The Dreamers...

Lying on the cot, Azad continued to stare at the ceiling, transfixed perhaps by the hypnotic rotation of the heavy, metallic black blades of the fan. It was an old fan, this; hanging precariously to the beam by means of a rusty hook which did not inspire much confidence. The alternating creaks and thuds of the fan drowned the feeble ticking of the little, circular clock, perched on top of the cupboard parked in a corner of the room.

The Clock...

Azad almost smiled as recollections of the day- seven years ago- when he paid Rs 1000 for this white clock priced at Rs 999, and smartly walked away with it without waiting for the change, filtered in. He had had his heart set on the clock for quite some time now- nine months to be precise. For, exactly nine months earlier, there was a glimmer in Rekha’s eyes when she had first seen it in a dingy departmental store tucked away in the congested underbelly of their South Kolkata neighbourhood.

“That will complete our home, Azad!” she had said. And Azad had listened.

His eyes opened as he became aware of the scraping sound of his wife’s cracked heels rubbing against the cold, grey stone floor.

Rekha...

In the reflection on the floor he could see her nightgown swishing about her ankles. There was a time when Azad entertained himself by mentally predicting her nightly routine with surprising accuracy-her neatly folding his clothes, which were flung on the chair; disposing of the vegetable peelings from the day’s cooking; standing in the middle of the room, one hand behind hip, critiquing the dilapidated, crusty wall and commenting on the need to get a paint job done; collecting her hair hanging loosely at her waist, and tying it into an untidy bun with strands sticking out. But, now, he had moved on.

The little, white clock told him that in exactly forty seconds he would feel her right arm, damp with little globules of sweat, on his bare chest, and the warmth of her breath on his cheeks.Tonight,he could smell the garlic-heavy curry in her breath.Azad tried to inch away, but she snuggled closer. It was a small bed and he knew that he and no option. Azad had to endure.

It was a particularly muggy Kolkata night; so much so that when streams of tears began to manoeuvre their way through his stubble, they mingled with constant trickle of sweat sliding down his forehead. Azad wiped his face with his left palm and then wiped his left palm on the white bed sheet, adding another stain to its existing litter of stains. He scanned the room with moist eyes. In the way of ventilation, the room had only a little blue window with rusty bars which, in any case, was not wind-facing. And the feeble whiffs of breeze that did come, only managed to dislodge tiny chunks of rust hanging to the periphery of the bars and deposit them on the floor; on the white bed sheet; on the white wall clock; in the long, dark locks of his wife. The powdery rust, together with the rotting vegetable peelings and the sweaty bodies of its occupants lent a distinct odour to the room. No wonder Azad felt suffocated; no wonder Azad felt trapped.

He turned to look at Rekha. Strangely, he did not feel guilt at having let her down. To be honest, her complaints didn’t bother him as much as a selfish sense of regret for what his life could have been. He closed his eyes once again, and hoped for some sleep to massage the throbbing pain that he felt in his temple. Yes, he would end it all tomorrow. Finally. Slowly, he began to slide away.

And then he saw it.

It was beautiful.

The tips of her nails, varnished in a showy shade of crimson, rested on the clear crystal wine glass. With an inviting smile she raised the glass and moved closer to him with small steps, carefully calibrated to attract every fibre of his masculine attention. He reached out for the slender bottle of the fine Burgundy which stood in dignified elegance amidst the heap of stale vegetable peelings. Beyond the quivering meniscus of the translucent wine he could see her face awash in the rhythmic motion of red waves which seemed to sprawl across her features, latching onto every contour in helpless devotion. She moved even closer. Azad sensed pleasure-raw, primeval and carnal- bottled up in the minuscule space between them. His mind raced wildly and his pulse tried hard to catch up. The turgidity of the moment was seductive; so seductive that for a few seconds he resisted being seduced, if only to savour the moment in entirety. Finally, he decided that the iron of his resolve had rusted enough.

With a carefully concealed grunt which accompanied the effort, and a resoundingly sharp pop, he pulled out the soft, brown cork which sealed the orifice. He admired the fleeting hue of startled surprise which passed over her eyes as he opened the bottle; he wondered at how effortlessly her features transitioned to convey a playful, flirtatious mischief. Slowly, he poured the wine down the sides of her glass. The soft gurgle of the wine flowing ignited an acute thirst within him-a thirst he hadn’t felt in years.

She smiled briefly as she watched the red spirit fill her glass. Then, she directed a loaded glance into his eyes- a glance as oblique in direction as in connotation. With that smile still in place, she gently placed the glass between her lips and savoured, if a touch exaggeratedly, the taste of the Burgundy soaking her palate. Without waiting for him to fill his glass, she turned her back on him in one graceful twist of her slender torso and started walking away with a gait that seemed to mock him. He watched, empty glass in hand, as she walked away; he watched her raven hair oscillate at her waist; he watched as her nightgown swished about her ankles.

Rekha...

