23 years old, Male, umm
CREATIVITY ENDS HERE.
Number system was invented. Numbers could be written now. But how were they to be spoken!
Creative Giant was called to the King's Court. Creative Giant was known to have an unquenchable thirst for creativity. Also, he regretted having contributed nothing to the discovery of number system. When assigned with the task, his eyes twitched and twinkled and lips curled. To a suggestion, from one of the nobles, of providing Creative Giant with all the assistance he would need, Creative Giant glared into noble's eyes until he had filled noble's face with fear. In a flash, he turned and left the court; top of his body bent forward, neck outward, his overhanging gown sweeping royal floor.
In his laboratory, in his chair shifting between different thinking poses, he thought day and night. He came up with ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN. It took him seven sleepless nights. The creativity that had once flooded his mind and got him excited was beginning to run dry now. Besides, the endlessness of number system awed him. But he could not give up either for he was known for an unquenchable thirst for creativity. He decided to take a break; though a thought of seeking assistance from Creative Dwarfs crossed his mind, it was killed and buried.
Afresh, he got back to work. Creativity flowed once again. ELEVEN, TWELVE, THIRTEEN....
And, he got tired once again. Endlessness of number system was starting to vex him. He could not go on forever. His head was aching and all he wanted was a Jugaad. Something which could sustain itself without him having to invent a new name for every single number, somewhat like the number system itself.
And, so he followed the characteristics of number system. Just like THIRTEEN, there will be a FOURTEEN, FIFTEEN, ........, NINETEEN.
And, it was not hard for him to come up with TWENTY.
But the creativity was running very shallow this time. He had to come up with a simpler terminology. Something like TWENTY-ONE!
And, it was not hard to come up with THIRTY.
And his happiness knew no bounds.
Riding on a horse across the smooth plains of this terminology, he reached NINETY-NINE.
And, here his morals demanded creativity.
HUNDRED? Why not!
Once again, a satisfying ride across smooth plains of numero-naming began. He could not get bored or vexed now. Because, before every halt of THOUSAND, TEN THOUSAND, MILLION and BILLION, he would have enough time and happiness to getting his creativity recharged.
Number system still remained as endless as ever. He could not continue. Though there had been bouts of happiness and creativity, there was endless monotony this task promised. He was dejected. He had dried. Creative Giant had failed.
The following morning, Creative Giant was found dead with a letter of apology for he had failed himself and the KING. His work on numero-naming along with a letter of request was brought to King's Court. The work was appreciated and letter read. The letter requested KING to name the last number of number system (if it exists) on Creative Giant's archenemy name, 'INFINITY'.
In the honor of Creative Giant and his creativity, King decided to name number system's first member '0' on Creative Giant's name, ZERO.
P.S. Somewhere in his excitement, Creative Giant forgot to name number '0'.
Attached with the letter of request was a declaration made by Creative Giant, that the King missed that day and read the following day, that said "Hereby, I declare number '13' a number of darkness and evil for here is where my first and supreme bout of creativity died."
