Ah! Those lines permanently sit on my mind’s floor, rigid; no amount of cleansing would do any good.
The stench here is crawling up to me, following me. My shadow is no longer there; perhaps the rusted metallic roof has eaten it up. It is hot and suffocating, air is corrosive and the platform sordid. It is unusually calm here; my compulsive character dragged me here three hours in advance. The train is all washed up and the doors locked. The black painted rectangular blocks beside all the doors are empty (the man in white uniform would stick up long papers printed out of dot matrix printers with names of passengers on them). It is lonely; I have never felt so lonely in a railway station (the epicentres of chaos in India). It is 3 PM in the afternoon, and my train is at 6:10 PM in the evening.
Now, in the comfort of my own self, I can see the world the way I have never seen before. I had a heavy lunch before getting on to the intercity bus, and I slept in the bus on the way to the railway station. So, I feel calm inside, nothing is bothering me at this moment, something very profound seems to have happened to me. All the thoughts are shying to show themselves, for I am in a drowsy state now. The best of my writings have all come in the most torturous and epidemic times of my life. It was my revulsion to the systematic and procedural shaping up of thoughts (generally referred to as schooling) that impelled me to write. The compunction of having lost twenty years of my life to the system was unbearable; I felt a piercing need to pull my feet out of the muddy floors of the system.
Ah! What was I writing there? Anyways, the loud speaker screeched and billowed with a suddenness that I was not alien to. Amartya sen opens up his book ‘the argumentative indian’ with these words-‘prolixity is not alien to us’. And, I am reminded of those words now, for the man sitting beside me is barely talking. As if submitted to the boredom of life at a precocious age, he is staring at the compartment with open doors before him. a coolie unloaded the weight on his head (it was a trunk), and stepped on to the track to cross over and lodge the weight in the open door. Here, the sweeper woman comes ‘please lift your legs sir’, yes of course, I must apologise; above all one must apologise. But words never left my mouth and the woman swept the floor beneath my feet as I sat on the blue painted wooden chair on the railway platform.
Then a beggar wheeling the cart he was seated on with one hand held up the other hand, but I was frigid. I have always been this way. Something very dramatic must have happened in my childhood, I no longer recollect what it was, but something happened, for I was not like this. I was kind and warm hearted (as the expression goes). But now I am anything but kind (and I convince myself that kindness is subjective, the moral stand points are slippery, one must not acquiesce to the societal definitions). And, I have come to acknowledge the value of life, so much so that every second of my life (I plan). I plan so much, and all of it is in my head. I am like the ocean of shallow waters with coral reefs all over my mind’s floor. Most of them are otherwise (at least, that is what I think they are), they are deep waters with no coral reefs, but are home to rich aquatic life on the bed of ocean (their mind’s floor).
The expression is suitable, but I cannot run my writing around that thread in particular, it is fragile. Because, how can I explain my thoughts (although plenty in number, they are sometimes very rich and sublime). Of a superior quality, I must say. It has been half an hour since I got here, I am thirsty now, and would love to get some water, but one must not leave the writings half way through. T. S. Eliot would not have done that, James Joyce would certainly reprimand such a loathsome urgency to drink water (oh! What a book Ulysses has been). I loved the book the second time I read it. I am convinced that I am more matured and more old than I was say, five years prior to now. But, they say knowledge and maturity in thought eats up one’s life, peels the skin of the body of life and leaves the wounds open. I have felt that way before. It is not easy to gain comfort again, after such an indispensable depth in thought. A coolie just dropped his luggage before me, and is presently staring at my laptop’s monitor.
It is not easy, what would all the philosophers have done, all the artists and poets have felt, what would George Eliot have done; how did Bertrand Russell cope with the intensity of life. How do all these people live by, as if nothing ever happened to them? Or did they?
