Blink,

Thrice upon a life-time,
He fought a battle;
He wanted to win;
How badly, I doubt.

Riddles.

Let's buy the white-tipped red caps.
Saint Nicholas.
Where do you get all your money?

Angels fly down, without fuel.
Without a ticket for every mile travelled.
But if, it's not a myth, how can it be material?


Makes sense, maybe.
For music comes at a price too.

Unimportant.

And, then, there comes a point, when nothing makes sense anymore.
But why? How?
A game of chess can be the example.
All the elaborate designs, evil, or otherwise.
Narrowed down to two squares.
White or black, not important.
Checkmate.
But why? How?

Men should have remained monkeys.
The brain is not a blessing.

Stark.

The curse gets worse.
The patience, like penance.

The wait for the knell.
He knows, very well.

It's all synonymous, now.
Death, despair, desire-less-ness.
It gets simpler somehow.
Internal processes.

The bull's eye blurs.
A blessing.

The Synopsis.

Old songs from a long forgotten city
Playing in the vicinity.

The memories of worn-out winters
Frequenting cerebral borders.

And then, a crisp moment
Brittle in its essence.
Wipes out the rest.

The lop-sided walk, going forth and back.
Feet carved out of the familiar track.

Deep in thought, deep in pockets
Moist eye-lids, painful sockets.

And then, a whiff.
The inherent gift.
Constancy of conflict.

Pointless exceptions to the rules they make
Living an existence that's utterly fake

The big picture, I remember,
The universe, I surrender.

And then, comes the calm after the storm;
The despair they fight, becomes the norm.
Two arms embrace the forlorn.

I Smirk.

The blue cotton threads,
Weaving in and out;
Breathing in and out,
The cold, wet, winter breeze;
A reminder of what that was.
Few, that brought smiles.
Fewer, that had hurt.
A testimony to what is,
And to the anticipation
Of what will be.

At the dark ends
Of the brightly-lit tunnels,
I smirk.

30 Minutes. Over the Phone.

Give me a drug.
Instead of the hug.
No, don't shrug.
Don't look smug.

Here I am.
In the traffic jam.
The eternal exam,
Of things I damn.

My heart beats,
My lung breathes;
My head seethes,
At mysterious myths.

The tug of war
With me, at par;
With things I bar,
With things too far.

The seasons change;
The entire range.
The moods, strange.
An exceptional exchange.

My point of view:
How nothing is true.
But when it comes to you,
Everything is new.

My helpless ear,
My infrequent fear;
That people near
Have to bear.

I would
If I could
But I should
Stop.

The Corner Seat.

[Recovered from my notes during the days of information-hunting for a stupid serial; September 2010.]

In the corner seat of the bus,
The last seat on the left;
Black tattered leathers,
Altogether unkempt.

The leaves outside are swaying;
Or is it just my vision?
For I am drenched in sweat,
Weather's own indetification.

The black ink draws patterns
With each mineral droplet
Even nonsense makes sense
It doesn't matter, yet.

The mind is an expert pendulum
Reels of memory and real
Oscillating in rough rounds
The loop like Devil's deal.

Sanity, aren't you insane?
Stability, you unstable?
When the daydream is replayed
As slumber's vivid fable?

Now the bus starts moving,
The engine engineers noise,
The rush of air beside,
Faking Nature wind-wise.

The driver honks the horn
In a relentless melody;
How easy it is to conjure
A rhythm in cacophony!

The window of the car beside
Betrays a boy of five
Sparkling eyes and sparkling teeth;
Is childhood really naive?

The head heavy with sleep
Weighs down on the eyes;
Magnified, and amplified,
The sound pays the price.

The cellphone vibrates against the thigh.
And I know who's calling up.
I close my eyes and still the world.
And let the voice fill up.

Thinking Aloud.

This is what follows, once I've started.

History repeats itself.

Not necessarily.

But the machine always flunks.

When it becomes necessary.

Rhymes, I'm bored of

Statistics, mundane

Truth, sans absolution

Makes things meaningless.

The adventure must go on.

Since that's the rule, they say

But rules, who is fond of?

Brains with no matter gray.

Design the divine

Praise the pristine

Define the line

But,

Keep track of time.

The days roll out

Drop by drop

And all we do is

Talk and talk.

The trouble with us, is

We think we are wise

And every mocking moment

Makes us pay the price.

Confidence? No complaints.

We were talking of paints

Or were we just pretending

To cover the time we're killing?

Oh, forgive my brain, my heart

It's burden plays no part

Gibberish is tax-free

Greatness, temporary.

Yet, I contradict

Evolve, a better word

Fickle, a worse one,

Where is the third?

Is that the waiting crowd?

Ask them to wait for me.

Till my conscience proud

Allows me to to be

What I do not want,

And what I claim to hate

Till I've set the records

"Normal" and "straight".

The Excuse of a Response

And as usual, I would not agree;
Point out, this is temporary,
Metals inside last lesser
Than the metals outside, ever.
Escapism, I'd endorse, if
I knew the why behind grief,
And as you say, yourself,
The trick is to delve.
Stop the music, if silence
Feels too silent hence.

Sounds and sights,
Wants and desires,
Code words and proverbs,
Things the mind loves.
But then, what do I say?
My own words sway,
Temporary, I repeat
And console every heart beat
That I always have a plan
That words cannot span
Stretching into infinity, and then,
Nothing-ness.
Nothing else.
Excuses, again.
I always need them.

Zzeet-Zzat-Bump.

Zzeet-zzaat-bump.

Brownian motion.

Incoherent collision.

Each with each other.

And the walls of the skull.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Echoing every touch.

The suffocation as such;

The din of distraction defeaning,

The brain bows in burden.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Blocking and unblocking.

The feeling of losing,

The track of all tracks.

Inter-over-lapping.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

All day, all night,

Can I have a respite?

A little unlimited time,

Wrenched out of schedules?

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Now, the sound hurts.

Now, the heart burns.

Now, this is my threshold

Now, there is no next.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Brownian motion.

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Synchronisation.

Zzeet-Zzat-bump.

“Sound the bugle now”

Zzeet-zzat-bump.

Harmony has set in.

Lovely Twenty-Four.