TIP TIP BARSA PANI, PANI NE AAG BUJHAYI
Toofan andhi aur baarish ke thamne ke baad ek madhham sard hawa chalti hai
Woh apne saath mitti aur pani ki khushboo rakhti hai
Kuchh pal pehle jo kaale the, woh badal bikhre ab dikhte hain
Kuchh sookhkar safed kuchh kam kaale se lagte hain
Poora din sone ke baad shyaam ko utha toh mere jaan pehchaan ke ek aadmi ne ye kehkar milne se mana kar diya ki uske wahan bahut tez baarish ho rahi thi. Main balcony mein gaya. Mausam toh yahan bhi bayimaan ho raha tha. Aasmaan saaf tha par hawa raftar pakad rahi thi. Balcony ki railing ka sahara lekar khada, main paas-padhos ka muayina kar hi raha tha ki meri nazar uss pedh par padhi. Waise toh pehle bhi kayi baar meri nazar uss ped par gayi hai aur har baar woh khaas maloom hua hai magar iss baar, baaki pedon se alag, usmein ek lacheelapan tha. Woh badalte hue mausam se khush tha aur usko isi khushi mein jhoomta hua dekhkar meri hasi nikal padhi. Dekhte dekhte saaf asmaan kaala ho gaya; garam hawa mein kab thandi hawa ke jhoke mil gaye andaza nahi laga. Lekin aisa kayi baar hua hai ki kaale baadal aaye aur guzar gaye isliye jab tak baarish na ho jaye main trapt nahin hone wala tha. Kuchh boondein tapki; maine uss pedh ki taraf phir se dekha. Uski khushi dugni ho chuki thi. Baaki ped bhi mood jamane lage the. Tab shayad main samajh gaya ki baarish hone wali hai. Aur wahi hua. Iss mausam ki pehli baarish jismein main shuru se lekar ant tak bheegunga. Shuruwat thodi garam hui, aakhir bahut dinon ki garmi jo bator kar rakhi thi inn imaraton ne. Main balcony ki railing par hathon ke sahare aage ki taraf savdhani se jhuk raha tha taaki baarish mujh par bhi meherbaan ho jaye. Bas phir kya tha. Aaj mausam ne jaise thhaan liya tha kisi ko na chhodne ke liye. Hawa ke tez thapede baarish ki boondon ko meri taraf sarkane lage. Meri khushi aur hawa ke thande ho chuke jhonke wajuhaat bane meri kapkapati hasi ke jise sunkar main aur ajeeb dhang se hasne laga. Ek baar phir paas-padhos ka muayina kiya toh paaya ki jahan ek taraf pedh-paudhe baarish aur hawa ka lutf utha rahe the wahin doosri ore akdi hui lachaar imaratein baarish ke paani ko apne sir se paer tak rengte hue mehsoos kar jhenp rahi thi. Kadachit inhi imaraton ko chidane ke liye paudhe adhik chusti se nachne lage. Khud bhi jhoom raha, thakne laga tha ab main. Chup chaap bheeg raha, kuchh soch raha tha ab main. Eemaraton, sadakon, gaadiyon par jami dhool ke saath saath ateet ki dhool bhi saaf karke, thode waqt ke liye hi sahi, baarish ki boondein khush hone ka ek sachha bahana deti hain.
After several months, I finally left Delhi on Saturday night for a day long trip to Allahabad to attend Maha Kumbh Mela. The whole journey, without a break, was eventful.
After deciding the mode of transportation, we went to railway station. As expected, all the comfortable seats were sold out. We bought four tickets of the notorious general compartment. General compartment does not have a seating plan; anyone sits anywhere, everyone sits everywhere. Inexperienced, I was excited. At platform, feeding my excitement, the train was filled to doors with passengers. Many doors were forcefully shut to keep from overcrowding. Fortunately, we managed to hop into an almost filled sleeper compartment. Sleeper compartments are meant to provide every occupant a bed to sleep. Many passengers, including us, were extra and thus, illegitimate. Every such passenger got a square foot of space to stand or sit on floor. Unfortunately, the square I was placed in gave me a sneak peek into the backyard toilet through a crack below the basin. I managed to sit in the beginning but as night grew, surroundings began to expand. At one point, I saw a round and short figure wearing a cap and uniform trying to enter our compartment. A giant from fables, he made his way through a floor of bodies, stepping on some, kicking others, tumbling from one side to another in resonance with train. He took tickets from illegal occupants and asked for a hefty fine. Scared, I reached into my pocket to pull out an equivalent amount but few wise men talked him into settling for a bribe, one-third of the penalty. Amount paid; he returned our tickets, stained red from his tobacco-chewing, spit while talking mouth. People settled down, surroundings expanded again, I felt squeezed and had to stand up out of discomfort. Consequently, I spent 6 hours of the ten hour long journey on feet. Similar fate met other members of our group. Overnight, my excitement had transformed into annoyance. We were desperately waiting for Allahabad station.
Pour chewing tobacco from a thin white packet, contained in a transparent zip-lock pouch, on your palm. Add to it a pinch of lime from a tiny plastic bottle, contained in the same pouch. Seal the pouch. Peacefully, rub ingredients on your palm with a firm thumb into a fine mixture. Batter it with soft hand to filter coarse particles. Fill the space between your teeth and lower lip with this mixture. Use your tongue for a flat and even spread and squeeze your lip upward to enjoy the flavor. Among us illegitimate travelers, a large number followed this practice obsessively.
