Just Like Clockwork : The Troubles of a Modern Man

Just Like Clockwork : The Troubles of a Modern Man

As soon as the clock strikes 7, the nudging and nagging begin. Little does she know that he was up till 3 o’ clock, fighting a losing battle against the pestilent mosquitoes that were troubling her sleep. The aroma of coffee finally manages to entice him and he drags his aching body out of bed. The omelette is a little burnt but he can’t muster the courage to mutter a word because her cell phone has gone missing. Twenty minutes are wasted in retrieving the gadget from under the bed and now he is late for his morning meeting.

Work is the usual mishmash of incomprehensible instructions and demonic deadlines. His eyes hurt due to the lack of sleep and the overdose of caffeine, but the glaring screen shows no mercy. His existence seems similar to that of a blinking cursor, half-awake and half-dead, serving no purpose for half its lifetime. On the positive side, doesn’t the blinking make it more prominent? His thoughts wander in such random directions all day as his job is unable to challenge his intellect. He soldiers on because even the thought of quitting is a cardinal sin, what with the baby on the way and the startling mound of bills and loans. He now needs to go into a soundproof cabin and scream a little.

By the time he manages to escape from the office, the sun is long gone and the stars are sneakily shining through a blanket of smog. She takes the car to work these days because of the bumpy roads. After multiple rounds of haggling, a languid auto driver agrees to take him home for twice the usual fare. He is half way there when the phone vibrates, and now that he has noticed it, the guilt of ignoring her would be too much. She needs some ice-cream and it’s urgent, how can you say no to such a request? The detour to the ice-cream parlour results in a heated argument with the auto driver who threateningly demands an extra 100 bucks. He crawls towards the front door, weary and dejected, even pressing the doorbell is too much effort at this point. The door unbolts after what seems like a century, but the sight of the cold compress on her head hushes his fuming complaints into absolute silence.

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The Dregs Of Broken Dreams: The Ramblings of a Troubled Soul

The Dregs Of Broken Dreams: The Ramblings of a Troubled Soul

A patchwork of ephemeral visions perturbs my sleep at night. A disorderly chaos of people back from the dead and long forgotten lovers, against a curtain of surreal scenery. In this parallel universe, the birds can fly backwards and the tigers are tame, the waterfalls are set ablaze by the sun and the dew drops freeze into shiny pearls.

You can be at several places at once, in fact, the cities walk to your doorstep. A magical mosaic of childhood homes and palaces from hazy summer destinations. Your troubles are reduced to crippled versions of their harrowing selves and your enemies morph into hilarious buffoons.

The world conspires to make you invincible, a boon so powerful that you cannot be destroyed. Gigantic butterflies rescue abandoned souls and carry them across oceans within seconds. Immortal ponies gallop over fires, sheltering your skin from the scorching flames. You can be an artist or a gypsy, a witch or a merchant, but what you really are is a goddess.

Who would ever wish to escape from such a flawless dreamland? A land devoid of painful heartbreak and blistering betrayal. Where no fall is too hard and no slope is too steep. Where the clouds are your cushions and the breeze your wings. If only life could be so glorious.

Of late the blotches of reality have been tarnishing the pretty picture painted on my mind’s canvas. Fear, anxiety, and sorrow are making an appearance in the form of horned demons. I am trapped in a fractal of nightmares within nightmares. An endless loop of waking up in a state of panic; a serpent devouring its own tail. A vicious cycle of screaming into pillows and crying myself back to sleep.

Is this the curse of growing up or the outcome of the maledictions muttered by my mistakes? Perhaps an evil ailment or the fruit of unintended sins? Whatever this brutal beast may be, I know of a way to defeat him. I will now embrace a sleepless existence and will forever walk this earth with parched eyes.

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The Claustrophobic Classroom: How I Do Not Fit In

The Claustrophobic Classroom: How I Do Not Fit In

I sat on the edge of the bench in the corner, palms moist with sweat, praying vehemently that she wouldn’t make it in time for the first period. I must have said my prayers wrong because the familiar clicking of heels was fast approaching. The musky perfume tickled my nostrils even before her red toenails had crossed the doorway. She looked miffed as usual; I quickly altered my prayers and requested God to prevent any pieces of chalk from flying in my direction that day. Every tick of the clock was an achievement, a moment bravely survived, although my throat was dry with fear. The much-awaited bell finally broke the monotonous rumble of the mathematical formulae that she recited in her robotic voice. She disappeared from the room in one swift motion, with an extremely audible sigh of relief. I often wonder why she chose to become a teacher if the mere sight of children was such an annoyance to her.

We marched towards the playground for the physical education class, a meandering line of kids ranked according to height. The class was less of a learning experience and more of a humiliation as I could barely jump with my tiny legs while the lanky girls leaped from one end of the monkey ladder to the other. You cannot hide in the shadows on a playground; all your shortcomings are on display in the unforgiving sunlight. The lunch break is not much better either, the classmates exhibit delectable goodies while my humble sandwich drowns with shame in a sea of sugary jam. The barely nibbled at toast is better off as a misshapen lump that I sneakily discard in the bin.