She walked as far as the confines of the room permitted her to. And when she could walk away from him no further, she stood there sporadically looking over her shoulder, hurling enticing glances and sipping away with poise.

Azad was conscious of a pang of desperation; the desire to consummate the agonizing incompleteness of the moment tormented him. But he had decided to play it cool; he had decided to revel in the enigma, be stimulated by the mystery. For once, he wanted to be challenged. She was an angel his libido had conjured up; and Azad knew all too well that angels didn’t come easy.

So he leant against the wall, took a deep breath and poured himself a drink.

On a sunny afternoon, seven years ago, Rekha had hurried into their home clutching in one hand a brown paper bag and squeezing, with the other, Azad’s right forefinger. Palpably excited, she shut the door behind them and proceeded towards the small dining table.

“Hold on to this, will you?” she said, thrusting the paper package towards Azad.

With a swipe of the hand she cleared the litter of peelings on the table and tossed the soiled clothes onto the chair.Then, collecting the package from Azad, she gently placed it on the table. Azad noticed the gleam of anticipation in Rekha’s eyes as she carefully tore off the paper-like a mother awaiting a newborn. She bent over slightly to take another closer look at the clock.

He stood and watched in curious fascination with his hands folded.

“The only thing that will change about it the hundredth time you gape at it is the time it shows”, he quipped.

She just looked at him and smiled back. Normally, she would counter his snide remark with a carefully chosen volley of irrelevant arguments to elicit just the right amount of annoyance in him; enough to crease his forehead and cause the tip of his brows to raise themselves ever so slightly, but avoiding the scowl which caused his nostrils to quiver and lips to rearrange themselves in an unpleasant formation she couldn’t quite describe. They had been married nine years now.

Rekha raised the gleaming white clock and pressed it softly against her ears. With her eyes closed, she listened to the ticking of the clock.Yes, it was alive. It was the closest they had come to creating life, she thought.

Azad couldn’t help let out a soft chuckle. On some days and in some moments, he was fond of her. Affectionately, if a touch mechanically, he ran his fingers through her hair. The smoothness of her tresses was rudely terminated by what his fingers recognized as tiny fragments of gravel- the rust perhaps, which these days seemed to pervade everything in his domestic life. The chuckle dissolved; his forehead creased; the tips of his brows rose slightly; and then Azad scowled.

He disentangled his fingers from her locks, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, walked towards the door and stepped out. As he lit his cigarette he could hear Rekha vigorously pacing inside mumbling something about finding a suitable place to plant the clock. Azad wondered why he couldn’t share her excitement. For nine months, all he had wanted to do was to be able to afford it; to be able to see this very gleam of excitement in her eyes and joy of possession in her stride as she clasped it in her hands- a joy which had eluded her in childbirth time and time again. He could understand, at some level, why it was more than just a clock for Rekha.Perhaps, for her, it meant that not all happiness was out of reach.

But it was, after all, only a clock, he rationalized.

“Azad!” she cried out from within.

He took one last, deep drag and stubbed out his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke with a tired sigh and went in.

The clock had been accommodated on top of the cupboard, where it seemed to beam down victoriously at Azad. Rekha was at the table, scribbling away furiously on a piece of ruled paper. She always wrote on ruled paper as she found it difficult writing straight on blank where there were no lines to neatly fit her words in between.

“Seven years.” she said, without looking up.

Azad didn’t reply. He waited for her to explain; she enjoyed it.

“Seven years is the time it’ll take us to make our home...complete.” She continued writing, her features drenched in the satiety and involvement of a child building a castle of sand. “Done!” she squealed in delight and tucked a hanging strand of hair behind her ears. “If we accomplish this in the next seven years .....” she started. Giggling like an enthused schoolgirl, she handed him the piece of paper.

As Azad browsed through her list, he was aware of a surge of restlessness within. The realization that he had now turned thirty reared its ugly head and punched him in the gut. A colour television; a music system; a scooter and a new paint job for the house – this, if Rekha were to have it her way, would be the culmination of the best years of his life. Azad was suddenly clouded by an emotion he could only place as sadness- an overbearing, crippling feeling of depression.

He had read about exotic cuisines which he had dreamt of titillating his taste buds with; he had heard of white sand beaches in Greece and imagined sunbathing in them; he had fantasized about hiking in the snow laden Alpines and making love to exquisite Spanish women with the perfect tan. And above all he had hoped he would one day sample the finest red wines from the choicest French vineyards. His marriage to Rekha was suddenly suffocating; the piece of paper he now held in his hands was, most certainly, a sentence of life imprisonment. Azad now felt weak.

She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Thank you, Azad!”

Azad stared back at her blankly. She tried to kiss him again. This time he resisted. “I’m tired, Rekha.” he said and retired to the cot. He knew he had hurt Rekha deeply. But he didn’t care. Strangely, all he could think about then was the red Burgundy wine from the vineyards of Eastern France.

The fine red wine.....