We reached Allahabad Station late in the morning, stretched our bodies and began searching for a comfortable hotel room. Spread out over the bed, I felt my legs breathe and fell unconscious. It was one of the best sleeps I had in recent days. After resting for a couple of hours, we checked out from hotel and started towards the Ganga riverside. On our way, we were offered food, for free, in the form of prasad. Prasad was distributed by three different stalls placed in succession. First stall provided snacks in the form of fried sandwiches with tea; second fed us the main course, that is, aloo poori and last stall had a huge serving plate filled with a pile of jalebis. Healthily walking with the crowd, we continued. Music from bhajans and announcements from Lost and Found booth were the accompanying noises. At one point, we had to ascend a slope and then descend along its opposite side. As we reached the summit, we saw a huge mass of crowd proceeding towards Ganga. The site was overwhelming. Though, in the view, crowd had a daunting density, being a part of it was smooth and easy. We reached the riverside which had turned into a picnic spot. Groups of people spread over their respective cloths; some preparing for the holy dip; some returning drenched and others like me looking at the amazing view, amazed.
From past experiences I have learned that crowded places are breeding grounds for eve-teasing and ensuing skirmishes. Standing there, eying for hotspots, I found none; no angry voices, no brawls, no sudden rush.
Women were changing clothes in makeshift cardboard structures. But no one was interested or were they tempted yet afraid? Were these urges thumbed under for the fear of god? India, in recent times, has gained infamy as a place unsafe for women. Did their faith, then, give domestic women courage to be a part of this crowd and perform rituals with a zeal equivalent to that of men? Most people carried with themselves a plastic bottle filled with dirty/holy river water back home. These superstitions, I believe, are a part of the super structure that religion provides us. For, we do need a common faith to be able to work in unison. Possibly, this is the reason god and religion exist and will continue too.
We went into the water, played for sometime; one of my wise friends performed the rites. It was fun. A mela! A huge congregation of people of all sorts; sideways strewn with hawkers, food tents, relaxation camps; groups of babas smoking chillum (a greedy call from one of my friends to joining the group and smoking a mild chillum that set our laughter rolling); a foreigner photographing a baba with the most swollen eyes; brushing river sand off our wiry hairs; the same friend wanting to digress towards an old fort but tired, we continued on our long way to the bus depot.
Reaching bus depot, we realized the struggle had not ended yet. All buses were flooded; disappointed, we started walking towards the railway station only to find ourselves join a huge rush of people; scared, we turned towards a travel agent who had already doubled its prices. Defeated, we decided to gain strength from a McDonalds outlet. After a couple of hours of rest and nutrition, we set out again and in a flash, found an
empty bus headed to Agra. Merry over freedom from being trapped, we boarded the bus and fell asleep. I woke up after a few hours and perceived the changed surroundings. Smoking a cigarette with this new man, I came to know that the water we bathed in was less holy and the real spot, Prayag at confluence of rivers Ganga and Yamuna, was a boat ride away. Also, the missed opportunity of watching naked saints smeared with ash, holding a sword could be grabbed at the spot. Satisfied still, immersed in night, refreshed by wind against my face, I hummed the songs flowing inside till we reached Agra in morning. Smoothly, we boarded a deluxe bus to Delhi and fell asleep again for the four hour journey.
Subah hone aur Suraj nikalne ke beech ka samay itna achha kyun lagta hai? Ye thandak toh raat ko bhi hoti hai. Pakshi toh din mein bhi udhte aur chehchahate hain. Kuchh hi der mein, suraj niklega aur apne saath layega ek ajeeb sa ghinaunapan. Dheere Dheere ubharta hua, apni roshni se woh har eent, har shaks ko kha jayega. Ya phir kahin ye suraj ke saath ugte manushya ka shor toh nahin? Kya bheed mein bhi ye waqt itna hi achha lagta? Dhyaan doon toh kaanon ko cheer dene wala shor bhi suraj ke saath uga hai. Khair! Shor toh ek samanya peeda hai. Vyaktigat roop se main sooraj ki kirnon se adhik nirash hoon. Ek sheetal parde ke peeche chhipi, ye imaratein ab nangi khadi hain; bekaar bani imaraton ki eeton ka khurdurapan aur unpar ki gayi jaldbaazi mein putayi saaf dikhayi de rahi hai; wahin doosri ore aalishaan gharon ki atpati chamak aankhein ferne par majboor kar rahi hain. Maano, ye vatavaran suraj se milne ke liye bana hi nahin tha.