Diwali eve. Saw this lady, not-so-well-to-do, if you know what I mean. Her entire head was bandaged. I imagine she has a family. A son, or two, and a husband. Will they burn crackers, I wonder.
A winter afternoon. A sun, blood red. No, it's not exactly a setting sun. It was glaring bright enough. But it was red. And I stared into it till it became blue, due to some-god-knows-what phenomenon that always happens when you stare into the sun. After a while, I look at the sun again, but this time, not exactly at it. I see it's reflection, doubled in size, on the glass panes of a huge building.
I didn't take it out. It was in my bag. The camera, I mean.
A morning, that starts with a hangover. And a confusion about what happened last. Amidst all the confusion, there is one thing constant. I'm looking for the cellphone.
A night, that follows a wish-this-lasted-forever-evening. Happily drunk. Top-of-the-world. Or no, wait, the world stopped existing. Careless behavior, as a result.
Thank you life, for all the variety.
Only if you could get my head rid of migraine, I could have worked tonight. And paid you back for the last twenty-four hours.

Someone said this to me and Sayak, today.
"Why are you both walking like old men? Slowly, pausing after every step, as if you're contemplating every step?"
I did not reply aloud.
I was not contemplating every step.

The Door.

One.

He walked out of the apartment. He was determined not to turn back.

But, he knew, from habit, that she would come to the door, and call him back again.

So, he closed the door behind him, and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

She would need to go back to get her keys, or maybe she won’t. She would know that he was gone.

He heard her approaching footsteps, as he turned the key in the lock.

He shoved the keys back into his pocket, and took a hasty step forward. Just one step.

Her footsteps had silenced. He stopped.

He was determined not to turn around.

He couldn’t move.

He was tempted to peep in through the key-hole.

But, no, he won’t turn around. He stood there. He waited for the sound of her footsteps. Forward or backward, in any direction, would do.

But there was no sound.

The two of them stood few feet away from each other, separated by the teak-paneled door.

No one moved.

Two.

She was stunned. Shocked.

“Get out”, she ordered, her voice trembling with anger.

He hated her, but his body always obeyed her. He hated his body for that.

His knees stretched, his feet gripped the floor, and one by one, they led him out of the room, across the corridor, to the door.

He turned the door-knob and stepped out. He stood there, with his back facing the door wide open.

She came, silently.

She swung the door shut, with a loud thump.

He spiraled back and thrust both his hands on the teak panels. He banged his head on the wood.

He screwed shut his eyes, and tried to listen to her footsteps.

Instead, he heard a scraping sound against the wood. The sound travelled downwards, as his cheek traced the sound.

Then, the sound of her sobs.

He didn’t want to say anything.

He always hated talking.

His nails scratched against the teak and he slumped down on the floor of the dirty hallway.

He wasn’t the one who cared about cleanliness.

Three.

It was early morning. He ran up the stairs. He never took the elevator when he was in a hurry. In spite of his self-claimed tech-dependence, he always trusted his limbs more than anything else.

Panting, he reached the second floor.

He never pressed the door-bell, either.

He was about to call on her phone, from his cellphone, when he saw it.

The door was already open. Wide open.

He called out her name. He couldn’t explain the loud thumping in his heart, whether it was fear or the breathlessness from running.

Trying to hold himself together, he staggered into the rooms, one by one.

She was nowhere.

A fresh sticky note lay on the refrigerator.

He didn’t notice it, amongst all the paper stuck on it.

He leaned his head the fridge, and heaved a heavy sigh. He called out her name again.

She was nowhere.

There was a sound. It was her ringtone. He found the phone ringing deep inside the bedcovers.

It was her father calling.

He answered the call.

No, he didn’t know where she was.

No, he had just come in.

Yes, the door was open. Wide open.

Yes, he would go to the police station.

No, not right now.

Okay, right now.

Yes, he would call them up as soon as possible.

Beep.

His feet carried him towards the teak-paneled door.

So, she was right.

She was always right.

One day, she would leave. And leave no trace behind.

But, she was wrong.

He wasn’t indifferent.

Norm.

Mad Mondays. 
Terrible Tuesdays. 
Weird Wednesdays. 
Troubling Thursdays. 
Fickle Fridays. 
Surreal Saturdays. 
Sad Sundays.

Nothing Else Matters.

Even if it's temporary

Even if it's imaginary

Even if it's plight

Even if it's not right

Nothing else matters.

The green leaves, the brown barks

Whizzed past, in a blur.

Frozen eyes at staring contests.

Our breaths threaten, but.

Nothing else matters.

Excuses, and explanations;

A fleeting touch, a hand held tight

And though it weakens my might.

"Entitled to illusions", she says.

Nothing else matters.

The Epilogue To A Sleepless Night

The windows brought a pink glow into the room.
He had just opened his eyes, after the hundredth round ofday-dreaming in the dark.
Laid on the mattress-less bed, on his back, his legs resting on some pillows, and hands spread; he moved his tired eyes and glanced outside the window.
He clenched his teeth in an effort to stop himself from shrieking out loud.
The iron fist returned to its favorite hobby of gripping his wind pipe.
There was no respite from breathlessness.

There was a man in white shorts and white socks who jogged past his ground level window.
There was a faint sound of some religious bells somewhere in the neighborhood.
There was a rickshaw, whose puller pressed the air-pouch and sounded the horn in the half-lit empty road.
There was a group of shabbily-dressed women, with a red powder shabbily smeared on their foreheads, all of whom half-ran with nylon bags clutched in their hands.

The fan spun noiselessly, over his head.
He scratched his forehead, and ran his finger around the corners of his nose.
The facts, the feelings, the faces, the words, the waters, the pain, the pleasure, all blended together into a blurry collage and he groped about with an imaginary hand, for something constant and concrete.
There isn’t much to do, he realized that, and he wasn’t the type who ever complained.
He always believed in making use of the moods.
But now, he thought to himself, the very act of dragging himself up to the desk, and turning the computer on, wouldn’t count much.
He was tired of being ruthless with himself.
The old tricks didn’t work anymore.

His eyes never left the window.
The outside brightened up gradually.
From the bed, he could get a good view of the road that was two feet from the window. Vice-versa, he thought, but that never bothered him.
More people. Busier people. More noises. Busier noises.
Did they really pretend to have trouble-less-existences, or did they have their heads trapped in un-resolvable thought-webs too, while they went about their routines?
Did it matter in the end?
And if it didn’t matter, why did such times and days occur, when nothing else mattered?
Was escaping duties a bigger crime than escaping worries?
He stretched his hand, and reached out for the packet of cigarettes, but he remembered the coughing fits, and paused.
More questions. Lesser answers.

