More and more the society around was becoming alienated. Moving to this new town couple of years back there was a sense of homecoming for him. The feeling of things turning for the good was the resounding theme. He was least perturbed by the surrounding chaos, pushing you around like the famed Mumbai local. Though much of the old charm was hidden by the new, there were nooks and corners where you could relive the last decade.
Change is much like the turbulence which you face while on an aircraft. You know the certainty of it. But every time the air-borne beast dives head long into that patch your innards shudder a bit, grip tightening on the seats as if putting an effort to stabilise this disturbance. And most often it last for 20-30 seconds only. People have some standard responses in these situation. You will always find that family where the dad will be gripping the kids more so to comfort himself than the tots who will be writhing to get free. Then there is the ones with the slight hint of concern on their face, glancing from the corner of their eyes how the person next is coping with this. And always the cool ones, with no bother of the happening around either immersed on the song playing on the earphones or the book they seem not to be able to keep down.
He was like the second one on really good days and third one most the time of conscious existence. Lately the town had begun to lost it’s lure on him. He couldn’t quite separate this feeling from the turbulance he was going through in his personal life. There was a constant pressure to go out of his way of things to fit to an external demand. On occasion it was from his inner circle, the true bastion of self expression, and other occasions from the society. Many a time distinction is hard. Demands on him were to curb those, in favor of conformance and a misplaced sense of responsibility. The consequences was his and his only to bare. Others seem to have dismissed that like the most ludicruos connection could exist between the two.
You get a feeling in some situations that the vents are closing down fast. Lest you make the move the steer is gonna be yanked out of your hands and passed on to the next in line. With no certainty of when you will be able to be in charge the next time. He was in that space at least in it’s head. Outwards he was wearing the third type’s mask. He looked around the airplane to wonder has he got company here?
On a run. The road seemed vaguely familiar, the kind of nondescript, dusty stretch with uneven tarred surface you tread very often on one of those long-drives. Summer sun is still someway on its perch to the peak which is when tricks are played by the road beneath. For now I can feel the lushness around, even with the sparse evenly spaced tall trees lining the width as if forming an outer boundary. The canvas is laid straight as far as the eyes can see, and then some more. I pick up the pace. The weird thing was I could neither feel the breeze up my face, nor any pressure on my muscles.
Thinking about that now it seems weird. Other parts of the scene were all in their own true self, only this was unreal.
It was light. Someone was running along trailing me. Who I have not the slightest inkling of, only the surety of a presence – the kind you get halfway through a train journey, or on the walk through a deserted alley.
I stepped up the pace with minimal exertion almost as if there was an accelerator inside me which was being gently pushed forward, ever so lightly. The steady increase in pace seemed to do nothing but drive my heart-beats up. Still no flow of the wind around my body. The pedal kept being pushed. Slowly I could feel the momentum lifting me up, the road was still grazing beneath. There was a rush inside while I floated with an increasing pace off the road. All the while keeping within the track. Not the slightest change in direction or a wobble. Overwhelmed by the feeling or of an impending task I woke from the dream. If felt as if I gracefully glided onto the surface of the road. I woke up on the sofa. The heart and my arms still seemed to be reeling from the effect, possessed by an energy as if reaching a crescendo through the flight.
Five minutes had passed between me dozing off one late morning and waking up thus. It’s been almost 4 years to that run and the feeling still eludes me. Such is the way with profound experiences, they come to you in that fleeting instant. Moment you try to catch it must have passed on to an unreachable realm. Leaving behind the faint essence of what it was. What man can do, but to let himself be to other profundities. The key it appears to be to cease the chasing and surrender.
Tyler Durden just staring at your face from the wall poster – This is your Life and it’s ending One minute at a time. And you are never the wiser of it. But is this reminder of life’s frailty doing you any good. Well, why should everything have to? On goodness, I have blabbered before as well. This is nothing new. For better things we all crave and slave off; some hide behind the barb of passion, some enlightenment, and some more in pursuit of happiness. Fallacies; some body rightly said life’s a pursuit – damn right. Why not have some fun on the way? You’re going to regret this later – ah, judgement! Or collective wisdom?
