Charles Bukowski once said that

If you have the ability to love someone, love yourself first.

Easier said than done, I thought to myself. 

I closed the book, as the sky was too beautiful that not looking at it would be a shame, especially when you are siting in the balcony of the third floor in Bangalore with a impressive view of the evening sky.

Boy, you wouldn't want to miss this!

Autumn evening are always stunning.

The crisp air would sweep the sunburnt leaves to rest, welcoming the newcomers from the barren trees. The sunsets are the longest and warm, the crimson sky and amber sun would wither slowly under the fall foliage, and the mauve clouds would blush at their farewell along with the chirps of swallows.

Looking at the sunset, having a cup of hot ginger tea and wrapping myself around the red sweater that I took from home was enough to bring any dead soul crave to be alive again.

Autumn is the end of all seasons, the summer and spring, when all leaves turn into flowers, and there is poetry in the air.

Sweet smell of vanilla came from the window of my next door, Mrs. Parekh. She must be baking cupcakes for the kids. Christmas was one month away but her apartment was already beaming with fairy lights and fruitcakes. If I leaned into their window, I know I would see a Christmas tree gliterring in the living room and the kids messing her exquisite decoration.

I am not a lazy person nor hate Christmas, but I still think that it's too early to welcome snow.

It's just that there was never enough time for appreciate Autumn.

Mrs. Parekh or as her husband calls her Ester is the strong believer of destiny and maybe that's why she married her cousin, seven years older than her. They moved in a few months ago with her two children, both girls naughty and naïve.

Ester was beautiful, not for the way she looked but for the way she thought. She was assumed the embodiment of a woman. A house wife with Ph. D in literature. Always wore formal attire and neat plaids, her forehead smeared with kumkum, picked her kids from and to the school, instigated, consoled and encouraged them, her world revolved around them. She was soft and gracious, her voice never raised, not even by mistake.

I have never seen her without the kids, laundry or grocery shopping, let alone shopping for herself.

Mr. Parekh, no one calls him by his first name, not even Ester. Three words: rich, open minded and kind, a deadly combination. He was bold, elected as the vice president of the year in his company two times and is the apartment's manager. The audacity in his voice and his intellectuality in his thoughts never fail to impress. Everyone listens to him or maybe he talked the way everyone should listen.

Every weekend they would have a family night at the fancy restaurant, paid vacations to elite cities. His kids loved him so much, especially his younger daughter Mila, would wrap her hands around his neck and he would carry her everywhere while his wife always supported him, stood by his side. Ester is lucky to have a caring husband, who changed the baby diapers and cooked on occasions. Or is she?

They are the power couple, but no one said who had the power in the relationship.

Never once the lights went off until he came home and the hot shower and delicious dinner would be ready. Their tv constantly played either sports, business or news. Her name would be summoned everytime he needed something trivial and her answer would be as swift as a deer.

If you look closely into her eyes, you could easily notice the storms in her mnd, silence in her voice, and heaviness in her heart.

Sometimes, her kids would drive her crazy and she would calm them. Her showers ran longer than required with soft mutters under water. Thunders of broken utensils and anguish wails can be heard past midnight and she won't be coming out the house for a while. I could hear the little sobs whenever she talked to her mom, saying she wanted a divorce and her mother's comeback would be "your father was like that in the beginning" and that "men would change". Soon, the phone calls stopped and she was quiet.

The worst part is even when someone noticed these things, they would walk away like nothing happened.

It was her fault that she held a unhealthy relationship close to her only to be treated worse than a slave.

'Ester", I could hear him calling her for the missing TV remote.

The sun was long gone and the violet sky was barren. My stomach growled as the vanilla smell twitched my sweet spot. The fluorescent lights flickered one by one in all the balconies of the apartment, showing a carpet of greenery, wind chimes and bohemian clay toys. Every home was festive, the parents returning home, kids annoying their mother for more snacks and playtime and in-laws consoling them with deceptive excuses. I sat there in the dark, too tired to get up from the bean bag and switch on the lights.
The door opened in the flat, opposite to me. The therapy cat, Kudos came running to the balcony, his fur all stiffed up at the hit of cold air. It was the time for Gavin for his meditation therapy.

Gavin was my opposite flatmate in the new building. Athletic as he is, the light in his eyes burnt the same when he first moved in. Chatty with an unbeatable humor, he found trivial details in the most mundane conversation and the best part is he remembers.

"Hey, it's getting cold day by day, isn't it?", he asked at the sight of me. It was easy for him to break the ice so easily, unlike me.

A small town boy with massive dreams to write, he came against his mother's words to the big city with his girlfriend. With his big muscle and tattoos, long messy hair and steel piercings, he was a child in his heart. Warm and friendly, he would be the first one to help you pick the oranges from the ground, playing with the kids with the bat twice smaller than his hands and unapologetically fails to get a score.