Aaj phir khud par ashcharya hua.
Rozmarra ki zindagi mein kayi shabd seekhte hain, kayi shabd bolte hain. Jo shabd seekhkar nahin bolte, ve dimag ke ekaant hisse mein dab jaate hain. Kabhi aise shabdon ko wapas bulane ki koshish karo toh ekdum agyaat maloom hote hain; samajh hi nahin aata ki kya ve hamara hissa kabhi the bhi. Aur kabhi, ekaek, ve swayam saamne aakar khade ho jaate hain toh lagta hai ki ve hamse alag hue hi kab the.
Yaadon ka bhi samaan kriya chakra hai.
Yaad karne par lagta hai ki mera unse koi sambandh nahin; maano naya janm hua hai jiska itihaas shoonya hai. Majme mein baitha hua sabka itihaas sunta hoon par shayad mera kabhi koi kal raha hi nahin. Phir ek din itihaas ke ek ansh se mulakat hoti hai aur yaadon ke baandh par chot hoti hai; khaali tasveer mein, prakash ki gati se, rang bharne lagte hain.
Kitna galat tha main; jise main samajhta raha ki maine peeche chhod diya wah kabhi mujhse alag hua hi nahin tha.
LIGHTS, SOUND, ACTION!
Standing in a small room washed by a tube of white light, I look at the sound controls; a huge panel embedded with buttons of varying shapes. Knobs rotate, slabs depress and rectangular cubes take the liberty to stroll along a narrow slot. A companion of all weathers translates my commands to operations on an adjacent panel; that panel controls lighting of the stage afront. A glass wall separates me from the performance area and gives me a holistic view of the stage; a view where actors are puppets and I control the luminescence of their tiny world. Realizing my role and the reality of operation, anxiety piles up. Earth shrinks making space for a new planet; my cabin shrinks too; a sphere of extra air presses my head to my feet and my stomach rolls down an endless slope. With a hand almost certain of wreaking disaster, I press forth a pair of synchronized rectangular cubes. Every movement is a revolt against my stoned self and thus, sluggish. Overlooking a sea of audiences, I pass first set of instructions to my all-weather man. The stage lights up. A couple of careful clicks and music flows. Performance meets audience and my sluggishness is buried under a heap of perfect timings and audiences' appreciation.
Reality can not be ignored. An anchored ship is tempted to flow into the ocean, with arriving waves. There is a little leeway too when the ship pretends to get carried away. Jerk! And the anchor hauls. Ship creaks to break free; parts assembled to work in unison are disgusted by their bondage. But beneath this longing lies the reality of anchorage. And while the waves recede towards an expanding ocean, the partaker turns into a spectator.
I am standing along the rim of a huge concrete staircase spiraling from a huge concrete dome. The paint is peeling off but the structure holds firm. My object of interest lies at the bottom of spiral - powdered colors sprinkled by skinny hands that forgot to wash themselves and broke the monotony of walls flushed in white. While I focus on the handiwork, my ears sense an eerie silence. I look around and realize an emptiness disproportionate to the structure's being. Several rooms flow into the building's depth, none buzzing with activities or buzzing deep enough not to be heard. While I hold the camera trying to focus, receptacles of secrets look at me. Awry pictures of doom rush to my head. My focus is lost. My mind is running. With these thoughts, I look into the camera. I stare at it long enough and inadvertently resume focusing on the object in pit. The silence becomes a part of me. I focus and blur image on the screen. I pan and zoom. I do not blink. My brain has succumbed and is blending with them, attaching its threads of thoughts to the colors surround. Nothing moves. Realization dies.