The day I began loving solitude, I thought I could never again be the normal self. It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to define my stand. Where do I stand on this? What do I do about that? My expression of life is not clear by itself, it oscillates between the entropy of science and flowering beauty of verse. Nothing, no longer is clear to me. I should perhaps descend into the reigns and grips of solitude again. But I am perceived as something very delightful to be around; my friends like to be with me, I am a very agreeable person. Would it be right, would it be wrong? I have discussed several times, my rants on the degraded curiosity of men around me, the tirades I have delivered (sometimes under the influence of alcohol) upon the tragedies of our civilisation. ‘There is nothing whatever the matter with me’ Virginia woolf would have chided, really, but has she done. She has written the most parts of life that were ever lived before or after her, such a celebration of life is impossible to ignore. I would have to make a picture of hers and stick it up the walls of my huge hall, I should, but I must buy a house for that.
Now the dog is sneezing, oh the stench, suffocating stench of urine! They are washing and scrubbing the toilets in the train before me. And a rat enquiringly stepped out of his abode and eyed us, here the man stoops low to put the overhanging (from his shoulders) bags onto the floor that is uncouth and squalid. And the train is moving now, the driver must have stepped on the throttle somewhere half a kilometre away from here and the waves of disturbance travelled unabashedly to the rear. And my spine, it hurts, sometimes it does.
I no longer chew food with my right jaw; I don’t talk on phone with the receiver on my right ear; I have never peered through the peephole on my door with my right eye; my right hand, I cannot sleep with my head rested on it, it hurts. So there is no explanation to this, I wish I remain poor as I am now, I don’t want to become rich and lose this all. This is all I evr wanted, and I have it all now. Perhaps, I would visit Germany and France, I would visit Sigmund Freud’s museum in Austria (I cannot recall if it is in Austria or not, nevertheless, I will find out when it is time to visit), I would visit Hitler’s museum in Germany. And, I would visit James Joyce statues on the roads of Berlin. I would listen to sermons, poets, philosophers and writers. Above all I would never cease to explore (as T.S. Eliot puts it eloquently, that we never cease to explore, and in the end of it all, we reach from where we began and see the place for the first time…..i have seen the back of my head). Ah! Those lines permanently sit on my mind’s floor, rigid; no amount of cleansing would do any good.
And. It is 4:00 PM now, today has been a very special day for me. Writing is not something that I usually do, but I am consumed with the guilt that I don’t write as much as I wish I would. So, it is in these times (of fruition) that I am at terms with myself. My spine did not hurt so much a while ago, it is now, for the heavy stomach with its drowsy fangs is retreating, slowly the effect is dying off. And, I will become restless again, what is this?. The constant agitation of life, can I escape all this and for a moment forget that I am responsible for my presence here and now. That I am inclusive of this climactic dialogue (the perpetual dialogue that entices you and grips you, Ah! But cunning as it is, never ceases). And there is another train now. It is right before me. Some telugu speaking fellows, feels good, to listen to them. After such a long time (not so long actually, and it all feels so good. I check and recheck the zips on my bags, I check and recheck the zipper on my jeans; and I recheck if I have locked my door; I recheck if my windows are fully closed. I wake up in the middle of the night to check up on my door’s lock, and I think I have a bit of this reasonably appropriate/inappropriate (which one is it? I cannot tell really) behaviour. And the spellings are good now, behaviour has ‘iour’ in it. The American English on my ‘ms word’ crawls underneath many a words and annoys me very often. So, I tit was time I check what can be done. So I checked, and I changed the default language to UK English. And the passengers are getting onto the train, one by one, urgently, some have luggage on their tail, some have kids and others spouses.
Will I ever get over this compunction, is it solitude that I prefer, is it the company of my friends that I prefer. Do I reveal myself so often that I have nothing left in me to fill with, but emptiness. Why should I be bothered with these moments, why can I not ignore these moments? There! I think I have an answer to that one. I cannot leave all of this and embrace solitude, for solitude is so appealing to me, perhaps because it is novel. But once the pain of achievement subsides, I will have only me and nothing to observe but myself. Yes, I have observed myself for a long time now, I have found out some crucial enigmatic patterns and nurtured ambitious figments of my life through out the intolerable time that I have been alive. Ah! the smell of urine again.
Such is the state of abominable lifelessness that I see around me that I can no longer be quiet. What do I do? I can write, so I am, and the paper burns with the fire that swells through my ears. Ah! But why did I relinquish the golden opportunity of shelling out a coin or two to that blind beggar with her hands held imploringly towards me. Why is it that I firmly renounce and denounce, I no not!