Leaning against the wall, he dislodged some flakes hanging from the now crusty and worn out coat of paint. He sipped the wine and instinctively closed his eyes, letting the taste permeate his senses. She stood there, leaning against the cupboard with her legs crossed in front of her, her nightgown fluttering in the gentle night breeze and strands of her hair scattered across her face. Taking another sip, he now walked up to her. Using his forefinger, he tried to brush aside the hair veiling her sublime features. She wriggled playfully at the touch of his fingertips and he spilt some of his wine on her long, shapely arms. As streams of red trickled down her arms, he admired the contrast her perfect bronze skin offered. He placed his arms on the curves of her waist and leaned forward to kiss her. Her eyelids drooped in submission. He could now feel the softness of her breasts caressing his chest. He kissed her gently at first-and then, forcing her against cupboard, more passionately. Clasping the side of her head with one hand, he started unbuttoning her gown with the other. As he slid his arms down her gown to stroke her feminity, her torso reciprocated with vigour and the cupboard vibrated in sync with the ebb and flow of their passion.

The clock on top of the cupboard teetered for a while and when, Azad’s dream could no longer contain the overpowering current of his desires, it tumbled from the top with a jarring shatter.

Azad awoke with his chest pounding and saliva trickling down the corner of his mouth. He stared motionless at the ceiling for a few moments and then almost involuntarily he smiled. He wasn’t sure but he felt something akin to liberation. He swept his eyes across the room-the filthy pile on the table, rusty bars of the window, the dilapidated walls and the cupboard with the clock perched on top. And inexplicably, this morose setting now aroused him both physically and mentally.

No, he would not end it all today. His life wasn’t throttled by his marriage, he decided. The romance had to be found in his mind; in his life; in Rekha -not in the beaches of Greece or the vineyards of France.

He was overcome by the desire to make love to Rekha.Now. It had been seven long years for Rekha too, he thought- seven years of chasing her dreams. She had counted on him to help her chase them but he hadn’t obliged.

He turned around to plant a kiss on her lips. But she wasn’t there. All that remained was a note written on a piece of blank paper.

“You are free. Find happiness. So will I.

He was Azad.Free.

To Dream.

Alone...

He continued to stare at the ceiling, transfixed perhaps by the hypnotic rotation of the heavy, metallic black blades of the fan.

And then he smiled.

An Exercise in Passion

Attraction

And as we walked barefoot along the stretch of dew-laden greens it became increasingly clear to me that it was meant to be. Not because she could finish my sentences; not because I, for once, didn’t feel rushed—but because the tip of her nose jiggled from the tiny reverberations that emanated from her precious mouth when she laughed.

Yes, she was beautiful.

So when the dew, buffeted upwards in a fine sprinkle as she dragged her tiny feet through the soaking grass, started landing on my ankles, there was only one thing which had to be said.

“Let’s sit”, I suggested.

As the two of us planted ourselves upon a conveniently dry mound, I was aware that conversation, too, was about to run dry. The wet muddiness trickling down between the toes began to solidify into an immobile crust.

Not a word did she say.

While she stared emptily into the vast, still starry emptiness above us and I became conscious of an intrusion into our envelope of serenity – a rather large black ant struggling to overcome the formidable difficulties presented by the mud-stained smoothness of her legs - my mind flirted temporarily with the idea of making small talk. But there was a wonder in her eyes just then – a wonder which I decided not to dilute with banalities.

The world around us had dissolved in a darkness redeemed only by the pale efforts of the night sky and our conversation had, for hours, tossed and turned with glee in the delights of open-endedness. Nothing was to be judged as the world was blanketed by the night; nothing was to be evaluated by entrenched moral standards. We skirmished with morality; teetered on the brink of irreverence. The night was replete with thrilling possibilities and unforeseen directions.

Down with irrational reverence, I had suddenly decided during our walk as I dropped the bulky text book I was lugging around down to the grass and, symbolically, stepped on it with gay abandon in a moment of pulsating liberation. She watched in disapproval and disbelief as the blades of mud-coated moist grass sticking to my feet were dislodged by the pristine whiteness of the book’s cover and adorned, if unwillingly, the resounding imprint I had left behind. Then, as if suddenly succumbing to the theme of undaunted excess which underscored the night, she submitted to a volley of soft laughter.
And the tip of her nose jiggled.

If only the Sun kept away.

She emerged once more from the reverie she was immersed in and looked straight at me. Her eyes were a shade of brown resembling the crust which was now ensconced in the recesses between her toes- the residue left behind by a torrent of uninhibited conversation. Unable to meet my gaze, her eyelids drooped concealing the caramel brown within. The struggling ant now drew her attention.

I watched as her face condensed into a beatific smile.

I watched as she gently allowed the tiny creature into the cusp of her right palm and placed it back on the ground, as if in acknowledgement of its travails.

I watched as she simultaneously pushed back a strand of her dark, wavy hair behind her ears.

I watched….

Yes, she was beautiful.




Expression

And then it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, all the charm emanated from the rusty round table and the rickety plastic chairs.

