Shekh Ahmed Niroz

July 4, 1888

I just came to Whitechapel district. The wet streets were not welcoming. It is very cold here. I do not feel comfortable. However, this area looks nicer than the place I usually live in. This is my fifth diary. However, I think nobody reads them. I always drop them whenever I leave the place. I will drop this one too.

July 5, 1888

I still am going through the same problem. It just does not work; she was laughing at me. Her smile was exquisite. Her lips were stretching, I could see her pearly white teeth. The sound of her laughter was hammering at my humiliation. The little alleys were echoing my song of impotence. I wanted to slap her, I wanted to dislocate her pointy sharp nose. But, I could not destroy such a beautiful thing. Moreover, she lives by selling her beauty. I cannot do that to her. How was she going to feed herself? I just walked out from the alley. Walked out like my wife did from our marriage.

July 9, 1888

The clouds are finally gone. Sun seemed a bit brighter than it normally is. The golden waves of rays were showering my windows, my curtains, me. I made a new friend today, James P. Davies – my landlord. People usually like me a lot. They say I am charming, he was no different. He is a very gleeful lad. Probably, two or three years younger than me. He has a cabin by the woods, it is a 15 minutes walk from the main area. He needed someone to guard the place. I needed someplace away from here. So, it was a good deal.

July 10, 1888

I like this cabin. It is always cold here. But I have been to colder places – my ex-wife’s heart, for instance. We were married for 4 years, no children. It was because of me; it was my fault. It was always my fault. As the years were passing by, my problems were increasing too. I do not know why it just was not working. She got impatient. But I suppose she is happy now somewhere. She had beautiful yellow hair – long enough to cover her shoulders. I miss her eyes – I miss how she used to look at me.

July 11, 1888

James invited me to his party today. As he said “Tis going to be a most wondrous party tonight”. He wants me there. I do not think I will go out.

July 12, 1888

James sent his carriage for me the other night, I had no option but to go to that party. Thankfully I went there. I felt low in front of those rich men with broad shoulders. They smelt of affluence, they talked through their deep pockets. They did not seem to be bothered about my existence there. But there, I saw her, her yellow hair, her rosy cheeks. She was the most perfect looking woman in the world. Her beautiful eyes were understating her kindness! Her soft looking skin showed me to her path. James introduced me to her fiancé – Bertram Taylor, a third generation business man. He uttered my name in a contemptuous tone, ” ‘Jack R. I. Per.’ I do not think I have ever heard of that last name”. She came forth to save me. Saying, “Mr. Per seems like the gentleman who came from the North”. Her husband left us to talk with an attorney, thankfully he did. Her name was Ada! Ada Lovelace. I think I like her. I am sure I like her.

July 20, 1888

I have seen Ada in four different parties now. We have seen each other besides the parties as well. I was so busy with her thoughts, I forgot to write here. Nobody is going to read it anyway. She knows about my problem. I was right about her eyes. They lie, they say a lot less about her kindness. She held my hand and told me it was going to be okay. “Our hearts mingle more than our physical entity” she said. I call her Porphyria, it’s a Greek word for purple. She loves it when I call her Porphyria. She calls me “A mighty Artist”. I want her to be mine. Only mine!

July 22, 1888

I hear voices in my head. They tell me to wake up. The howling of the wolves outside the cabin scares me. I have sleepless nights, but Porphyria is always with me even when she is not physically here. This woman understands me, they all do.They always
make me happy.

July 23, 1888

Porphyria came to my cabin today. She cooks well, we read poems together. She told me to write poems, she thinks I can write well – if I try. Her soft, tender shoulders welcomed me to her warmth. I love to be with her. Her pink cheeks are where my lips were born to reside. She told me she is going to go away with me anywhere. We will have a wooden house by the river. We will have dogs, two actually. We will run away by fortnight.

July 24, 1888

The voices in my head are getting louder. My nails always itch as if they always want to hold onto something, as if they want to scratch something out. The voices keep me awake at night. They tell me to do something. I do not know what! Porphyria and I will leave within 13 days. My vision is getting foggy….

July 25, 1888

Porphyria and I met today. She was weeping. She told me she was not going to go with me. “It just is not possible. I like you, yes. But Bertram can provide for me. He may not be a poet, true. He may not be an artist. However, he will give me a family. I just cannot do this…” I ran away, I had to. Her eyes seemed very different today. They were gazing at me differently. She was wearing the yellow bustle. She looked like an angle who fell in this debris that we call Earth. She looked dazed and confused.

July 26, 1888

It started to storm later in the evening as I lay upon my bed. The roaring of clouds and the drumming on the windows were hypnotizing. Porphyria broke my chain of thoughts as I was taking in my surroundings. She came inside the cabin, wet. She lit up the fire. Making the whole place joyous as if each and every furniture there were happy to see her. She unbuckled those soiled gloves I gave her; they were not complimenting her dress at all. She undressed herself and came and sat beside me as I was listening to the voices in my head. She took my arms and rested it on her waist, that I remember. She told me something, “I love you!” But the voices in my head kept getting louder. They told me she was weak; she could not cut out her ties. The voices kept getting louder, louder than ever. “Whose lover is she?”  Mine I said, twice. I finally looked at her, her eyes succumbed to me, they worshipped me. The moment was perfect, her hair was perfect! Those silky strings were perfect to preserve that moment. I strangled her with it. Thrice, with all the passion in the world which she could not leave for me. She made no noise; I think she felt no pain. I am sure she did not. I opened up her eyelids which looked like the flower buds captivating a bee. Of course, I did the right thing. Otherwise God would have intervened. God did not. I spent the whole night with her just sitting beside her. Later during the dawn, I carried her to the woods. It is sad to think what the wolves would do to her perfect body. At least they will have a perfect meal. I, Jack R. I. Per, need to find another Porphyria. I will throw away this diary too. Nobody is going to read it anyway.