A blast of sound! Heart hits the dock; mind takes a dive and rushes back as the heart sets sail again. Through the window of now empty hands, I see my camera closing in on the colors of pit. My mind races wildly.
Shall I jump? I am bigger and will land in time to save it. Fail. A camera and a car accelerate equally under gravity.
Imaginary strands of spider web snake out of my wrist towards the camera, stick, stop and pulley it back into my hands.
The camera leisurely falls into the endless pit.
BOB THE BUILDER
I settled in my chair to watch the movie. With the movie about to
begin, a neatly wound bob of hair settled itself into the chair
afront. I was disappointed; that bob was eating a part of my movie.
And then, she unclasped the bob into its vitality. Every strand
breathed a sigh of freedom and fought for individuality; some still
lying in the oblivion while few others springing out, lit by the
moving pictures in the background. The movie had blurred; the hair
were the new focus. I watched the delicate curls fall into a Christmas tree like structure which waned into a mesh miles uphill her neck.
ALICE IN WONDERLAND
So what! It will be just another temple, a mass of concrete brimming with formalities, a place where god is assumed to reside but fails to represent one for modifications installed to suit the devotees' comforts. Throughout the way up to the entrance and to a distance inside, I walked in disappointment fighting for and against the existence of god. And then as though heaven sent, my wonderland of childhood rose before my eyes. Looking at its shining walls painted with vibrant colors and art, the rusted windows that had gathered dust and turned black, the lost shine of marble beneath, the huge space not to suffocate, one knew it was a work of ages past, its sanctity maintained and earthiness conserved. Watching the interiors surround, a long forgotten joy filled my eyes and curved my lips. Excited, submitted to relief, I walked into the fantasy. Every step was a dance to the tune of joy; every air perfumed with freshness of flowers and incense sticks. Amused, I floated from one god to another watching every rite and ritual as a newborn child with eyes too wide. The formalities became an enjoyable part of festivities. What sounded
violent in outside world, reverberated across this magical world as musical chants of true faith. Though my doubt in faith remains, I wish I had that childlike faith.
The room is almost dark. Sitting against the wall, looking diagonally above into the concrete space between lintel and roof, the plastered bricks dissolve to reveal a hollow space of minimum dimensions. Along the soft light lengthening from that space, a staircase draws down to the floor. Climbing stairs, enter the space. The space is a cave scooped out of rock; it is cool and scented with smell of earth. The walls and roof and floor inside melt into the surrounding light. Eyes wander to find the source of light but there is none one can find, for the objects themselves are the light. Sprawled across the carpeted floor, a wooden bed puffed up with laze fills most part of the tiny cave. My eyelids drop and eyeballs stare longing for that lazy layer.
He reads, he sees
he eats, he sees
His eyes are searching
the fear unseen.
his heart weighs heavy;
His nails are bitten
His legs are rocking
the sides of a chair;
helping him float
through flight of fear.
His ears sift
through the sundry sounds;
fearing to hear
one horrible sound.
His world is real,
but only to stare;
its objects are labelled
with thoughts and fear.
Not a Critic, Just an Observer
Oscian film festival, the first film festival i could convince myself to attend. Everyday, during the film festival, i would wake up; my eyes curtained by sleep and body reluctant to move. I would reach the venue transformed into an enthusiast and hooked to the shortest queue to get tickets. Other than convincing myself for film festival, the preparations included an itinerary - a list of movies i would be watching in the film festival, jotted down on a notepad. Being rainy season of the year, sun at film festival would rise shining upon sweat laden bodies waiting in queues. The air around queues would be dotted with moisture and thus, called upon irritated curves on many a faces.
Such are the times when an air conditioner is cherished and becomes one of the motivating factors to continue till the festival's end. One other factor, namely the purpose, was the movies. I had never watched a foreign language movie on a big screen. I had never watched a movie alone. All kinds of people gathered in the meeting places outside auditoriums; casual tees topped on shorts and sandals, formal wears, varied female dresses, actors, directors, bearded faces, beautiful faces. As always, beautiful women became one of the contributing factors. Every movie provoked thoughts but rush to watch next movie on
the list never allowed engagement with them. At night, after returning exhausted and satisfied from the movie spree, those thoughts would surface and consume an appreciable part of my night, rendering me lazy and my eyes sleep ridden the next morning. More than the movies, the festival was about an appointment with myself. The ride through dark spaces, from one comfortable chair to another, neither had a past nor will have a future; and was present only to be savored.