Her legs betrayed a restlessness as they rose and fell rhythmically; the tip of her fingers gently making indentations in the melted mass of sinful chocolate lying seductively at the centre of the crimson table. Slowly, she pushed the disfigured mound of brown sweetness towards me inviting me to succumb to its addictive pleasures. I knew then that the time had come. All hesitation evanesced in that one loaded gesture.

But she just couldn’t look me in the eye that night.

The nerve-endings in her neck pounded delicately in anticipation. The paper cup carrying her ice-tea quivered as the rusty round table rocked up and down from the frantic motion of her legs, sending ripples across the reflection of the moon which floated on the surface. The moon was a perfect crescent, waiting to be consummated into rotundity.

Any moment now.

When my hand inched forward to meet her fingertips, I could feel her pulse, muffled by the syrupy, brown coating of chocolate. Whether it was a hint of sparkle in her eyes that I noticed just then or the light from the night sky bouncing off the silver foil of wrapper – I cannot for certain say.

And then in happened.

Involuntarily, feelings transfigured into words and words, in search of direction, coalesced into a sentence. And drenched in the charm of the humid summer air, it rushed to the dry haven of her ears, watched over by her long, untamed, dark locks.

“So I guess then it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if we were to….”

The rhythmic motion of her legs dissipated into a placid calm. I waited for a response which I knew was not forthcoming- at least not right away.

Because she just couldn’t look me in the eye that night.



Consummation

And I wondered how the light from the street lamp, tempered into a soft glow by the thick dirty-green canopy in its way, failed to wake her up.

The smooth roundness of her head rested gently on the concrete pavement. Strands of her hair rebelled from the bun they were tied to and hung loosely from the edge of the pavement, their tips gently kissing the film of dust on the road below.

There was a certain serenity about her features - an air of submission in the faint tremor in her lower jaw, which only I knew was a smile. As I knelt closer to run my fingers through her hair, I inhaled the bittersweet smell of vodka still lingering in her breath.

We could still hear the stifled sound of music coming from within.

Placing my hand on her lower back, I lifted her torso. I pressed the bottle of mango nectar against her lips in an effort to revive her. Spurned by her lips, streams of the syrup began trickling down her neckline leaving stains of pale yellow in their trail. A drop remained, hanging menacingly from her lower lip, and I smothered it with my index finger.

Eyes still closed, she put her arm around my neck and rested her head on my chest. Then, lifting one leg, she planted it on my thighs. Soon she was in my arms – all of her.

I gazed down at the little bundle of beauty that I now held and wondered if I ever wanted her intoxication to subside. With her limp fingers she feebly tugged at the ends of my sleeve. Raising a hand slowly, she gingerly probed the thin wall of emptiness between us till the tip of her fingers found my forehead. After fiddling momentarily with a blade of my hair soaked in sweat, she began to slide her fingers down my face. I closed my eyes as Softness itself caressed my eyes; the tip of my nose; the dryness of my lips; the unshaven roughness of my chin.

Laboriously, her eyelids started picking themselves up as if to confirm the map that her fingertips had traced out. Semi-open brown eyes stared at me with the combination of curiosity, amazement and vulnerability of a baby, fresh from the womb.

As I leaned over to explore the depths of her beauty, her lips parted and eyelids closed again; decisively, this time.

Her breathing grew heavier; faster; noisier.

Until, we could no longer hear the stifled sound of music from within.






Hurt

And I trudged along, alone, in the biting cold.

I bent down to disentangle the formidable knot in the laces of my shoes with my numb fingers and failed miserably. Like coarse ropes of jute, they grazed my fingers, leaving jagged strands of fibre sticking out from my nails. Placing the pointed tip of one shoe on the heal of the other, I proceeded to unceremoniously strip my feet. After violently rolling over a few times, they finally settled in a clumsy heap next to the barbed wire entrance to the fields.

My first steps on the frosty greens were the most difficult. Seasons had passed me by; seasons had passed us by. The moist muddiness of summer had abandoned us, replaced by a frigid, dry hostility. As I stepped on the mound where we had had our first rendezvous, the warmth of memories was brutally disrupted by the wave of cold that assaulted my bare feet. The mound stood before me today a hardened cube of ice.

In a foolhardy display, a black ant came in my way, perhaps expecting graciousness again. Inadvertently, I stepped on it. I wanted to look back and see if it had survived; I wanted to allow it gently into the cusps of my palm and deliver it to warmth and safety. But there was no warmth to be found; no graciousness to scatter to the poor creature.

So, I trudged along, alone, in the biting cold.

The rusty round table and the rickety plastic chair were barely discernible, being consumed ruthlessly by the dense cover of fog. I paused to light my first cigarette in ten years. The smoke billowing from the burning tobacco mingled with the fog and eventually became one with it, leaving no trace behind – apart from the stench of tobacco.