He jerked himself up.
He wore his slippers, stuffed the wallet into his pocket, and left the room.
He left the cell-phone behind. He walked out.
There was only one way he could escape it.
Total oblivion.

Absolute.

Amidst all the debates.
Discussions. Discourses.
Against all the decisions.
One moment.
The world stopped.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
One moment.
How did it happen?
This was not planned.
This was, carefully, planned against.
Taken precautions against.
Almost destined not to happen.
One moment.
The brain sleeps, dreams, and wakes up, all at once.
Vision clears behind the closed eye-lids.
Breathlessness breathes life into the soul.
Even the buzzing stops.
The torment gets lost.
The non-existent takes form.
One moment.
It was absolute.
It couldn't have been an illusion.

Fifteen Day Fight: Day One

Discipline Defined:

No Music.
No Movies.
Inedible food. (Starving, not allowed.)
Early to bed, early to rise. (Even if it means just lying awake all night)
No Smoking.
No Friends (implied by: returning home by 10pm)
Alcohol consumption allowed, only under the supervision of an adult.
College or Bankruptcy: choose.

More to come.

I burn.

It was black and white.
Always, all ways, all the way.
Believe it or not, but
What takes my breath away,
And stuns me,
And staggers me,
And confuses me,
And confounds me,
Is seeing that white could break
Into seven more colours
And even more. And more.

And bewildered, I stare.
I observate.
I frown.
I burn.

Movie-View.

When a movie runs into the 3rd week, in Kolkata, expectations are unnaturally raised.

The Expendables

Story: Predictable. (Or am I growing old?)
Dialogue: Very good. Mainly because it was a little different from the usual action-movie-types.
Background Score: Usual, nothing noteworthy.
Screenplay: Engaging.
Camera-Work, Editing, Graphics etc: WOW.
Cast: With guest appearances by Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger, imagine the budget. Stallone, pleasant as usual. Statham, different, good. Jet Li: Ok. Others, are they among the Expendables too?

Delirium

A river.
Low light
Light breeze.
A boatman and his boat.
The former, watching. The latter, wondering.
Two people lying on their backs.
Their eyes are filled with one thing. Just one single thing.
One single entity.
The sky.
A deep blue velvet sheet with silver glitter sprinkled here and there.

The vision clears.
The ceiling glows in the dark.
The street lights stand still on it.
The car lights keep drawing, and re-drawing patterns.
Dots, circles, oval-shaped, elongated, squeezed, stretched.
No light.
No breeze.

The music starts.
The thoughts entangle.
The weight leaning on him has a face now.
A face with a pair of eyes.
Eyes with a stare.
A stare with emptiness and eloquence.
Contrasts. Conforms. Contrasts again. Hesitates a little. And conforms again.
Confirmed.

The music amuses. The very power of it. How dare it?
Each strung string that is touched and vibrated, tugs at other strings.
Strings that have been desperately tried to hide.
Strung tight. Yet vibrating.
Producing vibrations elsewhere, again.

The eye-lids lift themselves up.
The eye-balls move around.
It's still the the same.

Delirium: 90 minutes of god-knows-what-happened.

And, I hit the wall.

Okay, let's come down to the basics.
Love is an understatement, maybe.
But, this is the picture of perfect love they talk about in the movies.
It won't do any harm at all, if we just closed our eyes to that picture.
We would still be.

S. Mashi

She was a widow.
Her daughter was a widow.
Her grand-daughters, were 8 and 13 respectively.
And the elder one, was a widow.

She had come to the city to a hospital.
She had met this man and his wife, who took pity on her; old lady in rags, and had brought her to their home.
She has lived there ever since.
It has been twenty years. Or maybe more.
She was illiterate, she didn't exactly know how to count.
She didn't even want to learn.

Today, she was being thrown out of the house.
Dadababu's son said she is too hard to live with.
He said she was stubborn.
He said that he can't live with someone who can't even read the time on the clock.
He said that she didn't know how to cook.
She was being thrown out.
She looked at Dadababu.
He looked back.

Father: She has been here, even before you were born.
Son: I know, I have tried my best to adjust.
Father: This is my house. I need her. You can go out.
S. Mashi: I can't adjust. I hate the city. I am leaving.

A Copyrighted Conversation

"Full is my heart;
Half is my heart
In pockets n pieces
Is torn my heart
Where the eagles dare
Is his nightmare."

“Here i am to hold you tight
To hold your pieces in the rain
So that when the sun is back
You find yourself again.”

“Twish is typing-
the story of my life-
he is writing the story of my life-
O Twish! What is it?
That lies in the next line?
For I can't see,
over your shoulders
my pages
my destiny
In your trembling hands-
neurotic despairs-
you write you tear-“

“I am not dictating
I am not inside the story
I will observe, and watch the star
And just record every thing.”

“You are my scientist, my astronomer.”

“And you're my telescope's focus.”

“But you know what your name means?
Twinkle..twinkle...”

“Worse than that, my dear
It's twilight, not light
It's the beginning of the night
The end of the bright.”

“Twilight
you never twinke, is it?”

“No, Never a little bit.
I am the ‘dying light’,
Don't you get it?

“No, no
Not dying light
Only the beginning of the night
And nights can be beautiful
Don’t you ever see it?
Its when people get back home
It’s when lovers make love
It’s when darkness falls.”

“It's the red light in the evening
In Sanskrit
But, it's the dull pink hue
In reality.”


“So
It makes others look more beautiful
‘kone dekha aalo’"

“Okay, besh bhalo
your optimism
Or whatever, I dunno.”

Courtesy: Thinking Beans

The New Car

He was sitting on the yellow colored bench, with his hard-mustered patience. His six year-old heart heaved heavily with excitement. He just wanted school to end. He just wanted to run out and meet his Papa, who had promised that he would bring their new car to school, for the first time, that afternoon.
He didn't want to listen to their new Irish Ma'am anymore. He liked her a lot, but not today. Today, was very "important". Their new car.
It's very important, his mind told him. He can't waste time sitting here, with his giggling friends around him. He must be with his Papa today. "Ma'am doesn't know anything", he thought.
Ma'am gave them ten words to write the opposites of. He wanted to do it fast, and be the first one to submit it today. He was not in the mood for scoldings. He had other "important" things to worry about. Their new car. He submitted the worksheet and went to pack his bag. He hurried with the books, and stuffed them inside his small red-and white bag. He couldn't be bothered about them today.
He patiently waited for the bell to ring. His best friend was talking to a girl. He was scared of girls. They had such long hair, he didn't understand why. But, no, he had other things to think about today.
Finally, the electric bell outside the class trembled with its own sound. It rang in him a pang of pleasure, and he sprang up, and started running towards the door. His bag hit others, but he didn't bother; he just ran.
Then he bumped into something. His head hit something soft, and he looked up. Ma'am.
She held his arm tight and asked him to go back to his place. He felt a lamp inside him being extinguished, by force. He held his head low, and walked back, slowly. Ma'am asked the rest of his friends to leave, in a line.
Then, she came near him, and handed him his worksheet back. She said something in illegible words. Ma'am took his ID card, and asked him to stay inside the classroom. He couldn't go home. He wanted to know why Ma'am was in a bad mood, but now, he didn't have the time. How could he explain it to her? He wanted to be with her tomorrow, but not today. Their new car. Papa was waiting.
He looked at the sheet handed back to him.