A VIEW TO KILL
Restaurant, beers, dim some light.
Occupied table front right.
My eyes faced her bare back.
No hair flowed there,
only a couple of strands
from the dress she wore
that uncovered her back.
In whites of the dim some light
Her spine was a silver line.
In browns of the dim some light
Her skin dripped like a chocolate wine.
In darks of the silent night
My eyes slipped past a creamy delight.
Once upon a time when the world had come into being for the humans that is the humans had just evolved, out of gratitude, humans worked really hard. They did not know about sleep. The day began and the night ended but no one slept. They might have rested for the records but never closed their eyes. No one thought about it. They fatigued. Their eyes were burning but they did not know the reason. No one thought about sleeping. People starting dying out of fatigue, open eyed. Strange. Human civilization was on the verge of extinction. When the number had reached its nadir, one human while he was resting with open eyes, blinked. He blinked again and this time took a moment more to release the eyelid. The next time he blinked, he took a bite longer than the last time. Following several such delays, he went to sleep. He may have dreamed while asleep. He woke up. The burning had vanished or was reduced at least. By the time he realized he had invented SLEEP, he had practiced it several times himself. Pleased, he went to the fellow humans, gathered them, shut each oneâ€™s eyelid with his index finger and everyone slept that day.
i turned my head upside down
went through the past
scanned all my thoughts
and came up with one most heard line
FUCK MY LIFE
COME FUCK MY LIFE
I DONT WANT NOTHIN ELSE
COME FUCK MY LIFE
IN MY SLEEP
IN THE DREAMS
COME FUCK MY LIFE
COME FUCK MY LIFE
ALL U ASSES
MOBILISE AND FUCK MY LIFE
SHIT SHIT SHIT
EVERYTHING IS SHIT
IN THIS POTHOLE
ALL I GET IS A HANDFUL SHIT
THE LOVEY DOVEY SHIT
THE EUPHEMISM SHIT
BEING POINTLESS SHIT
GOT BORED OF SHIT
SHIT SHIT SHIT
I LIE IN MY BED
UNDERNEATH COTTON SHEATH
I CLENCH MY TEETH
SAY SHIT SHIT SHIT
OH FUCK FUCK FUCK I DONT GIVE A SHIT
ALL U DAMN MOTHERFUCKS
I DONT GIVE A SHIT
I DONT WANT A SHIT
I DONT WANT A SHIT
I DONT WANT NO SHIT
GIVE ME NO SHIT
BANG BANG BANG
POOF POOF POOF
Awaz hui ik kone se,
rishwatkhori ki baat chali,
tab khoon chala tha logon ka.
Jail bhare, maidaan bhare,
aisa tha josh croron ka,
Awaz jo thi ik kone mein,
woh halla bana croron ka.
Har aankh mein ab ye sapna tha,
bas bahut hua luteron ka,
kuch kar guzarne ko,
khoon chala tha logon ka.
Phir jeet mili adhoori si,
aur hungama bhi khatm hua.
Din guzre, beete mahine,
par jeet abhi bhi adhoori thi.
Isliye phir us kone se,
rishwatkhori ki baat chali,
par shayad ye Working Day hai,
jo khoon busy hai logon ka.
Sapne dekhein jin ankhon ne,
woh neend mein doobi leti hain.
Un bheed bhare maidanon ko,
ab ghaas sahara deti hai.
Awaz hui jo kone mein,
woh ab tak khadi akeli hai,
par log thakein hain desh ke,
aur neend bhi bahut zaruri hai.
Woh chutti ka shayad din tha,
jab khoon chala tha logon ka.
The Duck that Burped
Burp Burp Burp! Kill the burping duck!
Kill Kill Kill! Ran the burping duck!