The table had been withered into submission by the elements. Its hot crimson red colour had paled, eaten into, for years, by the marauding army of rust. Instinctively, my index finger reached out to touch the crusty surface of the table which left behind a stain of powdery brown on my skin; an all too familiar shade of brown, only bereft of the inviting smell of dark chocolate.

In the distance, stood a lonely street lamp – the street lamp. Cold from desuetude, it peered over the yellow, flaccid leaves and the barren stretch of concrete pavement below. As I walked the pavement once more, the heels of my feet crushed the soft chunks of gravel which lay littered into a fine powder. Trickling over the edge of the pavement, it joined the film of dust on the road, burying beneath it an orphaned strand of dark hair brought in, perhaps, by the stinging breeze. It struggled for a while to extricate itself from the pile, twisting and turning wildly in the wind. And then, emphatically, it managed to break free.
Away it flew to the south, and I could only watch.

I was aware of a sharp pain – a little drop of blood in the recesses of my toes, from a tiny splinter I had probably picked up along the way. It was cold. Far away, I could see the outline of the clumsy heap of my shoes I had left behind.

I lit my second cigarette in ten years.

And I trudged along, alone, in the biting cold.






Permanence

And I saw her again.
Amidst the deafening explosions of hand grenades, the clatter of empty cartridges on the glittering white marble tiling, the panic ridden din of the helpless Saturday night shoppers and the pungent odour from the rising fumes of smoke, I caught a glimpse of the woman I loved.

There she was: brown eyes; dark wavy hair; precious little mouth – all of her. Despite the thick veil of haze, I could see that she was still as beautiful as the girl I once held in my arms during a vodka-heavy night, ten years ago. She was on her knees. Her toes supported her tiny feet on the pristine white floor, stained in shades of hot crimson red; her shoes, dislodged from her feet, lay sprawled in a clumsy heap.
I stepped closer.

The air was heavy with the stench of gunpowder and it made her cough violently. The tears rolling down her face from her reddened eyes rushed to her parted lips. Spurned by her lips, they trickled down her tender neckline leaving behind a moist trail.

With her bloody hands she tried to stop the flow of blood oozing out from the wounds of the man lying at her feet- his chest perforated by three, maybe four, rounds of fire. A strand of her long, dark hair hung loosely down her shoulders and made a gentle indentation on a puddle of blood on the floor. She was sobbing uncontrollably, begging for help.
And the tip of her nose jiggled.

Somewhere, from within one of the stores played a Beethoven Symphony. The music tried to lend some serenity but was overpowered by the discordant notes of cartridges showering down on the marble floor.

And then she saw me.

Just then, I could see in those caramel brown eyes, a grotesque communion of fear, shock, disbelief and what I hoped was a smattering of guilt.
She looked alternately at me and the rifle that I was pointing at her.

There was the faint tremor in her lower jaw which only I knew to be a smile. I moved closer. The icy barrel of my rifle now pressed against her collar bone. A wave of cold ran through her body and her slender torso convulsed involuntarily. She looked up at me. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on her eyes for the answers to all my questions. But a violent gust from an explosion nearby scattered her hair over her face, concealing the caramel brown within.

We were instructed to kill all in sight. I didn’t have much time- neither did the wounded man whose blood smeared hand she still held. There was plenty I had to say to her but only one thing I could say right then; the only thing which mattered.

‘Do you love me?’ I hissed slowly, making certain that each word impaled her being.

She looked alternately at me and the rifle that I was pointing at her.
Finally, she looked straight at me and blinked suggestively. I lowered my rifle bent down, grabbed her by the hair and kissed her mouth; my first kiss in ten years. A teardrop hung menacingly from her lower lip. As I reached out to smother it, it fell onto a ring she now wore – her wedding ring. We had kissed while her husband lay dying.

‘Down with irrational reverence’, I said.
She let out a feeble, mirthless chuckle.

As I proceeded to kiss her again, her hair scattered over her face again, by what I thought was …. It didn’t matter anymore. She was shot in the head.

She stared dreamily into the distance as I held her in my arms once more. The Symphony still meandered about, trying to pacify. Somehow, she managed to give me a parting gift. Her final words to me.

“Help him”.

She was still holding his hands. For a few seconds, she continued staring into emptiness.

Until, she could no longer hear the sound of music from within.

The 8:15

There is a rather prominent school of thought which advocates the notion that all human beings choose the path of least resistance. Of course, there are always people who hate schools of any manner. These are people who would go to considerable lengths to disprove established theories about the human psyche. Perhaps they take umbrage to the idea of them being figured out. There is, however, another branch of this clan which seems to have found an easier way around this predicament. Their modus operandi is to gradually distance themselves from the very crowd which is under the constant scanner of psycho analysis. This is akin to a self inflicted mutation, though in a very non intrusive way. Yet, another prominent clan which, by the looks of it, is multiplying like rabbits is the one which neither understands nor could care less about the aforementioned drivel. And then there was Luke.