Big - small
Dark - light
Heavy - thin light
Near - far away
Day - night
Pretty - ugly
Below - stairs above
Cold - hot
Bad - best good
Dry - wet

He wanted to ask Ma'am if he could do it tomorrow, but she was outside the classroom, talking to another Ma'am. Helpless, and feeling defeated, and swallowing tears (he was a big man, he couldn't cry), he sat down on the bench, pulled his bag away from the shoulders, and opened the zip. He took out his pencil box. He thought about their new car. Papa will be so angry.

Delayed Disclaimer

This is necessary.
Every post on this page, since the 31st of May, 2010, is fiction.
Not the type of fiction that is inspired from real life, you have to trust me blindly on that. It's the type of fiction that has been formed in the mind (not always mine), before I found how my AND other people around me might relate to it, if they wished. There's always a big obstacle preventing us to do so.
I have violated people's privacy before. I don't regret it or apologise for it. That was me. And this is me, albeit grown up. I don't need to "vent out" on my blog. I have other means of ventilation. More secure and permanent than a webpage.

Clicks.

Start.
My Computer.
Local Disk (E:)
Music.
English.
Enrique Iglesias.
Escape.
Play All.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Bengali.
Rupam Islam.
F-3.
Phire Chaulo.
Add To Windows Media Player List.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Back.
Local Disk (F:)
Personal Documents.
Saved Chats.

The Carpet.

He drove as fast as he could. He didn't dare to take his right foot off the accelerator. The car was already in the highest gear, so his left foot was jobless. And it was shaking bad. He hoped the speed would calm him down. It didn't, yet.
They say that right before you die, you get flashbacks of the most important moments of your life.
He was scared, now. He couldn't see beyond the windshield, because of the uncontrolled things that just flashed before his eyes, the uncontrolled voice kept deafening him. He couldn't be on the road, he had to go home fast, he needed to sleep, it was the only medicine he had ever trusted. He jabbed his leg down on the accelerator. Still, nothing blurred enough.
She was never important, he had known that, always. So, her face can't be a death knell.
She was never important enough.
She was just the carpet.
She wasn't even related to his life, to what he did, to what he thought.
She was just his carpet.
To be trampled upon, sat upon, and slept on, sometimes. She wasn't anything more.
He would always have other women to hold his hands.
He would always have other friends to listen to his poetry.
He would always have other men to be with him through thick and thin.
She was just his carpet.
But then he saw her with him at the party, that he didn't know she was invited to. He had taken his usual escort, and entered in his usual grandeur. And then, he had seen her. And his feet had disobeyed him, his hands had disobeyed his years of training. He freed himself from the girl's grasp, and rushed out to the car.
He had to sleep.
He pressed the clutch and the brake together.
He opened the door and slowly, climbed out. He could see the river beneath the bridge. He stood there, imaging how cold the water must be. He tried thinking of the fishes. Fishes were known for their infidelity, he thought, and smirked. He tried to grasp it, was he so, or was he not. Was she so, or was she not?
His cell screeched out loud "You have an SMS!"
He didn't bother to look at it.
He walked back to his car, and started the engine. His cell cried out again.
Irritated, he took it out, to switch it off.
It was his escort-girl calling. He let it ring, till the call ended. Then he saw the SMS.
"Come to the hospital. She cut her hand, she might not survive. Come ASAP."
He didn't know what to think next. He kept staring at the words, sitting there in the car, as the late-night trucks swerved around him, and passed away.
Now the flashback theory made sense, he thought.
His legs had stopped shaking.
He was her carpet too.

The Steel Stud

He woke up, on his bed, bathed in sweat. The nightmare was tiring. He could actually feel that he had been running. He lay still for sometime, and then, he reached out for his cell, to check if there was anything. Silly of me, he thought. There hasn't been anything for a long time.
He dragged himself out of the bed, and went to the wash-basin. He stared at the man there. The sweat beads on his forehead, running down the side of his face, a vein in the temple, throbbing visibly, and his Adam's apple going up and down in restless jerks. He wanted to scream his lungs out and smash the mirror and tear his organs apart, one by one, with his own hands, with the sharpest piece of glass. Shut up, and stop it, he told himself. Don't be dramatic.
He splashed water on his face, and washed his mouth thoroughly. He didn't like the smell of the toothpaste, it was too fresh. He looked at the food his maid had prepared, and then a churn in his stomach, drove all his appetite away. Hungry that he was, he hated the very sight of food. Forget it, and just go to work, he kept muttering under his breath.
He didn't change, he just wore his slippers, and grabbed the wallet and went outside. No cellphone, no keys. I have nothing to hold on to, nothing to let go. He didn't need to plug in headphones, there was always a song in his mind, a song that would plague his sanity all day, every day.
He walked slowly, pausing before every next step, and taking in the air, the colours and everything around him, as if, everything hurt. Every face he saw, hurt him even more. Every eye that looked at him, seemed to pierce him with the glance. Even the breeze was smirking at him, trying to fool him by running through his hair. It's not her fingers, I know, he retorted back to the wind.
He walked to the station, and bought a ticket. There was a steel stud in the coin pouch of his wallet. He touched with tenderness. It was the button of someone's long-discarded pair of jeans. He felt the pang, and squinted, he didn't want it there, but didn't know how to get rid of it. He put the ticket inside his pocket and walked away. The trains were too painful.
He bought a Coke, and a packet of cigarettes, and took a cab to his office. The song was still there on his mind, he needed to get rid of it. He asked the driver to turn on the radio, and borrowed his lighter.
The song inside was deafening him. He shifted from the left window to the right window of the car; there were too many people on the left pavement. Too many people, too many stories, he thought.
He closed his eyes. He was running. The same road, the same city, the same route. They always met there. He was always late. He always ran to her. Only this time, he couldn't find her. But he kept running, and running, throwing his bag away, not noticing that his wallet has fallen out of his pocket, he just kept running. He was out of breath, but not out of faith.
The cab reached his office and stopped. He opened his eyes. He had to pay. He put his hand into his pocket, and searched. There was no wallet. Only a steel stud came out of his pocket.
Then, he remembered.

