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Ruchi Acharya 

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Buried Emotions (a soliloquy)

“Is this what it feels like? When rainy, dark, secluded clouds become the roof and dreaded
leaves make the floor.”
That’s what gyrated in my head as my unaware feet stumbled in the cemetery in the search
of a particular gravestone.
“I exist as a hushed corner of the galaxy, diverting my focus with materialistic and self-
centered objects, hoping to deceive my mind into reliving an undesired life each day. How can I
elope myself in the arms of false satisfaction, temporary happiness, and never-ending
intoxication?”
I took a seat, and my priciest white dress, the most lavish I’d ever worn, descended into a muddy puddle. Not a single flinch escaped me at that sight. My astronomical focus fixated on the gravestone directly before me. All that remained was to reveal the name etched on the headstone.
With my long satin dress, I wiped away the dirt, only to realize it wasn’t the grave of the person I sought. Wrong one. I stood up and started hunting again for my beloved’s grave.
“Look at me, the she-devil, leisurely wandering through this graveyard in the deep darkness on my wedding night, relishing the thrill instead of shivers down my spine. I sense the alcohol running through my veins racing to chambers of my heart. I shouldn’t have gulped the Long Island Tea down my throat. Unbelievable.”
I looked around the graveyard, and to my notice, it encapsulated stories of the people, similar to the outside world, within its confined space. The only difference lies in the fact that on one side, people are dead and resting, while on the other side, people are dead but still walking.
But I must admit, there’s a comfort in the forlorn darkness. This world seems frail, a place where time stops, and memories prevail above everything else. There’s no symbol of life, but the headstones truly scream the imperativeness of it. The wild flowers poisoned the soil as my wedding shoes pounded on the ground, marching arrhythmically towards the right-cornered gravestone.
There was this uncontrolled intuition that was guiding me to his grave. Finally, I found him.
The bridge of light was broken, faith shaken as I placed a single ruby rose stem on his grave.
“All lovers are nincompoop and I am no exception. How could I fall for someone I never met,
never knew – a stranger by any definition? Though not entirely accurate to label him a total stranger, let’s say he was an acquaintance. We studied together at the University of Glasgow. We never spoke, but there was always this unspoken eye contact between us. Meet the Scottish virtuoso, a 26-year-old bonnie lad of wit and intellect who effortlessly leads the classroom, posing questions to the professor with an air of unshakable confidence. Towering with the pride of the Highlands, he navigates both academia and the rugby field with equal prowess, a titan of both mind and body.”
I know, I know that I am such a stalker. I wish, I would have paid more attention to research and
analysis on my thesis than him. Anyway.
“He was raised by a single mother who seems to be a sweet lady in the video he uploaded on
YouTube for Mother’s Day. She would have been a perfect mother-in-law if this prick wasn’t
lying dead. I remember how I planned to have barbecues on the weekends and engage in lengthy conversations with her about my work, culture, experiences, and everything in between. Poor thing, I can barely imagine her staying all by herself in the big house that her son purchased with his hard-earned money last year. I do send Christmas greetings to her anonymously every year to this date.”
The rustling of leaves stirred my senses, and I was gradually sobering up. I took a deep breath and combed my hair back. My numbed skin began to regain senses, the first realization being the freakish cold surrounding me. My eyes gazed back at his headstone, and my pale hands
involuntarily reached out to touch it. I can see his face crystal clear in the back of my mind. I
smiled and settled more comfortably on the sharp grass that pricked through my satin dress.
“He was a product of private school refinement; he brings a touch of sophistication to the rugby pitch, blending true gentleman ship with the raw power of the Scottish Highlands. I truly adored his arms and shoulders. I don’t know why, but I’ve imagined on numerous occasions in my life, especially when things went south and became extremely dire, that the only safe haven in this world is his arms. I always wanted to run into his arms, believing that the world would be a better place. He could just wrap me in his warm embrace and cuddle me. I’ve never wished for anything more in this life.”
My deep contemplation laminated in maple syrup was interrupted by a car’s headlights. Luckily, the car continued without stopping to disrupt my reverie.
Why I never approached him?
“In matters of the heart, he had a girlfriend who was a national badminton player. That was the
whole goddamn reason I never approached him in the first place. But I think they broke up a year later after graduation, but it was more like beating a dead horse. I moved to another country, a thousand miles away from Scotland. He died, and today I got married. The end of the love story—it remains incomplete to this date. I would’ve have titled our book, “two pieces of an unspoken heart.”