I have never been able to find an explanation, something or sometime has had an impact on me (in my childhood). But what was it, I am no longer able to recall any of that. A nagging curiosity leads me to consider for a moment that perhaps it had something to do with my cynical attitude, well I am certainly not an absolute misanthropist. Or am I ?
I have checked the batteries of my laptop-1 more hour to go. Time is 4:23 PM now, by the time my laptop runs out of batteries, I would have only thirst more minutes left for the train. It has been so swell. I love this moment. I always wanted to write, I am always guilt of not writing, I wish I could write almost incessantly and perpetually with no remorse. So, here I am, when I came to the station initially, it was around 3 PM and the train was at 6 PM. I would not know what any other person would have done. I cannot comprehend the enormity of wastefulness that life has saturated over years. People wile way as if they have an unlimited supply of it. It is increasingly clear to me (with every passing minute) that on the contrary, life is finite. So finite that that the thought of finiteness is unnerving; at times frightfully clear. So much for a life of this kind. I have had it all (or I think I have). I don’t know what I mean by that. How does it all end? How did it all began? What is all this?
Some of these questions, I have grappled with, from time to time. Every single time, I bethink myself; every newer thing I find out, I have come to feel that I have known it all before. Some I have not, but most of them. Few things surprised me before, but now everything (every single thing) surprises me. I observe myself so deeply that not even my mother would know so much about me. I am always watching myself, I am thinking about myself as if I am in deep love with this object (that is I) and I honour the expressions that this object/creature (for now I have confounded life on this object). And I lost the train of thought, here I found it again. Let me persevere. Let me explore. Let me read my thoughts. Let me learn my self, for the first time. I have never known myself. What should I title this piece. Every single phrase is enticing. I should perhaps get on tto that train now. Let me take a quick break now.
And, here I am. Charged my laptop batteries for a while; but, I just could not stand there. Not that the sockets that are available (two in number per compartment) are right next to the toilets. It is really the girl that was annoying. Her demeanour that of farce, her countenance that of egoistic, a peripheral aura of simplistic tone hiding underneath it something wasteful, totally ubiquitous wastefulness!
What is it? What was it with her? She was not alive. She was merely a caricature (finely tuned to perfection) by the cultural idiocies of our time. How can someone become so completely wasteful. Oh! I do not know of any forgiveness to that creature- one that has forgotten oneself, and is merely available as a mouthpiece of a cultural edifice somewhere, or perhaps an organ of the giant monstrous cultural tendril with its head so high that the fingernails can never even in their dreams contemplate the desire to comprehend. This is the fate of our civilisation.
“this is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang but a whimper”
Those words from T.S.Eliot ringing in my head, a bell on the tomb of my mind’s eye; and shining on a corner there and through a crack here, upon my body with his ragged claws he exists. With their claws, all the philosophers, poets, writers and thinkers of the past are paring at me. And, I have withstood all of this. I knew this was going to happen, I was prepared. I am prepared. So, what happens to all those primadonnas? Ones that have never intended to check the claws, ones that are barely living-stolid and pallid. And, so it all goes on. I wonder for how long? What happens when they discover that the claws are there, and would inch closer and closer towards you, that to feed claws is a different thing, leading towards the picaresque ending? For it is human tendency, to never notice. But I am pleased with my senses so far. I have not failed myself. I have not failed life. I am alive more than ever, I have found the reason to live. Which is to pair the claws up myself, wear them up and join those hands that are there, and see the frigid world from their enormous eyes; to perceive it all from their perspective; to live life like them.
But, in the end, it all ends. And, now I gather the courage to look at the lady’s face. She gently tapped on my shoulder with her steel tip pen, and a paper with green printed letter on it. I dismissed her (at least attempted to dismiss her). But, she would not go, she persisted. I tried once again, she won’t leave. So, I (with my breath in my pocket) reach out for the piece of paper in her hands, and one, two words…..i give it back to her. She won’t take. So I read it all this time, the whole of it. And now I look at her again, this time she enquiringly (or perhaps with a little hope mixed with consternation at my state of being, and a little firmness) pointed towards the paper with her pen. I skim through the paper and it is a govt. of India letterhead. It said that the lady was deaf and is need of help. I rejected. I almost paid, but I rejected. I cannot explain my behaviour. A person is not what he assumes the face of, he is more than that. In fact, he is more than anything that the face appears to be.