Torn Apart

He built the barricade very carefully. Patiently, over the years, he built it, brick by brick, choosing each, very carefully.
I'll never let anyone trespass my property, he told himself.
But she broke the giant structure with the flick of a feeble finger.
And the bricks melted. All at once.
She pulled him close to her. Oh no, he thought, my legs go weak again.
She kissed him full over the mouth. He gave a stunned frown.
"I am real, you can kiss me back", she said.
He hadn't heard it. He had already been torn apart.

The Spider

Part I

My mum, being a doctor herself, had this belief that she never do justice to us, when it comes to diagnosis or prescription. She used to say, and she still says it, well, that you can be a good doctor only if you treat the patient as a piece of flesh, that you feel no emotion towards. Yeah, I know filmy, very. But that's it. She never treated me, or my brother or my grandmother, or my father. She always asked us to see some other doctor whenever we needed one.

Part II

I was in class four, I think. One morning I woke up to find my right ear and the surrounding skin abnormally parched, and all red and white marks on it. I remember how awful it felt. I had no clue what and how it happened. I went to see a doctor in our neighboring hospital. They said it's a spider bite. What? Do spiders bite? How? No, they don't bite, but they have their saliva, which is, well, not harmless. What do you mean? Why would a spider have its saliva on my ear? Umm, it was trying to weave its web, maybe, kid. Keep yourself clean. Wait, no, I mean, if a spider tries to weave a web on my skin, this is what happens? This ugly patch of skin that hurts? Unbelievable! Huh, yes, kid. Just bathe every day, be clean. Now take these medicines, apply these ointments, blah blah.

Part III

There was a Harry Potter mania going on, err, a Daniel Radcliffe mania. People who never read books, started ridiculing me for never having read a Harry Potter book. I was in Class Eight maybe. In and out of love, more than twice. Adolescent infatuations, I guess. I cared very little about what people thought. Adolescent indifference. Okay, I started reading and finished reading the Harry Potter books. Okay, they were good. Fantasy that made sense in the real world. good. But, uh, I dunno, but, uh, okay. This will be a legend. Why not read it anyway?

Part IV

I was with my English tutor, watching a movie at his place, of course, against and hidden from my parents. My parents, uh, yes, my Mum and my Dida. I don't know my Dad, really. The movie is Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets. The Forbidden Forest Scene. Ronald Weasley says he is scared of spiders, because they have eight legs. Only if they had a fewer legs...hmm. Interesting. Eight legs, that gives them more power that us, vertebrates, surely. Okay, I hate spiders too. But what is this? This is a scene with spiders larger than the trees, with hairy legs, yes eight of them. What, there are such spiders in the real world? In rain-forests? What bullshit? I have never seen spiders more than an inch big.
Oye, kid the spider that had licked you wasn't no ordinary one. It wasn't an inch-big spider. It was as big as the size of your palm. An inch big spider can't infect you, okay? Read the books.

Part V

I am in Class Ten. Our english teacher is having a free period, and using it to the fullest. Discussing career goals. Asked myself, I reply that I want to be a soldier. Oh boy, you're romantic. Being a soldier isn't being what your Byron tells you. Come back to earth. No, Ma'am. I've watched Lakshya. It's not Byron. Okay kid, again, come back to earth. No, Ma'am, I'm determined. *They stop giggling. My eyes are stiff. I am angry.* Okay, do you know what it takes to be a soldier, do you want to join the Military or the Air Force or the Navy? Ma'am, it doesn't matter, as long as I get what I want. I want my life NOT to be at my own mercy. Okay, it's a pity, but then okay. Even Owen had been to a war. Exactly Ma'am, even Owen had been to war. They say being to a war means seeing everything that is there to be seen in the world. Very well, very well, so have you been preparing yourself for the physical tests for NDA? Not yet, Ma'am. I'll do it. Okay, do you have any idea, what you go through in the training? There are highly demanding tasks, highly scary ones. Aren't you scared of heights? No, Ma'am. Aren't you scared of water? Or anything? Anything at all? No Ma'am, I've learnt swimming. I'm not scared of anything. Whoa, kid, you can't be so sure. A man is always scared of something. There must be something you're scared of. No, Ma'am, I'm not scared of anything.
Think carefully. You have your time. There must be something you're scared of.
Ma'am, I think there's nothing to be scared of. As in, okay, maybe I'm scared of myself. I'm scared of what I might do, might think, might say...I'm scared of my abilities or the lack of it. I'm scared of myself.
**The class is murmuring. The teacher starts talking to another student. She frowns at me, and asks me to meet her after the class. Ugh, once again they'll tell me, I'm off-track.**
I had lied to her. I am scared of spiders.

Part VI

Class Twelve. On the brink of stepping into the big, bad world, as they said it in a the Farewell. It didn't matter to me. I didn't care where I was, or what I was doing, as long as I had her.
Off to Kolkata. Living with Dad, the man, I don't really know existed. Economics Major, by default. Okay, I had fought my way against engineering, but the truth that my Dad doesn't know is that I don't hate engineering or physics or maths. I just had to be in Kolkata. I couldn't have gone where I was getting admitted by my WBJEE score. Kolkata. No matter what every one else said, I never felt that it was any different from Durgapur. Small-town-to-big-city, whatever, I never felt. I was born here, I belong here. Or so, I tell myself. Till date.

Part VII

My first year. The second part of the sumer, that follows the monsoon. One night, post midnight, of course, I need to go to the bathroom. I switch on the light, I open the door, and there in front of me, right above the chamber-pot, is a spider, as big as my palm, with a thick hairy body, and thick black, intimidating legs. Okay, I have to admit, to myself at least, that I am scared of spiders. But wait, what if the fear doesn't exist? I survived that night.