See, the thing was that Luke was never particularly fond of his bus journeys to his place of employment. Some people revel in the romanticism involved in the imagery of them starting, cappuccino in hand, a fresh working day. And it would not be too much of a stretch to imagine a little sparkling blue bus as the backdrop for this lush visual. This tale, however, is about Luke. These romantic bus commuters may have figured in the story had Luke boarded the 8:15 that morning. Which brings me back to the fact that Luke was never particularly fond of his bus journeys to his place of employment. Certain though I am that you would like to know a bit more about the nature of his employment and draw inferences about him ,this is precisely what I will not have you do. Neither would Luke, for that matter. I would like to take a moment to clarify my position in the scheme of things. My role in this little tale is that of a dispassionate chronicler of events. The only thing that I knew for certain about Luke was that he harboured a distaste for his ride to work. So how did I figure that out?

What often bothers me about smart theories is that they tend to be conspicuous by their absence when they are needed the most. It is only after the solution has reared its elusive head that they furtively crawl out of their holes. Put more simply, the mind has a propensity of approaching problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe its just my mind. But that is hardly my point. What I mean to say is there was nothing about Luke that would make me doubt his intentions to board the 8:15 as he stood next to me at the bus junction that morning. If I was privy to his reluctance, I would have undoubtedly searched him for the usual indicators like furrowed brows, twitching lips and similar expressions of hesitance. But people don’t notice these things, do they? Holmes did and he was fictional. The truth of the matter was more Watsonesque . Which, by the way, is a more witty way of saying that the truth of the matter was more mundane. In plain words, I knew because he told me so. With furrowed brows and with a twitch of the lips he said, “I am not particularly fond of my bus journeys to my place of employment”.

The more perceptive of you may wonder how this dispassionate chronicler came to know the name of this shabbily sketched character that he encountered at the bus junction. Ah, but therein lies the rub. It is rather difficult to know how to narrate an incident when you are not quite sure about how it panned out in the first place. Although I am positive that he was christened Luke within days of him being born, for most part of the incident he was just another face in the crowd for me. Therefore, revealing how I came to know his name would involve me revealing far more than I intend to at this stage. I don’t, however, wish to create an impression that the incident to which I allude was a long drawn out one or even, for that matter, one of life altering ramifications. Indeed, as I may have occasioned to mention before, the truth of the matter is rather Watsonesque.

The time is ripe for an analysis of the control that a seemingly innocuous cigarette exerts on the life of a man. I like smoking. Make no mistake about it. I like the smell of cigarettes. I like the smell of people who smoke cigarettes. I certainly yield to nobody in the knowledge and trivia associated with tobacco wrapped in paper. And yet, it causes me no slight perturbation. I am sure I speak for a lot of smokers when I say that stubbing out a cigarette before it burns out brings forth sentiments not dissimilar to unrequited love. Obviously, the cigarette being the spurned party bears the brunt of this sentiment. I don’t wish to imply it is actually the flame of passionate love that you extinguish when you rub your rugged shoe across its smooth, slender and smouldering body. No, that would be rather daft. Anyways, my point is, for a fleeting moment before you actually decide to stub out the thing it exerts an invisible force on your being. It is a force which I like to refer to as control. Control has an illustrious list of victims and achievements and it was, for it, the work of a moment to ensure that Luke missed the 8:15.Luke puffed away as the little sparkling blue bus spewed out some smoke of its own.

As you may have already figured out, I wasn’t exactly waiting at the bus junction to board the 8:15.Or the 8:25, for that matter. Indeed, I must confess to having no intention of commuting anywhere. Suddenly, I can feel the gaze of your attention diverted from Luke to me. Who is this dispassionate chronicler anyways? What is his story? Admittedly, I have taken the liberty of concealing myself behind the protagonist. It is not something I am ashamed of. It is a literary tool employed with a great deal of success in the past, most notably by one Dr. John.H.Watson. Nevertheless, I find it extremely difficult to move on without taking you into some sort of confidence. Watson did not and he was fictional.

Do not dismiss this tale as a culmination of an hour idled away at a local bus junction. Quite to the contrary, my life seemed to have gone into auto pilot mode. You know how they say “Stop the world and I’ll get off.”? Well, they deserve a thump on the back and a pat on the head for having succinctly described my sentiments that morning. The 8:15 had been an inseparable part of my existence for years now. The arrival of the little sparkling blue bus seemed to signify, each morning, the last independent choice that I had each day. The moment I boarded the bus, I was in the tenacious claws of control. Don’t get me wrong- I did not detest my means of livelihood. In fact, it would not be overstating it to say that I fairly enjoyed it. Nevertheless, like the cigarette that I hated stubbing out, it exerted a control on my actions. It arrested free will. And I could not live like that. At least, not that morning.

