The Narrator


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.


Anti-Character 1: Drake


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.