Part VIII

More months gone by. I have worked on my phobia. I met that spider every night, in my bathroom, till winter. I wouldn't kill it until I've stopped fearing it. That is its purpose, I tell myself. I google and get huge pictures of huge spiders,a nd stare at it, and fight my fear. I fight my nightmares. Even in the conscious state, I imagine I am in a room full of spiders, with no doors or windows. I wriggle on the bed, I imagine, I fight. I imagine. I fight. More months. The spider at the bathroom is not seen anymore, for two years.

Part IX

Few weeks ago, on one such night, during the hours before sunrise, I go to the bathroom, I meet my beloved-palm-sized spider. It's sitting right there, above the chamber pot. I am not too scared. Its like, my mind tells me that I should be scared of that spider, but actually, my mind isn't right. I smile. I survive.

Part X

Tonight. The spider in the bathroom, it's right below the chamber pot. This time, I don't just need to pee. I need to sit on that chamber pot. But no, the spider will not be in sight, if I sit. I am scared, of it, only because I wouldn't be able to see it, its movements. I just have to shoo it away, and send it off to somewhere where I can get a view of it. I can look at it, I need to able to look at it.
Then I see the bottle of Phenyle. It occurs to me, that the humane-most instinct would be to hit and hurt and kill the object that you fear. I splash some of that intoxicating-smelling-black liquid on it. The spider staggers a little, moves away, and I go to answer nature's call. I look at it. I talk to it, softly. Dear Spider, I didn't want to kill you. I watch you wriggling now, taking the last few breaths inside your quivering little frame. Long ago, I was afraid of you. Now I am not, or that's what I think. I am just afraid of what I can't see, I can't predict. It's not your fault. It's the fault of the way this sanitary-ware is designed, that I couldn't see you from where I am, and so I had to shoo you away. I could have let you stay there, like you've always stayed, otherwise. But I needn't have killed you, I know. I am lying, you'll probably say, I've always wanted to kill you someday. And I dunno, if you're right. I just decided, for myself, that I don't need you anymore. I didn't look at things from your perspective, of course. But, then, you don't have a nervous system, as superior as mine, so, I get the better of you. Now goodbye, I don't want Shochi Mashi to think that I'm mentally sick too.
The spider died by the time I left the bathroom. I killed my first spider.

An entire story.

Shreeja wanted to show me some "bloody bloody quotes". I didn't want to, at first. I said something like "I dont like quotes. Actually. I think quotes are narrow-minded statements. I mean, how can I know if their perspective is right for me, if the statement holds for me, unless I know the story behind, you see?"
Then I realised something. No matter what the perspective, the only absolute thing, is universally absolute. She showed me a quote by Neil Gaiman, and I had to put it up here, because I haven't been writing anything, for a long time, anyway. This wasn't just a quote. This was an entire teenage love story told, it seemed.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”
Neil Gaiman

The sound of your laughter

Have to write this
Only you can do this
And only me can be electrified by it.
The sound of your laughter
No I'm not high
As someone puts it.
I'm high on you
Your laughter.
The way you laugh, the way
I can still make you laugh.
Like mad, eh, dunno.
Maybe others can make you laugh.
Maybe others love your laughter.
Yeah, I know they say so all the time.
But, tell me who else
would call you Glucon-D
Like mad, eh, dunno.
Who else would treat the sound of your laughter
As the beginning of a day
Even in the evening
Whom else, would your laughter
blind with its sound
Yeah, it blinds me.
With sound.
Like mad, eh, dunno.
You, baby, you, damn it, you.
Yes it's you.
Talking to you
Even if its un-true
you'd make it non-existent
But who else, tell me
Like mad, eh, dunno.
I'm not high
As someone puts it.
I'm high on you
Your laughter.
Perceived by one sense organ
Travels, like lightning
And fills up all other senses
Blurs out the rest
Blinds out the rest
You are you, and
that's an adjective enough
But who else, tell me
Like mad, eh, dunno.
Who else will love you
Like mad, eh, dunno.

Home-Prisoned

When I was a kid, and I had first seen the Bengali actor Sabyasachi Chakraborty, I remember praying to God (I wasn't an atheist then) that I should never have pox.
I am glad, that the only disease I ever prayed against, did happen to me.
Right before my exams were about to end.
Ruining everything.
I am glad.
I wanted it, I got it. As usual.
Now, with one must-watch movie after another being released in the Kolkata theatres, I am home-prisoned.
My foster parents will be going to watch Inception sso. Inception, the movie that I had told them about. Christopher Nolan, my favorite director, at that.
Imagine my frustration. That's all the more a reason for me to be glad. A disease, with all the side-effects, social, and personal. I love it.
I'll be doing a lot of reading during this time, I hope.
I have a short story book going on right now.
Then I'll finish with the leftover of The Winner Stands Alone.
Then, I'll read Lolita.
That should be enough. I don't want to crowd my mind with too many thoughts, lest each of them get less importance. I'll not rush books. I'll read them.
Movies, I have a lot here, on my computer, on DVDs, I will start and finish watching Ingmar Bergman this month. Once again, I won't burden my brain with three movies a day, like I used to do. Because I won't be watching horror, action or comedy.
I'm actually, looking forward to my pox-inflicted-home-prisonment.
I'll miss a lot of things, that I could do if I was capable of going outdoors.
Taking Shreeja to have the best fuchkas in Kolkata, watching all the long-awaiated movies, on the big screen, Anshul, bi-cycle trips to new places, the promised trip -to Goa, the to-be-resumed-night-walks with Picco, and lots.
But isn't the de-planning part of the experience? I am glad, I'll miss out on things because of pox.
I am glad.

Dream Sequence

"Where are you?"
"Here I am."
"Why can't I see you?"
"Because it's dark."
"Why can't I feel you?"
"Because I'm far."
"Come nearer."
"No, I can't. I won't. Don't irritate me."

Black Out.

Maybe sometimes, just some times, it's okay to lose sight of the big picture. And stare at the wall, right in front of you, and stare at it, and stare at it.
Black.
Black out!
I'm all out of smirks, and sarcastic smiles.
Yes, you win, you silly.

Re-freshed.

Just when I was feeling dead, just when I felt the need to take a break, and re-arrange my priorites, I opened one of the refreshing blogs I'd ever read. And, it refreshed me, once again.
For those who don't know Inam Hussain Mallick, I haven't met him, but I know him, and I admire him. And no, it doesn't hurt my ego to admit my admiration.
I envy him.
No matter what, he always refreshes me. I don't care if he himself knows that, if he himself refreshes himself, by his very words. But he does to me. And if a poet, by the very words he writes (or speaks), can re-direct the course of my life, back to where I'm me, I don't want anything else from her/him.
This person is on the same pedestal as one's favorite author is. For me.