Solitude has a distinct way of going about its business. The business being, quite obviously, to eliminate the lack of itself. At times it slowly pushes you into a corner with a workman like diligence. On other occasions, its actions are precipitated by the assistance of little blue sparkling buses which seem to suck all that can move into them. The 8:15 had come and gone and when the smoke from its exhaust had cleared, Luke and I were all that remained. I don’t know if you have ever been confronted with a situation when a bloke suddenly ceases to be just another face in the crowd and you feel compelled to walk up to him and make small talk. If you had inquired of me that morning as to why I had walked up to Luke and asked him the time, I would have been at loss to answer. The question would have posed a formidable challenge. However, looking back now, I am able to propose a smart theory behind my action. The reason why Luke had ceased to be just another face in the crowd was that the crowd had now disappeared. And since I find the human connection infinitely more interesting than the spotted cat on the opposite pavement or the patterns traced out by the smoke from cigarettes, Luke became the object of my undiluted attention. You may deride my theory as mere elementary and you may be right. My position, nevertheless, on the matter is that the worth of a theory should be estimated decoupled from the time at which it was thought out. What was smart then is but elementary now. Maybe I am just making allowances for the propensity of the human mind to approach problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe it’s just my mind. But that’s hardly my point.

“8: 15” replied Luke curtly, his lips still engaged in passionate lip lock with the filter of the cigarette.

“Next bus isn’t until another 15 odd minutes”

“I know”

Ordinarily, there would have been precious little I could have said at this stage without sounding like a complete pest. Missing the 8:15 should have had a liberating effect on me. My sentiments, on the other hand, could be compared to the schoolboy who after having bunked classes for the first time was in need of a place to lie low. I was anxious, fidgety and in need of a conversation. It disturbed me that after all the lofty thoughts about regaining free will from the clutches of the 8:15, my free will, seemingly, wanted nothing more than the return of normalcy. It was like an expensive purchase of a football club failing to live up to the bloated expectations.

“You know, they should reserve the window seats for smokers.” I said.

Luke turned to look at me, perhaps for the first time. Although he may have caught a glimpse of me earlier, it was probably because I was obstructing the path of light reaching his eyes. He must have suddenly decided that I deserved a second look.

“And that would achieve…?”

“Well, you obviously seemed to have missed your bus.”

“And you yours.”

“You don’t know that. I could easily have been waiting for the 8:35”

“My sentiments exactly”

Ordinarily, there would have been precious little I could have said at this stage without sounding like a complete pest. But I had raised the bar once and now there was no looking back.

“So did you?” I continued shamelessly. I realize that having promised to be the dispassionate chronicler, you probably feel that I should stop judging myself. But I am not judging myself, you see. I was shameless. With a vengeance; intentionally, and with beastliness of forethought. I needed this conversation.

“Did I what?”

“Miss the bus.”

Luke let out a soft chuckle and took a deep drag from the cigarette. As he watched the ash doing an involuntary jig on the grey pavement, the chuckle condensed into an almost beatific smile. He reached into his pocket and offered me a cigarette. I have always believed that there must be an ingredient in cigarettes that stimulates bonding in general and male bonding in particular. Someday it may transpire that this ingredient also contributes to cancer. Very often, life is like that.

“I wouldn’t quite phrase it that way” said Luke.

“Well, how would you phrase it?”

“The bus missed me.”

“That’s not rephrasing. That’s….lying.” I was being argumentative. And I am not judging myself. Again.

Luke let out a second soft chuckle and lit up a second cigarette to go with it. He gently stroked his stubble with his fingernails and pretended to straighten the tie that he had obviously forgotten to wear, having lost it, perhaps, in the recesses of his cupboard together with the shaving cream and razor.

“Its Thursday, you see.” he said

“Quite so.” I replied, nonplussed.

“It’s my mid week break.”

“What sort of an employer gives you a mid week break?”

“The sort that wants to hire me anyways” he retorted.

“So you spend your off day watching people boarding buses to go to work” I suggested with a hint of unconcealed sarcasm.

“And smoking at the same time,” he replied bluntly.

“I stand corrected”

People say that it’s amazing the things one can do when one doesn’t have to look at oneself in the mirror. I guess it follows that you can confide a great deal in people when you are certain to never cross paths with them again. My ignorance about Luke was comparable only to his ignorance about me. And yet Luke, who was, by now, well into his third cigarette, was opening up fast. He was smoking even faster.

“That’s a little sadistic. I take it that you are not particularly fond of your employment?” I continued after pausing to take another drag of nicotine.

With furrowed brows and with a twitch of the lips he said, “I am not particularly fond of my bus journeys to my place of employment”. And he said it with a great deal of poignancy.

All of a sudden, the conversation seemed fraught with opportunities. I had initiated this conversation with the sole intention of steering myself away from the anxiousness that my situation had presented me with. Now, the meandering route adopted by it had, eventually, shoved me headlong into a confrontation with the same anxiety. Of course, I realized that the reasons for his dislike of the bus journey may have been more mundane than mine. However, there was something about the way the cigarette smoke brought out his grey, dreamy eyes that should have told me that he would not attribute his reluctance in boarding the 8:15 to the infernal crowd or the rising prices of gasoline. But as always, I didn’t quite think of it then.