Possession gives purpose to life. For one thing it makes you wiser to the way of world. You learn to hold on to it with the price of your life all the while possessing some more. To what extent? To the extent of securing your future – one percent effort put in extra behind the pursuit will earn you 1481 times the points than the loser at the other end wasting one percent effort doing nothing. Revelation from a Facebook post! Some years back my confused self would have said ‘..and they will take it to their grave!’. But I have wizened up from that. Got myself a couple of oak coloured couches and mahagony bed – next in line is a runner carpet. Should I get hold of a 40-inch flat-screen as well. See right there, purpose defined for sometime. The problem is the effort, rather the cost to it.
For the romantics who are feeling the angst I would recommend ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ – and so for the rationals. It beautifully immerses the reader into an ever looming tragedy and explores this chasm of the two worlds. Was one of the books which can take much more than it can give from you. But then, why else you seek those pages! I now stare hard into the darkness in the living room. Muffled breathing beside. Timer still clicking to remind the mortals. Tick Tock.
He stared listlessly at the road. The traffic moved by at a pace that reflected that of the urban city he inhabited. The pace gathered momentum at times and slumped often. It was rather leisurely at the moment. A continuous shot of the traffic zoomed fast enough will reveal a rhythm both in pace and light. To him the rhythm had lost its significance. A traveler van halted by him due to the traffic light. A dozen faces, some sober, some lost in conversation, some blank. It reminded him of a puppet show he saw back at a village. Except the theatrics or the anticipation. He pictured himself in the van among-st the dozen faces. The thought repulsed him instantly; like some of the intrusive thoughts we all have had at times. He smiled a sad smile which got lost in the rush to break free at the sign of green. By now he had gathered a vague familiarity with the faces passing by. What made matters worse for him was that he could listen to each and every one of them, even their thoughts. They were all unique, yet the same. They all knew him, but in the disguise of a by-stander couldn’t recognize him. He was quite a celebrity in this part of the world; and so everywhere else. Only few had the time to look at him. Of them many looked right through him as if he were transparent. They were all here but quite not here.
He lit up a cigarette and blew a hollow ring which faded in the rush. And so did he.
Bio: Drake. A dash of yellow and pinch of saffron in a scoop of deepest dark. Conscience ticking like a f-ing time bomb. A creeping darkness in the soul. Limitless on the surface, shallow inside. Aberration in a perfect world.
Scene: A church. Fairly attended Sunday mass. Right outside, by the side of the huge doorway, stands the protagonist. A white box in his hands. Head lowered murmuring a prayer. A dangling pentagram glistening in the bright daylight.
All silent but for the sermon.
Thanks be to God
As murmur rises from the mass a shadow shifts across the doorway fading into the ornate woodwork. A child picks up the abandoned white box. Matching shade of white her beautiful frock. Blinded by the sun she opens it.
A flutter. A distant scream. A hundred doves fill the church.
To the girl who hates her birthdays From the boy who …………………….
Of all the tragedies losing a loved one must be the worst. Quite contradictory such a parting is. While one person gets hungover an extended grief, the other gets hungover an extended peace. Eventually we all come to peace; just the parted seem to get their faster. If dead ones go on to become stars, then he smiles down upon you from up there; on your birthday the widest beckoning to gain strength from his memory. To the person who defined love for you, grief should be the last offering. He would smile at a heart made of candles I am sure, lit up bright matching his brothers up there.
Of all things said and done, I might be just grazing at the boundaries. For you are at a plane that I can’t comprehend; drifting away each time I pass it. The expanse I am not able to gauge for I am blinded by my own. The gorges that are your scars are visible but with origins hidden. The rapids topsy-turvy like your memories, too fast to follow. The cold deserts give me the creeps as your fears. If the experiences wire up a person; then you may be wired just right. For the expanse I am not able to gauge for I am blinded by self.
This piece is best left here. For I don’t possess the tools to make it whole. Lost in translation, here’s a cheers to an incomplete wish.
To the girl who hates her birthdays From the boy who …………………….