There's a difference, though.

There is a difference, though.
I am the dumb-founded kid, once again.
The kid who was disobedient, whose parents had to be called because he won't listen to the basic rules of the school, like closing hands while praying, or NOT playing music on the desk, when the teacher is teaching. And then, when he lost, in his battle against rules, he observed silence, for days, not responding to anyone, or anything. He didn't have any friends, seriously.
Till, everything changed.
I can't attribute it to love. I'd lose all that I've built for myself, if I surrendered to love.
I'd lose all my friends, and all my family.
One more mocking-me-at-the-moment-read, Growing Up, and not growing up.
What dumb-founded me, was the rules, that some people, by virtue of authority/age/experience/education, set for others.
What still dumb-founds me, is the definitions of the un-defined words, that we all claim to know, and expect others to know, as well.
I am narrow-minded too, I realise that.
So, I'll shut up.
Once again.

Paulo Coelho versus Ayn Rand

I spent a sleepless night. It was strange. I was with two other people, both of whom were fast asleep. I was not too sleep-fed. Yet, I wasn't sleepy. I was tired. Too tired to sleep, maybe. After spending a couple of hours, wide awake, the story had come. Then, things happened, we all woke up. More things happened. And all the words and sentences that had formed in my mind, in the waking hours of dawn, were lost.
And just so as to mock me, I just read this blog's first post today. About wasting the words away.
Never mind, though.
Yesterday, I spent a good amount of time, contemplating on the picture of Narcissus on Paulo Coelho's blog. I sat on the king-sized couch, and just wondered, what it actually meant. The explanation provided by His Honour, didn't seem satisfying.
Humans. Huh!
I am involving myself into two complicated, contradictory-to-each-other emotions, all over again, only to see which one wins. This is not the first time. The last time I did it, love had won.
Yet again, I am fighting against love. Hoping to prove that love isn't the final winner.

One of my "special" ex-classmates made this post today, analysing the hormonal dynamics of love. I was so happy, reading the stuff that I already knew, the stuff I always knew. I was happy, hoping that he would only prove my point. Love doesn't exist. Alas, he let me down! He couldn't explain, why the illusion of love exists, even if the emotion of love doesn't.
My battle against love.
It has torn me apart, already.
But then, I am not torn apart, enough, yet.
There's this incident, I often talk about.
Few months ago, when Kolkata was experiencing the scorching most summer afternoon, I was bankrupt. I had to ply on a bicycle. I had taken up the careless challenge of travelling on cycle that fateful afternoon. Fateful, because other unpleasant things had happened. but they're immaterial, as usual. They don't last. I'm talking about what lasts.
I went out at 1pm. I cycled non-stop, for three hours.
Penniless, water-less.
I remember the last fifteen minutes, the other-wise unimportant stretch from Jadavpur, to Patuli. I thought I would faint. I thought that all my visceral organs have dried up, and even my salivary gland can't secrete saliva enough to keep me going. My eyes were closed, fatigue or delirium, or whatever.
Every turn of the pedal hurt. With every turn, I thought, I would fall dead. With every turn, I thought, this was the last bit of energy left in me, I can't go on any further. With every turn, I thought, this was my limit. I can't go on any more. If my legs tried to turn the pedal, once more, I would drop dead.
Then I decided, that I won't stop.
If I drop dead, that is the end, but I won't stop till I have the energy enough, to think at least.
And miraculously, for me, I reached my destination. I realized, on reaching, that I wasn't even too late. I got some water on my face, into my throat, and gradually, I regained all my energy back, while sitting under the fan.
I learnt something about myself.
Even if I think I can't do it, I can do it. Even if I think I can't take it anymore, I can take even more. Even if I think, this is my limit, it's not my limit. Even if I think, I won't get it, I always get it. I always get what I want.
The trick is never to give up.
Never.
My battle against love, will take me to my limits. I'll survive, I'll come back, and know what kept me going.
What if, it's love that kept me going?
I'd still win.
It's Paulo Coelho versus Ayn Rand. Both believed in love, mind you. But, it's the definitions, we have always talked about.
Is love everything?
Or, is love the one thing, that adds meaning to everything?
Paulo Coelho versus Ayn Rand.
What a pity, that Rand is dead.

Word-less-ness.

There are times, when, every song has some word, or some line, or some stanza that makes sense, to me, in that state of mind, and some how, the song becomes, well, endearing.
Well, that's what happens most of the times.
That is, precisely, the reason, I can never specify a particular song, or a particular genre of music, as my "favorite".
There are "song-of-the-day"s, when one particular song stays on your mind like a parasite, right away, all day. But that has nothing to do with its being your favorite.
Strangely, or otherwise, I remember the first time this happened to me.
In class 7.
I was a nerd back then. I had watched the movie Gadar (Sunny Deol, Amisha Patel) on the eve of the Independence Day. I had watched less than ten movies, in all my life, till then, so, as you can guess, I'd been "affected" by the movie, a lot.
The next day, though it was Gadar which had me in a trance, I was singing a sad song from the movie Dil Chahta Hai (Kaisi Hai Yeh Rut), in my mind since the morning. I remember realising that late in the day.
That was the first time, I woke up with a song on my mind, reason-less-ly.
Now, I have grown old. Music, has lost its magic on me. I treat all songs as pieces of creation, and have no personal feelings for any particular song, unless, it does for someone else. Some friend, or some one entirely else.
Yet, sometimes, some songs penetrate this self-set-up barrier of age, and apparently, enters my blood. And makes it flow in its own rhythm. And flushes everything away. Everything else, that is. All dreams, decisions, desires, except one. One feeling fills up every other sense-organ.
These are the songs that I can't classify into 'lyric-specific' or 'melody-specific'.
These are the songs I can't critically analyse.
In fact, these are the songs I can't even call 'my favorites', because calling them a name would only be a understatement.
Most words are understatements, in fact.
Maybe, expression would be easier, in a word-less world.
Yes, Sayak, I know that feeling too.
But I am too wooden to admit it.
Believe me, I cry less, when I'm alone. I cry more, when I'm with others.
I'm talking about frequency here.
I miss my computer. I miss music. My music. Not Power FM.