“And it’s not because of the infernal crowd or the rising prices of gasoline,” he continued.

By now, another cluster of people had surfaced to board the 8:25.

“Right now, the only thing these people want is to board that bus and begin their day. I derive a little peace in seeing them get what they want. Is that sadistic? If I stand here long enough and see enough people beginning their day, I feel…… ahead,” said Luke. He was not so much addressing me as mouthing a soliloquy staring into empty space.

“But they have begun their day, haven’t they? You haven’t.”

“Neither have you,” was his riposte.

There was nothing to be said. And as we smokers often do when there is nothing to be said, I took another puff. A pregnant silence ensued at the end of which he suddenly turned and looked straight into my eyes. I tried to avert his penetrating gaze but it was an attempt in futility. Even now, in my most vulnerable moment, I didn’t want to be figured out. Very often, people are like that.

“Tell me something,” said Luke. “You watched the 8:15 come and leave without you. You smoked and engaged in a conversation with an utter stranger. Stretched before you now is a day with endless possibilities and limitless opportunities, without any strings attached. It’s a day when you have to do nothing and yet there is so much you can do. How do you feel?”

There was another one of those pregnant silences which was rudely aborted by a sudden buzz of activity at the junction. The 8:25 came to a screeching halt before us and the customary mad rush followed, accompanied by a generous helping of an awful din. There was only one thing left to be asked.

“What is your name?” I shouted out loud.

“Luke. The 8:25 is here. You can choose to get on it or you can choose to walk away. Either way, go begin your day.”

When the 8:25 had left and the smoke from its exhaust had cleared, I found myself standing alone at the junction. Six half-smoked cigarettes adorned the spot where Luke had been standing. The spotted cat from the opposite pavement occupied his place with the regal air of an heir and purred with lazy content.

Looking back, my mind is now pestered with doubts as to whether his name was actually Luke. Did he just over-pronounce the word look? Maybe I am just making allowances for the propensity of the human mind to approach problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe it’s just my mind. But that is hardly my point.



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On knowledge,instinct and..Nietzsche!

To begin at the very beginning, true to the Socratic Method, perhaps it would be appropriate to revisit and question any assumptions we may have about the nature and inception of knowledge; only then can we really begin to make a foray into Nietzsche’s profound views on the subject. So ,as uncomfortable as it may sound , let us, for the purpose of this exposition completely disregard the view of knowledge as an object and attempt to look upon it as an event; a consequence; or even a byproduct , maybe.

Of what, you ask?

Well, in delving deeper into the matter, I would urge you to adopt a more microscopic view of the concept of knowledge. You need only to make a cursory inspection of our surroundings to appreciate the fact that nature resists complexity- behind every seemingly complex entity in space or time there is always a set of simple ideas, concepts and ingredients which are, well, for all practical purposes, indivisible. The carbohydrates are after all made of simple sugar molecules; proteins, the building block of life, are composed of amino acids; and even energy, according to the Quantum theory, is transmitted in smaller packets.
So it seems rather inevitable that a construct as complex as knowledge should, also, have its foundations in simplicity- something more in the realm of the unconscious. And Nietzsche chose to call it instinct.

Now, in order to share Nietzsche’s view of knowledge we need to introduce into this microscopic view of knowledge, an element of causality or interplay. So, consider, if you will, a rather simplistic description of the formation of a chemical compound- the atoms of individual elements interacting, sharing, exchanging and finally giving rise to a more complex third entity. In fact, if Nietzsche is to be believed, this is similar to how knowledge comes into being- a causal effect of the interplay of instincts.

Let us now attempt to reconcile Nietzsche’s view with Freudian concepts of id and ego and superego. The id component of personality represents all the primeval needs we are constantly barraged by- hunger, thirst, lust, pain etc. Our instincts , untempered by the superego, would always seek to satisfy these needs .At the very beginning , therefore, data is all there is; we are surrounded by sensory stimuli which mean nothing to us but which force us to react anyways-react instinctively, to satisfy the id.

But gradually, according to Nietzsche, the interplay of these instincts will cause the inception of knowledge, the point in time when we are able to assimilate the data into information. From a Freudian perspective, it is conceivable that this is where the superego makes its presence felt and alters decision making in accordance with the individual’s reference points. To illustrate, if a speeding truck were to be headed your way while crossing a road, you would instinctively scamper to get out of the way owing to the fight or flight response. Now if, hypothetically, this had been the first time you were ever crossing a road, the approaching truck would have been for you merely a sensory stimulus, a data you reacted to instinctively. However, says Nietzsche, with the exercise of this instinct, knowledge has been conceived- the knowledge that caution must be exercised while crossing roads.

And there in a nutshell, is my opinion on what I believe was Nietzsche’s view on knowledge and instinct. Perhaps I haven’t been entirely accurate but as Nietzsche, himself, once famously said: There are no facts, only interpretations!