A Walk Into The Void

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?’

 

The Introspection

Hey buddy,

It’s been long since I’ve seen you. I’m sorry, but the last month had been very busy. I had delved deep into the history to bring out my former self—the always cheerful bud who would just laugh out at anything; the bringer of smile and an optimistic mortal who was fooled into believing that it’s the manner in which you respond to a particular situation that makes all the difference, the approach that could even turn a calamity into a blessing. Thanks much, Robin! But I couldn’t handle the positive overdose.

Some 250 kms away from the noise and pollution and the fast moving metro life, Maverick was sitting on a concrete bench gazing at the hills to his left. He was so lost in the lush green environment of Sattal that he forgot to sip coffee from the stainless steel mug he was holding between his fingers; and when the only vapour he could see were the ones coming out from his mouth, Maverick gently placed the mug by his side and went on to appreciate the beauty that had enthralled his senses.

There was something strange about the place, something familiar that reminded him of his home where even now, the rose bushes stood in front of his welcoming gate, whilst the violet vegetable grew beside the water tap. His grandfather still stares out from the window, waiting anxiously to hear the sound of his younger son calling out to him, which sadly, never came in the last ten years. He would attentively read the mythological tales in the afternoon, but with the faintest sound outside, his hopeful heart would force his gaze, but all they see are the desolated path of mud and bricks.

His mother, on the other hand, would often wake up with a smile on her face. She would tell Maverick stories of how a guardian angel was watching over them. But now, the boy has grown up and gone to a distant land. There is a few exchange of emotions, but in their heart, both acknowledge his presence and many a time, pay that anonymous divine soul a visit in their dreams.

Meanwhile, at the altitude of 1,370 m, a westerly wind gently caressed Maverick’s face. Though he had never set foot in the mountains, the air seemed to be calling out his name, carrying a scent that he had known for long. Out of curiosity, he looked into that direction and through the twigs and the leaves—colored in shades of yellow and green—he saw a tree unlike any other on the hills. While the rest were slanted perpendicular to the gradient, this one never yielded; it stood magnificently straight in all weathers. The rays of the sun danced merrily upon its branches and through the leaves, the bright orange and yellow filtered out into a thousand fragments.

It was only when the magical rays fell upon his face that he realised that he had been looking at his life all wrong. Ever since he took his first step, he was talked into being happy, oh! they even named him so that he wouldn’t forget.

If you think only happiness is euphoric, think again! Ask a man who had his first heartbreak. Ask him about the empty walks he takes after midnight; ask those warm tears running down his face; ask those sudden shrieks, the crazy dance under the shower; ask his silence, his sudden lack of company; ask why he vows never to fall in love again; or, in some case, to fall and get hurt again. Ain’t these blissful?

Talking about experience, playing a casanova was a better deal than falling in love. With each new face came the same story; new indulgences, same consequences. Lost and tired, Maverick finally called a truce with destiny.