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This Ship Is Starting To Sail

With his swarthy brows tight and furrowed in pain, and somewhere behind his eyes, pain wringing him; and sense of wanting to throw up gathering in its strength slowly from the bottom of his stomach—he did not know if falling asleep, putting other stuff behind was doable.

There was another longish, tuckered out,, loud sigh from Raghav. "Okay guys," he said, his tone sharpened than before, "Good night, Suha. Dei, naan nalla thaan irukken, nee poi thoongu po (I think I am better right now, go to sleep man.)"

Hanging up the call, and setting his phone aside Raghav rolled back to his spot, holding his temple flanks with both of his hands, giving it a squeeze. His world was spinning in every possible direction, his pretty filled stomach threatened to heave with nausea, behind his temple was this throbbing pain getting belligerent in its match.

Raghav has had headaches before when he was in after effect; or when he had sleepless nights.

But this headache, the one he had thrumming and rumbling inside his head as if it was its own, permitted territory, right now was unaccustomed one—he had brought it upon himself by ceding to all the wrath and fury—and it only made him wonder, now; how'd he managed to accomplish completing his show, and drive home safe, until he had reached home and his bed, with so much furor spuming in him, oppressively.

It was quite harrowing to brook his thoughts over the headache.

He had been a part of Haasyam since his college days, and had known every division and appendage of it, ever since. When he commenced his stand-up comedy shows, it did not leave him a mark in an instance. It took more than a year for him to get to the little of recognition he had followed through now—after the first couple failed shows, his third show gained him quite a handful of college-going audience, which just gradually circulated into the people of other age groups,too, who were fond of decent humour—and he'd never say, it'd come effortlessly to his way.

He had always had this unwavering trust in the people inside Haasyam, albeit there was a profound, subtle clash coming about finespun, amongst the comics who performed within their circle—in conscious of it, Raghav had never minded any of them and he had never thought of them as his rivals. However they performed, what he spoke on-stage and how he conversed and connected to his audience seemed like part he wanted to focus on, even when he failed in his initial shows. He knew comparing himself with other comics wasn't going to help him, anyday.

He was not close-friends with any of them, but he wasn't in competition with them either—at least, in his own mind. They never affected him, but when it did, today, all of it had an effect of blitzing outpour from a turbulent, splitting cloud. It was too much to handle, for Raghav was not someone who really concerned oneself at a situation like this ever before. Today's happening brought out everything that he was not.

When his phone chimed again that night, Raghav was on his stomach, very widely awake to pick the phone up within two rings. Rolling to his back, he answered the call and put it up to ears. "Raghav, how are you?" Samhitha said, her voice sleepy.

Raghav sat up, tossing the covers off, still squeezing his temple with one of his hands. "The room's spinning, there's a muscle in my right cheek that keeps twitching harmonious to the throbbing of my head, there's this badgering pain in my eyes blinding my vision," he kept mumbling, despite hearing Samhitha chuckle softly, "—and I still am very much alive, so I am okay, I guess."

Samhitha yawned from the other side, her voice smiling, "Can we meet for a cup of coffee?"

Raghav took the phone off his ear to check time, dubious at her question. "Are you kidding? Time is four-thirty in the morning, and you want to go have coffee. You're crazier than me Samhitha!"