Under the luminescence of the munificent moon, I was walking in a daze on my way back home. A drop of rain fell on my forehead and trickled down to the corner of my lips, but not before soothing the eyes that seemed weary of gazing out far into the darkness. Usually, music would be my faithful companion on these solitary strides, often instigating me upon losing to its mood. Today, on the contrary, I was lost into a void, and that too without anyone’s assistance.
I wasn’t thinking about anything—not the Kashmir unrest that I was worried an hour ago, neither the overhyped atrocities inflicted on Dalits nor the alleged political vendetta Narendra Modi-led NDA government was holding against Kejriwal & party. It was as if my soul had transported into some other dimension only to be rescued by that very cold sensation which—prepended with the slithering of droplet—stirred me up from the trance.
I could see the lush green reeds, fresh from the recent downpour, swaying by my side and shining brightly under the headlight of the passing vehicle. The fragrance of sweet mud filled my nostrils. I couldn’t help but breathe a sense of tranquility enveloped my body. A couple of seconds later, another drop followed the trail; this time, it caught hold off my right cheek only to behold an overwhelming coincidence that the tears-from-heaven rested perfectly aligned in a straight line—which was only possible if I had my mouth closed and stretched. Oh boy, was I smiling; or, was it merely an expression that I wore a veil on most occasions? Relaxing my facial muscles, I wiped those pearls off my face… they were sour.
Ever since childhood, I was attracted towards agony. In the novels that I chose to read, I flipped through pages looking for heartbreaks, melancholy, dreams and passion far beyond imagination. “I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons”: this was the golden excerpt that I stripped out from Eric Segal’s ‘Love Story’. But it was Jacques, a character born out of Shakespeare’s ‘As You Like It’, that I found quite profounding: I envied his ability to seek out depressing experiences and admired him, for even I, at times, want to enjoy being sad and mopey.
Has it ever crossed your mind that the people you see every day are just not right—that they are some sort of alien creatures who possess the same nose and nails and eyes and ears like you but are so different—or maybe because you don’t belong here… or anywhere in this world. You’re trapped in a purgatory of the urban and rural divide, of time and generation gap that is soaring it’s depression with every passing second.
Happy cultural failure. Happy emotional failure.
Upon reaching the Noida 16 metro station, I stole a glance at my watch. It was 13 minutes past 10. I waved my hand to an e-rickshaw and enquired: ‘Bhaiya, Hanuman Mandir chaloge?’
In That Loop 