Abhi’s Blog

I met Dim in the gym a month ago when he was arguing with the trainer for not being regular. I don’t feel like coming everyday. That was his final and singular argument. When asked what does he do on those days, he winked.

I don’t like someone nabbing me with questions. I also don’t want to talk all the time, he said while doing chest press, and girls want to talk all the time, at least that was the case with those who I met. Can you bring me another 5 kg, he said in grunting voice. I knew he can’t push another 10 but you can’t say no to Dim. I knew exactly what he would say if I point it out: “Isn’t it suppose to be difficult”?

Dim was in his mid-thirties, though I never confirmed it because there was no need for it, but it was certainly a shock for others to see us being friends- 10 year gap is intolerable now a days in friendship, it seemed. Some even thought to the extent that we were a father-son duo. When I heard this first time, I wished my father was so cool too.

Being a child of strict parents means you can't be friends with them. So when I met Dim, I thought I can share those thoughts on which I need some advice from an elder. Though he was single he had his experiences with life and they were more intense than a normal married person could have.

Dim was not chatty. He assumed that most people don't have anything interesting to say. But he didn't feel that with me for some reason. He would carry a book with him always but closes it as soon as he sees me coming.

The story writer praised some characters a lot but never let them laugh. Keeping them in fear that maybe this time the face shines off as soon as the light went down. One character kept collecting garbage all his life. A glimpse of the storyteller's own pain is seen somewhere in the characters written by him. How much God must suffer. God must have been through so many important tortures. God must have waited for the rain to end so that clothes can dry. How much love God must yearn. It is not easy to be God. Being God is a little storyteller and a little trash. Being a story writer, collecting applause is nowhere. It's a little bit to moan with pain by being embarrassed.

The voice was coming from behind- the girl aged 10-12 asked again, from passenger to passenger in a private bus to my village. The evening is exceptionaly pleasant. Outside the bus, greengoccers are winding up the business. They have packed the leftover vegies in crats, folded the hoisted tri-color- the correct way to fold isn’t known to them, and leaving for their homes- expecting they have one. It’s been 75 years of independence. Those who don’t have a house yet, where will they hoist the tri-color, perhaps they will sleep on the streets until run over by a drunk son of politician returning from late night party.

The girl came to cabin at last.

Got your letter, and you mentioned the word MELANCHOLY.

Listen, the first time I heard this word, I was in awe of it for days. I, desperately, tried using it in my next couple of writings because I felt: that’s it. That’s the word I have been looking for over the last few years. That’s what explains, as closest as it can, of what I feel. I mean R, I am happy until six in the evening and just when sun starts fading away, I get sad. What is this, were you in such dismal ever?

I tried decrypting it while paddling my cycle around the Ahalia campus. Helpless me!!

In the middle of the scrape garden, barefoot, he stood still while it rained. Today he wore an oversized shirt that goes until his knees and thigh-length shorts. When he walked with his heavy bag full of scraped food, clothes, cardboard and whatnot which humans throw out of their windows casually in cold afternoons, people with suits and ties passed him with weird looks. He felt like he is on an alien planet with a face worth a poem.

When it finally stopped raining, he emptied his bag, segregated metal on one pile, plastic on another and clothes on a third one. He, then, moved to the centre of the triangle. Looked around. And now if you observe his face, you would see the same expressions. Wrinkles, cheeks popping out of his face, eyes shortening. The only difference this time was, what made him cry. Shortly, I found him there sleeping soundly, and yes snoring. Do children snore, how would I know? I am a crow. Crows don’t even sleep.

With this, he would say babye to Bangalore. When he first arrived here one and a half months ago, he was intimidated - intimidated by the appetites of a big city. But now he has realised it's not tough to live on his own. Bangalore was special for a couple of reasons- it's where he went on his first date, where he met ambitious imperfect humble humans. During these periods someone came along uninvited, stuck their pictures on the walls of yet infant heart and said- “Abhishek! You should write more often, and yes, keep the clean shave!”, and left abruptly as in some rush. Bangalore was fun because it was costly. He would miss his gym trainer, the terrace, and his all alone naked times. He can’t be sure where would his soul might find shelter next. It might be Delhi. It’s also possible that he would return here. He also wishes to stay in Chandigarh for a few months. Maybe until summer approaches, he will move to Himachal or northeast. Who knows? He is unpredictable and gets bored of things easily.

I and my mother were about to cross the road through zebra crossing. Why there isn’t a cat crossing then? We live here, not Zebras. How unfair? Also, why don’t humans make their crossing? At least, leave zebra crossing for all of our animals who aren’t as cruel as you are. I was just behind my mother when a car ran over her. The car didn’t even stop to look back as to what happened. We, stray cats, don’t matter much to them. While I bet, the driver has a cat at his house whom he pretends to love. How romantic, huh? Anyway, I got frightened, So I flew back. I climbed over to this window of an old man and watched the street the whole day from there. That day, I understood the concept of those three lights- green, yellow and, red. Though I promised myself, I’ll never cross a road again.

Trends, reels, status. People craving for attention. Influencers making fast, easy money. Fast? Train approaches faster. Passes by. Fake standards. Private account. Private! Nothing is anymore private. Every step, every thought, every meal. Monitored. They are watching. Crowd, idiots, followers. Blind, dumb, chaos. Peace ? Where is it ? Lost and Found sticker on the platform. An Announcement is just made- “Young people are lost in Virtual World. Ask them to report to themselves”. Brains: short circuited, hearts: layered with dirt, bodies: edited, faces: masked and whitened.

"Son! Don’t you wonder why oldies want to live even when they no more have excitement of children, a curiosity of teenager, and the smell of a young adult?"

Grandpa said while tapping on a watermelon to see whether it's fully riped or not. It was steep of summer. The scorching parched Sun of June drank all the water of natural resources. The village of old peasants would be heard shouting at its children, "hey! Didn’t I tell you to use only one bucket of water for bathe”. And before fathers could catch kids, they would run in the greenish grain field spreading like a veil of newly wed, covering the shiny sand, and hide into it. If, if fathers were way too determined to beat the kid, you will enjoy them crying in mother's lap. Such kids never see their ma and pa chatting in love as they manifest in Bollywood movies or read in foreign novels. Do they love each other, ma and pa, I asked one night? “People can express love in oddly wide range of ways, cities have explored better ways such as kisses, here it’s still daily cute quarrels”- Grandpa would say snoring lightly.

"To find fully riped watermelons for their grand childrens", I replied.

Each night when I walk down this little road to my hostel, under this unfinished useless naked iron shade, I stop for some precious moments at the place called, the soul place, listen to old Hindi songs of Kishore Kumar or Talat or Hemanta or Lata or K Krishnamurthy, the outside sky full of dark smoke, smoke of a factory nearby, inside my heart wander around an old age woman in traditional Rajasthani attire, the only woman I loved, though we don't have rituals to express love literally like most of people of my age do. In yellow greenish field of grain, why it never rains here? She hurries up, the dark is around the edge and she have so much left over to cover up, no helping hands to let her breath even for a second.

Each time when father requested to come home I said, I have to stay here to compete with the rest of the world. It's a rat race, I said to myself, such a crappy life it is, isn't it Charles?

And I went to sleep...