“and time to prepare a face,
To meet the faces you would like to meet”
T.S. Eliot professed that one. Virginia Woolf in her own ‘stream of consciousness’ mode explains
“one cannot sum up a person……every person is like a book and he knows all the pages by heart, while his friends can only see the cover”
Slightly paraphrased perhaps, but I have endeavoured to protect the integrity of the quote.
It is 6:07 PM now, 1 Hr life left in my battery. In case I don’t get a chance to say goodbye, consider this. Today has been a very fruitful day for me. Quietly I sat alone with no distractions coming my way (some distractions were there, but they were more of moments that added up to my train of thought than bringing to a standstill). I have reduced the brightness of my laptop’s monitor, it should save some battery. I should go charge this thing up, I wish to watch a movie now. I can easily watch a movie, with the ear plugs on and lappy on my lap. But, I have to stand there near the toilets and the stench us overbearing. That is still alright, but to stand there while all the people in the carriage walking apst me, running into me, bumping into my lappy while I hold it in my hands delicately (along with the charger); now that is not so easy.
Now I pushed the ‘enter’ button; I wish to proceed in a new paragraph, for the train has took to move. And the military procession the train hides in it obediently sounds clink clank. Now some air. Ah! This is fabulous. Finally the train is on the move, and air is gently caressing me. I like the window seat. From here I can watch the world as it goes past me. I, I am the inventor of this world, this world that belongs to me. It switches gears and alters speeds, it passes by and I watch in silence. Ah! Lines, words, phrases, sentences! I could just sit here and write to eternity (or can I?)
Writing is more engaging than listening to music on my ipod. It is so engaging that time passes me by and I barely notice. Time simply loses its shine while I write, Ah! I wish I could do it more often. Today ahs certainly been the most momentous day for me. For, I have found out the way (a second time) to channel out my burdens. This is the only way that exists, I shudder to think of what would happen to all those generations of people that would live after us in total uniformity.
Uniformity would kill the civilization, needless to say of course. But that, my friend is all I can see from here. I think I should leave now. Should go charge this up
Few more lines before I end. I am loving this. Every one else in the carriage are staring either through the window or at the people before them, or at someone else’s feet, or at a bag there or the fan suspended from the roof. I, on the other hand , I am writing. Where all these people have lost, I have found. I have found ways to live. And, I must live, for if I don’t, what will all these empty glances’ people do. Wouldn’t the civilisation collapse, for they can offer only uniformity, for they can only eavesdrop, for they can only stand to attention to fall preys to the cultural indecency. And I must live. Oh! I must charge my lappy now. Now…
Now, in the comfort of my own self, I can see the world the way I have never seen before. I had a heavy lunch before getting on to the intercity bus, and I slept in the bus on the way to the railway station. So, I feel calm inside, nothing is bothering me at this moment, something very profound seems to have happened to me. All the thoughts are shying to show themselves, for I am in a drowsy state now. The best of my writings have all come in the most torturous and epidemic times of my life. It was my revulsion to the systematic and procedural shaping up of thoughts (generally referred to as schooling) that impelled me to write. The compunction of having lost twenty years of my life to the system was unbearable; I felt a piercing need to pull my feet out of the muddy floors of the system.
Ah! What was I writing there? Anyways, the loud speaker screeched and billowed with a suddenness that I was not alien to. Amartya sen opens up his book ‘the argumentative indian’ with these words-‘prolixity is not alien to us’. And, I am reminded of those words now, for the man sitting beside me is barely talking. As if submitted to the boredom of life at a precocious age, he is staring at the compartment with open doors before him. a coolie unloaded the weight on his head (it was a trunk), and stepped on to the track to cross over and lodge the weight in the open door. Here, the sweeper woman comes ‘please lift your legs sir’, yes of course, I must apologise; above all one must apologise. But words never left my mouth and the woman swept the floor beneath my feet as I sat on the blue painted wooden chair on the railway platform.