The Night

She stormed out of the room. She was fuming with anger. He had no right to behave so rudely with her. Her mind searched for the justifications, hoping to find one excuse to forgive him. And then, she realized that searching for justifications wasn’t being she. That was him. That was him, she repeated to herself. She never tried to justify everything around her. That was him. She never tried to justify every wrong as right, from someone else’s point of view. That was him. She never tried to find something good in the ugliest of things. That was him. Her anger only came back in a bigger surge. He could not treat her like this. Why did he? It wasn’t justified.
She threw the things back at him. She noticed that he lay crawled up in a corner of the bed, almost shaking. She chose not to consider it. His anger was his disease. He had no right to let it affect her.
A flashback came to her mind. He had thrown a bottle of deodorant at the wall, and the bottle had got dented. He sat on the side of the bed, shaking uncontrollably. She walked up to him, and stood in front of him. He looked up at her eyes, with innocent guilt in his torturous eyes. She brought her face close to him, and, gave a tiny pinch on his nose. “You look more attractive when you’re angry”, she said, and kissed him on his nose. He flung his arms around her and held her tightly. He cried. She kissed him. He had calmed down like magic, within minutes. He had apologized, repeatedly.
Once again, she chose not to consider it. She can't let her mind find anything in his favor, not anymore. He can’t expect her to have anything left for her at all, after such rough abusing. She looked back at the shaking body on the bed, just once, before turning back, and storming out. She went outdoors.
A pub was open down the street. She walked in, hoping to get a beer, even at this late hour. She hoped the beer would help her to feel sleepy enough, to pass the night off, somehow. This was the first time. She had never come here without him. She went to the bar and ordered her drink. The bartender knew her face, and gave a questioning look at her strange state of "not being accompanied by him". Worse, she was not smiling and laughing, like every other day.
She broke into a hysterical laugh, in response to his look. He was taken aback, and sat opposite her, as he served the mug of beer. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll close the place. You can take the mug and go outside for some air, if you want.”
“Oh. Okay. Fine.”
She went out with the mug in her hand. She imagined herself looking like a lunatic lady on the road at night. The man at the bar came out no sooner, and joined her. He put his coat around her, just like she was used to, only, by someone else.
“What happened?”
“I can’t take it anymore. He throws tantrums every week, over little things. I’ve given up on him. I can’t be his doctor. I am his wife. I can’t take it anymore.”
She broke into hysterical laughs-with-tears. He put his arms around her. She continued.
“I’ve always tried to understand him. But, he has crossed his limits. I can’t be immune to injuries forever. I have broken down. He has broken me. I can’t be with him, if he continues to be this way forever.”
“So, why are you with him? You deserve someone better.”
The very words seemed to hit her like lightning. She had never given any one the right to tell her what to do. Anyone, but him, the one back there in her bedroom. Who was this man? Flabbergasted, she stopped and looked up at the man’s face. Yes, she knew this face. She has seen him almost every day, she realized. Yet, she felt, as if, she was seeing him for the first time, tonight. She peered deep into his eyes. Wait, she thought, she had never looked at this man, right at the eyes, ever before.
The man turned to look at her in full length. He looked at her with intensity in his eyes; he tried to transfer some meaning it seemed, through the very eye contact in that moment. He took her face in his hands, and pulled it closer. She didn’t resist. He kissed her on the mouth.
“You deserve someone better.”
She stood there stiff. He tugged at her hand; her eyes still stared at the man. He pulled her lightly; she didn’t resist. She was led to his car, like some animal obediently follows its master. She gradually came back to senses, and tried to find sense in what was happening. The engine of the car started. She found herself sitting beside the man. Her mind was racing. The insults thrown at her some time back, came back to her. She remembered worse incidents; a glass being broken, a bottle of her nail-polish being thrown out of the window, a door handle being broken out, and more and more violence.
She remembered a number of things. She didn’t remember anything else.
She looked at the man beside her once again, as the car raced through the empty streets. This time, she smiled at him. He touched her hand and pressed it gently. He returned her smile.
She didn’t remember anything else.

THE PLATFORM

He wore a faded blue leans, which was torn at the knee.
One wouldn’t say he couldn’t carry it. But, somehow, he didn’t seem the type who wore torn jeans for the hype of it. Nor would anyone say that the pair of torn jeans didn’t suit him. But somehow, he didn’t have the rugged look that complements a pair of torn jeans, apparently. Nor would anyone say that he looked like a country-side cowboy. He was a dark boy, averagely built, with a starved look on the otherwise handsome face.
Something was missing. One could almost feel that, but could never reach out to whatever it was. He stood on the platform, leaning on one of the pillars. Unlike most of the passengers, who crowded around the television, he just stared into space. He stared deep into the tunnel from which the train was expected to slither out any time. Nor did he join the people who came sweating and panting, from the sweltering heat outside, and fought for the few fans on the platform. He was sweating profusely. But he seemed to be completely in peace with the increasing beads of sweat on his upper lip. He seemed to be in agreement with the beads-turning-into-runnels of salty water that ran down from his forehead, down his face, into his neck. His shirt was soaked wet. But looking at him, no one would feel that he was in distress. It was as if, he had his own source of cooling agent, somewhere around him, which no one could see, nor share.
He didn’t show the slightest of care.
People were tired. The most of them, who didn’t manage to get the seats, or the fan, tried to blow dust away, in patches from the floor, and sit there. He didn’t even seem tired. But, despite being or doing what no one else around him was, he didn’t attract attention. He didn’t stand out. He seemed to be a part of his surroundings, more than any of the daily train passengers around.
He was unnaturally unobtrusive.
A siren rang, shrill and long. There was an announcement. Someone had jumped into the tracks, a few stations away, and committed suicide. All trains would be cancelled on that line, for the next half an hour.
Within moments, the noise of people murmuring rose above the loudspeaker’s blare. Some people were worried about the near and dear ones of the life lost. Some people were worried about their own travel plans. They blamed and cursed the person who had decided to die, and thus brought upon everyone, this misfortune.
Most people started shuffling around towards the exit. The crowd on the platform gradually thinned.
Some still squatted on the floor, or sat spread-legged on the wrought-iron seats. To wait for half an hour, or more, was not a big deal, for them.
He still stood in the same posture, with the same expression on his face. Without moving an inch, he took out a cell phone from his shirt pocket. He pressed a few keys, and put the phone to his ears.
“It’s done. She’s dead.”
After less than a minute, he put the phone back. But, this time, not into the chest pocket of his shirt. He put it into the pocket of his jeans. The phone dropped deep into the linen pit.
He squatted down on the floor.