Everyone in the apartment was his friend.

A little wave from the corridor.
A loud hi from the balcony.
A reassurance whenever you cross him.
A great compliment to make your day.

All unasked.

"Yah." I answered with a heavy voice.

"Your laundry had been drying for long time." He said with hesitation. I looked up to see my paper clothes, wavering against the wind. It had been one week since I wore fresh clothes and I could feel an uneasy grease on my skin. But I was too tired to care.

"I totally forgot." I answered.

He seemed fine. He always did seem fine. The same hello and goodbye everyday with a soft smile. But if the walls could talk, it would say he apologized a million times to his girlfriend not to break up with him.

She was never truly in love with him.  His manly looks, his warm nature, his ability to make her laugh and his permission to make him feel guilty everyday was enough for her. He was jobless for weeks, struggling to create stories and getting rejected. And she would tell all the bad things, and all he could do is nothing because he felt alone. She made him feel small, stupid and scared but he was silent. One day, she left.

And everything seemed fine with him. But seemed is a tricky word. He seemed fine for too long that we forget that he was fighting alone.

And we were too late to see the truth when we found out his lifeless body in a pool of blood. Since then, the apartment took extra care for him. His mother moved in with him and helped him get better.

The bravest decision he made was he moved on without any closure from his girlfriend.

Now he is happy. I guess.

But, if you looked into his childish eyes, you could see him wiping the scars on his wrist endlessly at night, to give him the closure that he needed and wished that it was easy to forget. Some days the only thing he would do and feel like he achieved something was breathing. Sorry comes faster than any reasonable questions from him. A little hesitation is present in every hello, goodbye and in between. He stopped having opinions of his own for the fear of being misunderstood. I could see him stop talking in the middle of the conversation only to get anxiety attacks and teary eyes.

After these brutally broken moments, he didn't wear a thick layer of indifference or stopped smiling at everyone.

It was his fault for not protecting his peace of mind and trauma.

"Oh god, it's eight thirty. I'm sorry, I kept you long", he apologized and I smirked at him. We were on a long talk of why the North Star is in south that we forget about time.

"I said it again, didn't I? My therapist said that I shouldn't say it for trivial matters." He said "but I don't want you to get upset".

"It's okay. Habits are hard to break but you can work on it", I said as I bid goodbye to the purring cat and the brave heart.

"The laundry. Don't forget to put it away," he shouted with mirth. " And please take a bath."

"Eat something too." His voice faded as I closed the door.

My fridge was empty. Just little bottles of pickles and beer. A rotten tomato, few garlic. A pack of three bread sat above my kitchen island which was way past its expiration date.

Carefully cutting out all the creases and mold, I toasted it with butter and made black tea. My head was spinning around the room as I was giving into hunger. I snatched the toast and jam, ran to the balcony as fast as I could sprint and took a seat in the dark. I forget to switch on the lights again.

It was ten and the city was like thousand stars drowning into the Earth.

The enormous traffic and endless red lights stilled the road like a candy cane. It was weekend, the happy hour. My bread was layered with strawberry jam, and I remember taking the first bite and poof! It was gone. I was hungry like a devil.

Should I cook? Or order pizza? I thought as my mind floated in circles with the surroundings.

The darkness felt like second home, like I had been there for too long that I became acquainted with the monsters.

Deep breaths.

The door burst open at the floor below Gavin's flat and drunken giggles echoed the empty room.

Mia Sylevester. The queen of sass.

She was already intoxicated till her neck, brought a new boy home and too annoyed to be sober. I was disappointed as I saw him kissing down her neck while she was almost unconscious.

Oh girl, the boys you bring home, do you like them or are you liking that they want you?

We used to go shopping, bars and hung out for a couple of months. After that, she lost touch with me and she would mostly avoid to make plans.

She has vicious cycle of self love and self doubts.

First few days are the days of self care. A pep in her step, a ring on her tone and wild as a sunflower, she would walk around carrying the universe on the shoulder and make it look like a pair of wings. Game changer, she would redefine everything you know, about how the water wrinkled on the touch of leaves, how the rain kissed her soul and how bass reverberated through our bones, crying out to dance. She has an eye for things: fashion and men, her taste would be chic and classy.

If you saw her, you would think she is a model. The high cheek bones, defined jawline, the way she winged her eyeliner and dewy makeup, her feminine body with divine fire is all she was made of. She would wear the cutest outfits and pull off any classic dress. She would walk in and all the faces would turn to see her and she would know that she is the owner of the hearts.