Then a beggar wheeling the cart he was seated on with one hand held up the other hand, but I was frigid. I have always been this way. Something very dramatic must have happened in my childhood, I no longer recollect what it was, but something happened, for I was not like this. I was kind and warm hearted (as the expression goes). But now I am anything but kind (and I convince myself that kindness is subjective, the moral stand points are slippery, one must not acquiesce to the societal definitions). And, I have come to acknowledge the value of life, so much so that every second of my life (I plan). I plan so much, and all of it is in my head. I am like the ocean of shallow waters with coral reefs all over my mind’s floor. Most of them are otherwise (at least, that is what I think they are), they are deep waters with no coral reefs, but are home to rich aquatic life on the bed of ocean (their mind’s floor).
The expression is suitable, but I cannot run my writing around that thread in particular, it is fragile. Because, how can I explain my thoughts (although plenty in number, they are sometimes very rich and sublime). Of a superior quality, I must say. It has been half an hour since I got here, I am thirsty now, and would love to get some water, but one must not leave the writings half way through. T. S. Eliot would not have done that, James Joyce would certainly reprimand such a loathsome urgency to drink water (oh! What a book Ulysses has been). I loved the book the second time I read it. I am convinced that I am more matured and more old than I was say, five years prior to now. But, they say knowledge and maturity in thought eats up one’s life, peels the skin of the body of life and leaves the wounds open. I have felt that way before. It is not easy to gain comfort again, after such an indispensable depth in thought. A coolie just dropped his luggage before me, and is presently staring at my laptop’s monitor.
It is not easy, what would all the philosophers have done, all the artists and poets have felt, what would George Eliot have done; how did Bertrand Russell cope with the intensity of life. How do all these people live by, as if nothing ever happened to them? Or did they?
The day I began loving solitude, I thought I could never again be the normal self. It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to define my stand. Where do I stand on this? What do I do about that? My expression of life is not clear by itself, it oscillates between the entropy of science and flowering beauty of verse. Nothing, no longer is clear to me. I should perhaps descend into the reigns and grips of solitude again. But I am perceived as something very delightful to be around; my friends like to be with me, I am a very agreeable person. Would it be right, would it be wrong? I have discussed several times, my rants on the degraded curiosity of men around me, the tirades I have delivered (sometimes under the influence of alcohol) upon the tragedies of our civilisation. ‘There is nothing whatever the matter with me’ Virginia woolf would have chided, really, but has she done. She has written the most parts of life that were ever lived before or after her, such a celebration of life is impossible to ignore. I would have to make a picture of hers and stick it up the walls of my huge hall, I should, but I must buy a house for that.
Now the dog is sneezing, oh the stench, suffocating stench of urine! They are washing and scrubbing the toilets in the train before me. And a rat enquiringly stepped out of his abode and eyed us, here the man stoops low to put the overhanging (from his shoulders) bags onto the floor that is uncouth and squalid. And the train is moving now, the driver must have stepped on the throttle somewhere half a kilometre away from here and the waves of disturbance travelled unabashedly to the rear. And my spine, it hurts, sometimes it does.
I no longer chew food with my right jaw; I don’t talk on phone with the receiver on my right ear; I have never peered through the peephole on my door with my right eye; my right hand, I cannot sleep with my head rested on it, it hurts. So there is no explanation to this, I wish I remain poor as I am now, I don’t want to become rich and lose this all. This is all I evr wanted, and I have it all now. Perhaps, I would visit Germany and France, I would visit Sigmund Freud’s museum in Austria (I cannot recall if it is in Austria or not, nevertheless, I will find out when it is time to visit), I would visit Hitler’s museum in Germany. And, I would visit James Joyce statues on the roads of Berlin. I would listen to sermons, poets, philosophers and writers. Above all I would never cease to explore (as T.S. Eliot puts it eloquently, that we never cease to explore, and in the end of it all, we reach from where we began and see the place for the first time…..i have seen the back of my head). Ah! Those lines permanently sit on my mind’s floor, rigid; no amount of cleansing would do any good.
