The pitch of the raindrops

14522825_1144117572339961_8951295887432597688_n

She loved the smell of rain. It would clear her mind, and fill it with mixed emotions. She also loved the constant tapping of raindrops. It worked as a metronome for her musical brain. She had enormous compositions in her brain that she hummed with that rhythm. In her leisure time-which was all the time-she used to make and develop different drums, an old hobby from childhood, using the empty food cans. The nurses were always happy to provide her the extra cans for her creativity. This being the peak activity, and the bridge crossing the river remaining closed in the rainy season together brought her eternal bliss; because nobody would bother her for at least those four months in the year.

Not that she hated them-her family-she loved them. She had a lovely daughter who was literally the light of her life currently staying with her grandma who loved her equally, and a husband who loved her in his own way. But the walls of the asylum were more peaceful than anything. In that bunch of psychos and in all the craziness surrounding her, it was highly challenging to maintain sanity as well as existence. Pretending to be taking the drug dosage and acting maniacally sometimes-just to maintain appearances-was not really easy. But she had to stay free and safe so she had to do it all. It was the only way to keep the sane population safe. Living as a crazy woman here in the asylum was way better than being constantly on nerves.

She was free here under the roof of the asylum. Sometimes she wondered if she did the right thing by taking all the blame. But she loved her husband, she loved him fiercely and would do whatever he said. She took all the blame to avail him with the freedom and to let the mission of killing go on. There was one more reason of staying there. It was odd, the love between the two. But he never understood her. She was tired of staying with him, despite her love, because he used to publicly blame her for having a sort of personality disorder. And, she dreaded the time when he used to watch the news reports of unsolved murders committed by the killer. Killer remained unknown by everyone except the two of them for a long time. She kept quiet, she tried hard; but she hated significant lives getting wasted. So she succumbed to his story of the personality disorder and left him on his own for good, so as she assured herself.

The rain was constantly tapping on her drums. They were of different thicknesses and different depths, giving different pitch to each drum. She was enjoying the cup of tea, and humming while taking account of all the pitches and scales of the drums she had made. Of course it wasn’t a complete set-getting the perfect pitch was a tedious job-she was missing a D# in the set. The head psychiatrist was pleased with her creativity and she had given her an extra cabin for her art and craft. She called the room as ‘the heaven’ and was allowed to have scheduled visits there. It was time for her next trip to ‘the heaven’. She waited for the attendant to take her there.

She was completely engrossed in her work, and didn’t hear the knock on the door. They knocked again. Someone had come to visit her. She sat back, and he entered. “Hi.. how are you? This is amazing, are these real drums?”

She was taken aback and a little shocked, to see him at such an odd timing, so couldn’t answer. She simply turned and continued her work. He wasn’t affected, he sat on the chair opposite to her placing his elbows on the table and chin resting on knuckles. She was unnerved by the scrutinizing look he gave her, and he noticed that, quickly removing his gaze from her. She gave him a calculating look.

“How are you?” He asked again.

“Why did you come here in the rains?” She snapped at him.

“Well, I just wanted to handover this card made by Elise for you. She wanted to make sure you get your thank you card in advance for the gift you’ll give her for her birthday next month. Wicked girl she is!”

She took the card and examined it carefully. Without saying a word she kept it in the drawer. The institution was very friendly and believed in the fact that homely environment sped up the recovery. She got up and said “I’ll get as cake for you from the pantry.” and left. The attendant was off for the restroom so she went on her own-of course she was one of the well behaved and that’s why previleged patients-and came back with a cake. He smiled, thanked her and took a bite of the piece of the cake that she cut for him. They passed the time in silence while he ate the cake and she cut the outlines on the cans.

“It’s late now.” She stated, after a while.

He suddenly started to feel a rising headache. He got up, “Oh yes. I don’t know why I am feeling a bit dull. I think I should take your leave…”

“No, I think you shouldn’t.” She made him sit down. He looked puzzled. But the sleep was overcoming his rational mind. Suddenly, the lights went off.

________________________________________________________________________________________

The cup of tea, along with the smell of the wet soil from the window and the raindrops tapping on the drum kept alongside was overwhelming. She started humming again. This time in D#, the octave was complete now. ‘Maybe it needed an outside skin for that pitch. After the crazy insignificant ones here, it’s okay to sacrifice a sane one I guess.’ she thought.

Published by

muditastory

Writing and Photography

4 thoughts on “The pitch of the raindrops”

  1. The best aspect of your writing is you pay enough attention to details and often they touch the realms of reality.
    Lovely start! Keep sharing..

    Like

Leave a Reply to Ankita Kule Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s