And then a irrelevant person would call her "beauty who is too dark/ too thick/ too much.",

This same girl would sit in front of the mirror, staring like she had seen a disgusting rat. Wardrobe full of sleeveless tops and high heels waiting to be worn, yet she wore the same fourteen outfits covering herself subconsciously. I had seen her in the gym exerting herself to near death and skipping meals and buying face creams to make her look pretty. She never comes out of the house and then have a hoe phase. Every night she would bring home ruthless boys whose intention would last only for one night and would let her heart be shattered over and over. Some guys lasted for more than two weeks and just when she fell in love with him, he would go after the games he played gets 'complicated'.

It was her fault for waiting for someone to tell her that she was enough and beautiful.

Coldness settled on my heavy lungs, waking me up at the bleak of early dawn. I snuggled into my sweater to put an end to the uncomfortable shivering inside my body.

How did I dozed off in the balcony under the cold spell? I pondered.

My crossed legs had gone into state of irritating spasm. Standing up to give me a sweet release of joy sent the empty bottle of vodka, clanging against the floor and running towards the old bottles gathered on the corner.

Oh, the vodka!

I could feel the tightness of the stringent throat I abused with alcohol, saying it's time to stop. But my eyes fell on the half empty bottle by my side of the chair. Little drops of dews twinkled against the moonlight on the autumnal equinox.

Without second thought, I gulped down the remaining.

My throat burnt like the brilliant moon burning its love in the graveyard of dead stars.

Alone in the agony.

Everyone is too busy to care about it.

The apartment was withdrawn from the liveliness of children playing football, the pigeons flattering and cooing and the mild rustling of people murmuring through their rooms. It was as if  they are all dead for a while, except for me. Only the fireflies swindling around the golden streetlight, the falling chestnuts and the foggy clouds moving across the moon are the only things alive. Even the wind was gentle.

Leaning against the balcony, the cold steel touched my skin, sending a jitter across my body. But my eyes fixated on the teen boy sitting on the terrace, so close to the ledger that one swift breeze could make him fall.

He is the boy preparing for competitive exams, George. I had seen him many times sitting on the ledger, every time he was getting closer to the edge than before.

The guy that every girls want and every guy wish to be is now brooding under a trail of thin smoke and unresolved doubts about his life.A soccer player with a perfect score on his school, a mastermind with fathomless knowledge. He is currently studying eleventh but already under the supervision of seven coaching classes. At an young age, he act more mature like a man. He never slouched, had a confident voice and whenever you see him, he would either have his hands on an encyclopedia or a "napolean hill" books.

His younger brother who never liked studying would come home after partying and getting high and his parents would never say a word.

But George, he is the light of the family, his dad used to say, whenever he meet me. He would boast that his son is perfect, really intelligent that he could score any marks even without trying. He wanted George to be a doctor or a collector, not a nobody.

The one thing he would always repeat is he is his favorite because he is the prodigy of his father

Little did he know that like everyone, George had a dark side, where even the stars couldn't shine on it.

The lights in his room had been burning for a longer time and more he spend in solitude in the terrace, escaping under the influence of nicotine which he stole from his dad's secret stash. The walls are filled with motivational quotes, a façade to being burnt out. Sometimes, you could see him, sitting on his study table, his head buried under the books, the erratic breathing when someone talked to him about the upcoming exams, the torn pages of his coaching books flying under the bed, the zoned out looks where he dreamt of going on a road trip without a map and the dusty canvas waiting to be painted for three months, yet he still hasn't touched it because he was afraid that he would like it a little too much.

The sad fact is that he doesn't know that he was actually drowning, trying to be his parents anchor.

At midnight, he would look down from the ledger and for a split second he would think that falling would be easy. Then he would back up swiftly when he thought about his dad.

Choosing death over success is not a faraway call.

It is his fault for following his dad's dreams and not his own.

I pushed the bottle, which spilled the drink all over my balcony to catch his attention. He did pick up the hint and quit his dangerous adventure.

"Every one is at fault. I hate this world". I muttered slowly.

I looked back into my bedroom. The self help books which I bought to mask my true nature, the interview booklet lying in pieces, the alcohol bottles, dead plants, stinking laundry heaped up on one side of my bed all told me that I'm in no position to judge.

I never returned my mother's calls. I never ate a full meal for over a week. I had never been out for a month, even though I love to stroll under the autumn life.

I stopped trying to live, now I'm just surviving.

I am jobless. I was so focused on my career that when I lost it for something stupid, I didn't want to try again.

It's my fault that I'm waiting for a moment to take the first step and also it's my fault that I forget that I have to live rather than survive.

But how do you live?

The surviving part was easier.

Living is hard.

Feeling is worse

Loving is hell.

But will I ever regret if I choose living?

Maybe.

A soft beam of crimson sun rose at the corner of my window, the angelic streaks against the thick fog made it look like it's okay to fall and rise again.

The autumn leaves rustled against the floor whispering it's okay to let go of hurt.

The fading moon grinned telling me that time would heal all wounds.

If not, how will you know the beauty of life?

***