enterprise. Yes, strange. For he used to think that jokes were the only way to keep his wits on him. But this thought turned all the uncracked jokes on their head, and it wasn’t funny anymore.

And thereafter, his mind had wandered into stranger territory. He began to think of the arts. Alone in this cave, he believed that art was the only source of inspiration left. Art, he considered, to be the highest realm of consciousness. Science and music, these were the first of his attempts at illumination, lighting up the mind. After a few days of intense excitement and exploration, he realized that the fields of science and music require a certain method, and rigor, which he was lacking, or so he believed. Too long had he persevered in understanding physical law through his amputated senses, unable to observe experiments diligently, or record his observations, for he was unable to write. At last, he gave up, certain that it was a fool’s endeavor, to find principle in the physical world, when one had not even the power of sight. The blind cannot discover the laws of nature, or the principles of geometry and algebra.

Music, he had approached at last. The ultimate resort. The power of voice he still possessed. An ear for music also he possessed. This, he was certain, was his true calling, in this cave, which he called home.

He recalled the songs that he had heard all through his life. There were some that were as close to his heart, as his freedom was. In euphoric spirit did he sing, the songs of life and death, of spring and autumn, of love and romance, of youth and adventure, of religion and worship, of the soul and existence.  He sang and sang, till his voice started to croak, and the music stormed his mind, and he no longer needed to sing, for the music was now inside him, and before he could sing a tune, his mind would play the exact melody back to him.

Then, he realized, he must explore this realm of music. A wonderful joy overwhelmed him. The dawn of a new spring, the melting of the ice, the fruit of a million ruminations. At last, there it was, music. It would release him from this laborious confinement in the darkness, which freedom had led him into.

Laaaaaalaaaaaalaaaaalaaaaaalaaaaa.

Paaaaaapaaaaaapaaaaapaaaaapaaaa.

Oooooooooh. Aaahhhhhhhh.

Maamaaaaaaa. Miiiiiiiaaaaaa.

Daadaaaaa. Duuuuduuuuu.

Tuuuuuruuuuuuu. Ruuuuuruuuuuuu.

Ssssssssssssssssssss.

A few musical rhythms he worked out. Played around with.

He wondered if he could make music without words. No discretely separated sounds. Just a single voice, raw and primitive, crooning a melody.

A fine idea, he thought.

And then, he sang. Sang, till the music was no more.

In that single haunting song, he exhausted his voice, his music, his spirit, his will. It was a long song, beginning with a low deep rumble, melting into a soft musical melody that he concocted on a whim, moulding his voice leisurely, then on a tangent, he took the music into sinister and uncanny territory, blasting high pitched notes, shrieks and wails, possessed, possessed by a dark foreboding force from within, screaming, screaming , all the darkness, the sights spinned in his head, his whole life, birth, youth, the village, the March into unforeseen territory, the fog, the blindness, the cave he called home, the darkness, darkness,freewill, freewill, freewillllllllllllllllllllllllll,

darknessssssssssssssssssssssss, darknessssssssssssssssssssssssssss,

lucid darknessssssssssssssssssssssssssss,

when he saw it, he collapsed.

When he awoke, he was surprised he was still alive. Waking up in darkness, from a dark slumber, he felt as if he had awoke from a nightmare that he couldn’t recall.

Best to forget, yes, best to forget. Music, yes, best to forget. Too much there he didn’t wish to hear, so, best to forget.
And so, he had spent, quite a lot of time, trying to forget. And so, unwillingly, he had recalled all that, he had wished to forget. The mind works in strange ways, blind man, did you not know, thought he, after he returned from his memory voyage.

In this strangest of lives, the blind man had wandered and wandered. None knew his pain save he.

And then, chomping on those beastly flies, the strange thought had occurred to him.

A fresh thought, a strange one.

He cleared his throat, and croaked,

“All I want is, for somebody, to turn me on.”

“Is it too much to ask for ?”

“You have had your fun. Yes, it has been quite amusing. Entertaining, sure. You are strange indeed. Absurd. Perhaps, it is true, after all these years, I am spent. These are a disintegrating soul’s last thoughts. Do you hear me ? It isn’t amusing anymore !”

And then, he saw them.

Eyes.

Rainbow eyes.