I took a deep sigh. My heavy heart was weeping and screaming from inside, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring it to the surface on my face. Was it intoxication? My wedding ring glimmered in the darkness with whatever little luminous light was present in the night sky.
Looking back at my first love’s grave, it feels like I’m cheating on him with my husband. My mind rings a reminder that I’m once again self-berating and allowing myself to sink into the cavernous ocean of poison by uttering unkind words to myself. I should never have visited the therapist – Dr. Shivani Batra. She taught me to self-analyze, recognizing that I am reciting negative words to myself with the intention of causing harm and making myself feel miserable to the point of inducing anxiety and panic attacks. So, recognize it and avoid it.
The most important lesson she neglected to teach me was how to navigate turbulent emotions. I guess, that was an important bit. Foolish woman.
“Why did heaven drift us apart? I’ve asked a thousand times, with ears still hoping for an answer.
Burning curiosity, pondering possibilities, searching for my lost soul-piece to mend this broken
heart. It feels like it happened just yesterday. He was there, breathing on this earth, then he left this world, and I am still surprised. I lost the only love of my life. It’s morose. I regret every moment since then, figuring out what went wrong, why he fell silent. There was a time when I could imagine touching him, kissing him, feeling him, but now he resides in my memories. Knowing he was alive and breathing fine was once satisfactory.”
As time crawled by, I waited past the devil’s hour at night, weaker than ever. I sat in front of his
grave with an unbeatable heart, filled with thorny words and blooming blames. Moonbeams
filtered through the darkness, transforming the graveyard into a Tolkienscape. I don’t remember how long I stayed, memorizing my past, mourning in the grief of a dead lover. It seems my heart froze, unable to love anymore.
After shedding tears, when I finally felt a sense of relief, I closed my eyes. There he stood, my late acquaintance, his face etched in crystal clarity. I recall every detail of his well-groomed features—steadfast eyelashes, a partially clear-shaved face, impeccable muscular contours, and an amazing jawline. His lips induced an arousing sensation, sparking a fervent libido. He draws me back in.
He is the poem I always wanted to write, an extraordinary personality. I am wholly, deeply,
genuinely, ardently in love with him. Unlike mere buffoons, there was something distinctive about him. I waited for years, and he was the most beautiful thing ever to happen to me. They say good things take time, but truly magnificent occurrences transpire in the blink of an eye.This sensation was truly delightful. He says, “Just let me go.” The clock ticks on, and my insomniac lashes have dried. I rose from my seat and walked toward the perplexing exit of shattered dreams.
The sunrise sky adorned in a Mars-red hue, resembling a sea of cotton candy with silky clouds
drifting aimlessly. Inhaling deeply with open arms, I liberated my mind, a thought whispering,
“Carpe Diem.” I recall, once I showed up in the examination hall wearing my waitress uniform
and made a laughing stock out of myself. He handed me a piece of parchment saying “Carpe
Diem”. I smiled and strolled slowly towards my car, leaving a note on his grave. After that, I never looked back.
The note was written on his funeral but never read out loud. It intonates:
“It’s when the sands of time take my heart’s lover
away from my eyesight in the sky.
I die every day little inside in awry
But couldn’t gather the courage
to bid you goodbye, Oh! Never.
And when the dark rises up,
and the stars fall down.
I know you will return right into my arms.
They say true love’s lover never ever dies,
their feelings enhance every day passing by.”

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Hollow Frame

In the depths of my two scorching eyes, lined with neon-winged despair,
I confront the grotesque reflection staring back from a modern Ikea mirror.
A visage twisted in disgust, my soul cackles,
the sound a screech that tears at my eardrums like a banshee’s wail.

My manicured nails turn the pages of Vanity Fair,
but my rotten brain erupts,
oozing poison into the corridors of my mind,
slowly succumbing to its own malignant grasp.

What horror has befallen my once-collagen-rich skin,
now melting like a black candle,
withered beneath the flash of unlit cameras,
its glory consumed by the shadows of artificiality?

My houseplants stand as grave markers of neglect,
witnesses to the decay that consumes me whole.
My cats have fled to the wild,
their nocturnal cries echoing my shame,
for I forgot to nourish their longing with affection.

Who am I on this moonless Halloween night in Las Vegas,
a lonely grandmother at thirty-one,
haunted by the specter of a life misled,
dying in this garish masquerade?

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Ruchi Acharya is a distinguished author based in Mumbai, India, renowned for her captivating book Off the Cliff. With a prolific presence in the literary world, Ruchi has been featured in over 100 journals globally. Her academic pursuits include a summer course in English Literature from the University of Oxford, which further fueled her passion for British classics.

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