Click Click Click! Load the empty guns!
Tick Tock Tick! And the time did run!
Now Now Now! Shoot the burping duck!
Miss Miss Miss! Dodged the burping duck!
Fuck Fuck Fuck! Cried the arming men!
Run Run Run! Follow the burping duck!
Ant Ant Ant! The duck couldnâ€™t give a damn!
Crush Crush Crush! Ant sighed his last breath!
Load Load Load! The men are set to shoot!
Bang Bang Bang! One slug caught burping duck!
Check Check Check! Came out the duckâ€™s last burp!
Yeah Yeah Yeah! Triumphed the tired men!
Fire Fire Fire! They grilled the duck that burped!
Clink Clink Clink! To duck they raised a toast!
Glug Glug Glug! And wine washed down their throat!
Crunch Crunch Crunch! They chewed the roasted duck!
Burp Burp Burp! They ate the duck that burped!
Every night, I sleep with a dream so green
Every morning, I rise with a dream so green
Every noon, I admire a dream so green
The plushness of a dying green
Twilight creeps in, but to my rue
Whats green transformed to an ice cold blue
Every dusk, I mold a dream so green
Every night, I sleep with a dream so green
I am sitting in a building right now. I am going to work here for forty more days. This is the first time I have ever been inside a company.
I have not been allotted a desk and I am not craving for one (would have preferred one though). A desk is empty and I sit on that empty desk. What makes that desk special is the adjoining desk. When a man has been deprived of the pleasure of sexual intercourse for 21 years, he develops a tendency to fantasize about every other woman around him. True. I am a chicken. Whenever, the realization of being in close proximity to a female descends upon me, my heart starts pumping harder. I steal glances at her while she is working on her desk and dive deep into the sexual fantasies. Many a times, I regret that feeling. Even her voice is playing with my fantasies now. I am helpless. I wish I could gaze at her and move my eyes all through her body. I wish to talk to her. My heart thwarts me. Its pumping way too hard and my feelings may lay bare afront her. She leaves her desk. I am a bit relieved now and involuntarily, my eyes start searching for her around the room. Caught her. Oh my god! She is so lousy. She is drinking water. Her face is glum and her slouched posture is making the breasts look like loose sacks of sand, the sand dripping constantly, making them empty all the more. The authorities mandate the officials to wear a dull blue shirt and a dark blue pant. Maybe, that is the reason, she looks glum. Though, she is lean around the belly, but she has managed to gather lard around her buttocks. To be honest, I have not had the courage to scan her body completely; it has always been one part at a time. That be the reason, I am unable to classify her figure as Good or Bad. Snap ! Blast ! Her eyes caught mine. My heart will surely blow up now. As she walks to her desk, I fix my eyes to the screen, while trying to hear her walk towards her desk. Seesh Seesh. Thats how she is dragging her feet to the desk. She settles in the chair and is talking past the partition, to her colleague. And, she likes dragging words too. This lady must be awfully lazy. I have been in this building for a week now. I know; the man, sitting on the desk diagonal to hers, does the same thing as I do. I have seen him enjoying glimpses of this lazy woman.
â€œTell the Truthâ€
I like watching her. And I think everyone in this office is doing the same. Watching her and talking to her. They can talk to her while I sit in my chair struggling with my fantasies. Her chair is empty now. Another man walked past that chair in a hurry and gave a disappointed look to the empty chair. While she is gone, a peon approaches me. I try flipping to the other window. Realizing the peonâ€™s inability to decipher any of the text, I drop the idea.
I feel like a part of this organization, mainly because, the peon serves me like others. He has got me tea and a cutlet. I dont sip tea. I send him away. I am missing the cutlet now. He has turned back and an invisible hand stops me from asking out for that cutlet.
Cutlets are really delicious and the smell makes them way more tempting. I see cutlets being served to others, while I regret my decision and gulp the water filling my mouth.
Own a diary. Keep note of what is going on in your life. It would be amazing to look at it few years down the line. Or, you can have a diary of your imagination. A life you want to live. Note down what your character will be doing each day. Live a different life. You can keep it personal. Create one now. You'll love this concept. Login to create new.