And. It is 4:00 PM now, today has been a very special day for me. Writing is not something that I usually do, but I am consumed with the guilt that I don’t write as much as I wish I would. So, it is in these times (of fruition) that I am at terms with myself. My spine did not hurt so much a while ago, it is now, for the heavy stomach with its drowsy fangs is retreating, slowly the effect is dying off. And, I will become restless again, what is this?. The constant agitation of life, can I escape all this and for a moment forget that I am responsible for my presence here and now. That I am inclusive of this climactic dialogue (the perpetual dialogue that entices you and grips you, Ah! But cunning as it is, never ceases). And there is another train now. It is right before me. Some telugu speaking fellows, feels good, to listen to them. After such a long time (not so long actually, and it all feels so good. I check and recheck the zips on my bags, I check and recheck the zipper on my jeans; and I recheck if I have locked my door; I recheck if my windows are fully closed. I wake up in the middle of the night to check up on my door’s lock, and I think I have a bit of this reasonably appropriate/inappropriate (which one is it? I cannot tell really) behaviour. And the spellings are good now, behaviour has ‘iour’ in it. The American English on my ‘ms word’ crawls underneath many a words and annoys me very often. So, I tit was time I check what can be done. So I checked, and I changed the default language to UK English. And the passengers are getting onto the train, one by one, urgently, some have luggage on their tail, some have kids and others spouses.
Will I ever get over this compunction, is it solitude that I prefer, is it the company of my friends that I prefer. Do I reveal myself so often that I have nothing left in me to fill with, but emptiness. Why should I be bothered with these moments, why can I not ignore these moments? There! I think I have an answer to that one. I cannot leave all of this and embrace solitude, for solitude is so appealing to me, perhaps because it is novel. But once the pain of achievement subsides, I will have only me and nothing to observe but myself. Yes, I have observed myself for a long time now, I have found out some crucial enigmatic patterns and nurtured ambitious figments of my life through out the intolerable time that I have been alive. Ah! the smell of urine again.
Such is the state of abominable lifelessness that I see around me that I can no longer be quiet. What do I do? I can write, so I am, and the paper burns with the fire that swells through my ears. Ah! But why did I relinquish the golden opportunity of shelling out a coin or two to that blind beggar with her hands held imploringly towards me. Why is it that I firmly renounce and denounce, I no not!
I have never been able to find an explanation, something or sometime has had an impact on me (in my childhood). But what was it, I am no longer able to recall any of that. A nagging curiosity leads me to consider for a moment that perhaps it had something to do with my cynical attitude, well I am certainly not an absolute misanthropist. Or am I ?
I have checked the batteries of my laptop-1 more hour to go. Time is 4:23 PM now, by the time my laptop runs out of batteries, I would have only thirst more minutes left for the train. It has been so swell. I love this moment. I always wanted to write, I am always guilt of not writing, I wish I could write almost incessantly and perpetually with no remorse. So, here I am, when I came to the station initially, it was around 3 PM and the train was at 6 PM. I would not know what any other person would have done. I cannot comprehend the enormity of wastefulness that life has saturated over years. People wile way as if they have an unlimited supply of it. It is increasingly clear to me (with every passing minute) that on the contrary, life is finite. So finite that that the thought of finiteness is unnerving; at times frightfully clear. So much for a life of this kind. I have had it all (or I think I have). I don’t know what I mean by that. How does it all end? How did it all began? What is all this?
Some of these questions, I have grappled with, from time to time. Every single time, I bethink myself; every newer thing I find out, I have come to feel that I have known it all before. Some I have not, but most of them. Few things surprised me before, but now everything (every single thing) surprises me. I observe myself so deeply that not even my mother would know so much about me. I am always watching myself, I am thinking about myself as if I am in deep love with this object (that is I) and I honour the expressions that this object/creature (for now I have confounded life on this object). And I lost the train of thought, here I found it again. Let me persevere. Let me explore. Let me read my thoughts. Let me learn my self, for the first time. I have never known myself. What should I title this piece. Every single phrase is enticing. I should perhaps get on tto that train now. Let me take a quick break now.
And, here I am. Charged my laptop batteries for a while; but, I just could not stand there. Not that the sockets that are available (two in number per compartment) are right next to the toilets. It is really the girl that was annoying. Her demeanour that of farce, her countenance that of egoistic, a peripheral aura of simplistic tone hiding underneath it something wasteful, totally ubiquitous wastefulness!