Story time is what follows the lunch break, a faint glimmer in a realm of darkness. Now I can quietly sit and dream about a life devoid of school and bullies. A world where one is not mocked for the shabby state of their second-hand uniform or scolded for speaking too softly. Where discipline does not mean the lack of expression and everyone is not expected to have the same handwriting. Where parents do not blindly believe the notes sent back by teachers and the worth of a child is not measured by their elocution skills alone. In such a wonderful land we will not need to restrict our imagination to one period of storytelling and the playground will not be a battlefield. But for now, the story time is over and an hour of sticking beads on fabric with trembling fingers lies ahead. The sole consolation lies in the fact that only twenty days remain until the summer break.

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Summer Petals: A tale of love

Summer Petals: A tale of love

The headiness of summer dulled the sword of reason and brought together two strangers with starkly different personalities. The shy periwinkle was firmly rooted to the ground. Quiet, reclusive, and comfortably shaded from the harsh sun rays by an emerald umbrella of palm leaves, she did not mind a life of solitude in the least. The bumble bee, on the other hand, was effervescent and jovial. He was a gypsy that wandered from lavenders to tulips and roses to sunflowers, on the hunt for the sweetest nectar. However, the subtle brightness of the periwinkle forced him to frequent her corner ever so often, especially since the sweltering heat had wilted most of the other flowers.

The periwinkle was shocked by the unforeseen showers of affection but soon got accustomed to his hovering presence. The furious hot winds had wrinkled the edges of her petals, but he didn’t seem to notice her flaws at all. A chivalrous soul, he even helped her out when some drops of melted strawberry ice cream from a toddler’s cone had blinded her. The intoxicating flavor of the fruit, combined with the faint aroma of her sweetness, was a pure elixir for the bumble bee. Silently but surely, a fondness developed between the two even though their intentions were not congruent.

The enthralling encounters continued for days and he soon became familiar with each bend of her petals while she could recognize his buzzing from afar. Not a single creature ventured out in the unforgiving sunlight but the two lovers were oblivious to the sorrows of the world. The streaks of clouds that had witnessed this romance since the beginning grew angrier as they realized the whimsical attitude of the bee. They puffed and darkened with rage until they couldn’t hold the wrath any longer and exploded to expose his philandering ways.

The comforting scent of wet mud tickled his tentacles; he looked around to find several buds erupting from the moistened shoots. The rain offered respite to the dried up vegetation but also kindled a spark of passion in the bee’s tiny heart. He could not defy his natural urge to fly from bloom to bloom. Soon enough, she noticed tiny specks of the pollen from a red hibiscus on his feet and disengaged from her stalk that night. He came looking for her the next day but his limited range of vision could not extend till the murky ground.

She fell in the path of a lonely ant, a dreamer who could not believe that a precious flower had chosen to pay him a visit. He gently rolled her along the cobbled path that led to his home. She got scraped and bruised but could sense the concern in the ant’s careful movements. He dug out a cozy bed for her right next to the entrance of his nest and fluffed it up with some fallen feathers. It was the soundest sleep of her life as she had finally found the meaning of true love.

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An Empty Canvas

An Empty Canvas

The morning sun was playing a game of Hide and Seek with her that day. Peeking through the puffy clouds, he giggled at her cheerfully and sprayed a few droplets of golden light all over her face. He was the only one who recognised her youthfulness that was shrouded by the veil of age. Indeed, it was hard to keep the buoyant spirit alive, considering that she was the oldest member of a family that spanned across four generations.

Once her grandkids started talking, she no longer remained Vimla, as everyone began calling her Amma, the term for grandmother in the local dialect. That morning she sat in the balcony of her room, stealing glances at those very children as they indulged in the festivities of Holi in the garden below. Eons ago, when she had first stepped into this household, she used to celebrate this festival of colours with much vigour. No person who dared to venture into the verandah could escape without being drenched in brilliant shades of red, blue and green.

Amma had always nurtured an unfaltering love for colours. Be it the mesmerising kaleidoscope of Bandhini dupattas at the cloth merchant’s store or the delightful display of Indian sweetmeats doused in pink and yellow syrup, the colours always implored her to bring them home. Much to the disapproval of her elders, she would wade through the slushy mud of the pond in the backyard for the violet water lilies that matched the curtains in her room. She would spend hours gazing at the butterflies that fluttered around the spring blossoms and would create colourful wind chimes out of her broken glass bangles.

Little did she know that broken bangles would soon dictate the rest of her life, owing to the untimely demise of her beloved husband. She was extremely cross at grandpa for abandoning her, but more so for snatching away the colours from her existence. A widow’s attire of a plain white sari and a lifestyle devoid of frolic and freedom made her resent each moment. However, the seasoned hands of time eventually moulded her and she slowly succumbed to her dreadful destiny. But today was the festival of Holi, the only day when dilemmas and doubts would befuddle her. Was it a sin to hug her little ones covered in Gulal or to ignore the sobbing of her great grandchild who wanted to throw a water balloon at her?

A painful scream disrupted her train of thoughts and brought her back to the present. As she rushed downstairs to investigate, the tiny bucket, carefully balanced on the door, tipped over and soaked her in a vibrant hue of vermillion. The innocent prank released her from the constraints of a widow’s garb and revived the ebullient girl who was unaware of limitations. For the first time in decades, Amma enjoyed this joyous occasion and embraced her precious colours again. Such is the power of white, it is blank and boring but ever willing to move with the times and absorb the splashes of paint that Change throws in its direction.

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Thorny Nettles: An Unfortunate Love Story

Thorny Nettles: An Unfortunate Love Story

The yearning for solitude led them into the haunted woods. They were forewarned by well-wishers about the cursed willows, but there was no other refuge in the vicinity that could shelter sprouting love from the perils of practicality. Misty eyes firmly set on each other, they bid adieu to concerned friends and entered the realm of relentless romance. They were pleasantly surprised to be greeted by sunlit trails and chirping birds. The melodious music of nature muffled the troubled whispers of lost souls who had traversed this path before.

Seven days flew by, joyous hours doused with the sweet nectar of love, untarnished by the worries of the material world. The seventh night was a moonless one but hunger forced them to venture into the shadows in the search of food. This was their first encounter with reality since they had pledged their lives to each other. The woods seemed claustrophobic in the darkness. Shrieking bats flew over their heads, their sharp claws brushed her hair. Dead branches scraped his legs, making red rivulets flow down his skin. Shiny eyes, green and yellow, appeared in the thorny bushes. The cloudless sky began to shed tears; the grey pellets were nothing like the hailstones they had seen before.

Overcome with fear and fatigue, she wanted to return to their den but his resolve was undeterred. He left her in a cave lit up by a swarm of fireflies and continued to wade through the murky water that had engulfed the daisies. He squeezed through a dense bamboo forest to reach a path that was miraculously dry. The intertwining branches of ancient trees had created a tunnel that appeared to stretch for miles. The sound of a gushing waterfall enticed him towards the other end. He had reached mid-way when the first rays of sunshine pierced through the canopy of leaves and magically transported him back to the spot where he had left her.

The itch of defeat disturbed him all day and the moment the sun drowned in the invisible sea, he rushed back to the tunnel. Unfortunately, he was unsuccessful yet again and found himself beside her as soon as dawn broke. This continued for several weeks, the rainbows, butterflies and silver clouds were not sufficient to heal the wounds of failure. Even the sight of her face, deep in a satisfied slumber, became a constant reminder of his shortcomings. He was irked because she couldn’t associate with the undying urge to win this curious game.

Each night he tried a new tactic until he was left with just one. The final strategy worked marvellously well and he plunged ecstatically into the pristine waters that sparkled in his victorious glow. Knowing that she was dead broke all restraints of inhibition and helped him run faster than he ever could.

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The Mother Of The Moon

The Mother Of The Moon

The last black strand of her mane turned grey the day Asha lost her youngest child to the cruel clutches of tuberculosis. For the first time in fifty years, the lamp in the village temple was not lit as soon as the sun hit the horizon. The sunlight left the sky and the sanity her mind. Muttering angrily to herself, Asha ran barefoot towards the river where they had strewn the ashes of her beloved son.

She stood knee-deep in the icy water for several hours, pulling out weeds in an attempt to catch one more glimpse of her baby’s face.  She was finally broken out of her trance by the realization that there was a shimmering glow a few feet away. There he was with his innocent visage, cherubic smile, and half closed eyes. The reflection of the moon in the inky water provided her assurance that she still had a purpose, she was still a mother.

From that day, Asha became a nocturnal wanderer, who carried her son around in a bowl of water from the holy river. She sobbed uncontrollably when stormy clouds engulfed his cheeks or when he abandoned her for his monthly excursions. When the villagers brought over some food, she would drop it in the vessel. When the wind blew fiercely, she would cover him with her Sari. When thirsty birds attacked him, she would injure them with pebbles.

Many years passed, the memories of the clever village priestess slowly faded and the locals got accustomed to the feverish ramblings of a senile widow. Tales of the Mother of the Moon spread beyond the precincts of the village. Claims were made that she possessed mystical powers. A place previously unheard of became a popular tourist halt, where the moon shone with an unparalleled vibrancy. However, as with everything that garners public attention, the enigmatic woman soon became the subject of a national debate.

Various organizations battled for the custody of the poor victim of misfortune. A women’s welfare trust emerged victorious and immediately transported a reluctant Asha to their nearest shelter. The treatment and care restored her reasoning abilities and she led a healthy life until she was reunited with her real son at the ripe age of 90. The moon, on the other hand, still lives on as an insignificant orb, whose former glory was stifled by the dust of reality and despair.