What is it? What was it with her? She was not alive. She was merely a caricature (finely tuned to perfection) by the cultural idiocies of our time. How can someone become so completely wasteful. Oh! I do not know of any forgiveness to that creature- one that has forgotten oneself, and is merely available as a mouthpiece of a cultural edifice somewhere, or perhaps an organ of the giant monstrous cultural tendril with its head so high that the fingernails can never even in their dreams contemplate the desire to comprehend. This is the fate of our civilisation.
“this is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang but a whimper”
Those words from T.S.Eliot ringing in my head, a bell on the tomb of my mind’s eye; and shining on a corner there and through a crack here, upon my body with his ragged claws he exists. With their claws, all the philosophers, poets, writers and thinkers of the past are paring at me. And, I have withstood all of this. I knew this was going to happen, I was prepared. I am prepared. So, what happens to all those primadonnas? Ones that have never intended to check the claws, ones that are barely living-stolid and pallid. And, so it all goes on. I wonder for how long? What happens when they discover that the claws are there, and would inch closer and closer towards you, that to feed claws is a different thing, leading towards the picaresque ending? For it is human tendency, to never notice. But I am pleased with my senses so far. I have not failed myself. I have not failed life. I am alive more than ever, I have found the reason to live. Which is to pair the claws up myself, wear them up and join those hands that are there, and see the frigid world from their enormous eyes; to perceive it all from their perspective; to live life like them.
But, in the end, it all ends. And, now I gather the courage to look at the lady’s face. She gently tapped on my shoulder with her steel tip pen, and a paper with green printed letter on it. I dismissed her (at least attempted to dismiss her). But, she would not go, she persisted. I tried once again, she won’t leave. So, I (with my breath in my pocket) reach out for the piece of paper in her hands, and one, two words…..i give it back to her. She won’t take. So I read it all this time, the whole of it. And now I look at her again, this time she enquiringly (or perhaps with a little hope mixed with consternation at my state of being, and a little firmness) pointed towards the paper with her pen. I skim through the paper and it is a govt. of India letterhead. It said that the lady was deaf and is need of help. I rejected. I almost paid, but I rejected. I cannot explain my behaviour. A person is not what he assumes the face of, he is more than that. In fact, he is more than anything that the face appears to be.
“and time to prepare a face,
To meet the faces you would like to meet”
T.S. Eliot professed that one. Virginia Woolf in her own ‘stream of consciousness’ mode explains
“one cannot sum up a person……every person is like a book and he knows all the pages by heart, while his friends can only see the cover”
Slightly paraphrased perhaps, but I have endeavoured to protect the integrity of the quote.
It is 6:07 PM now, 1 Hr life left in my battery. In case I don’t get a chance to say goodbye, consider this. Today has been a very fruitful day for me. Quietly I sat alone with no distractions coming my way (some distractions were there, but they were more of moments that added up to my train of thought than bringing to a standstill). I have reduced the brightness of my laptop’s monitor, it should save some battery. I should go charge this thing up, I wish to watch a movie now. I can easily watch a movie, with the ear plugs on and lappy on my lap. But, I have to stand there near the toilets and the stench us overbearing. That is still alright, but to stand there while all the people in the carriage walking apst me, running into me, bumping into my lappy while I hold it in my hands delicately (along with the charger); now that is not so easy.
Now I pushed the ‘enter’ button; I wish to proceed in a new paragraph, for the train has took to move. And the military procession the train hides in it obediently sounds clink clank. Now some air. Ah! This is fabulous. Finally the train is on the move, and air is gently caressing me. I like the window seat. From here I can watch the world as it goes past me. I, I am the inventor of this world, this world that belongs to me. It switches gears and alters speeds, it passes by and I watch in silence. Ah! Lines, words, phrases, sentences! I could just sit here and write to eternity (or can I?)
Writing is more engaging than listening to music on my ipod. It is so engaging that time passes me by and I barely notice. Time simply loses its shine while I write, Ah! I wish I could do it more often. Today ahs certainly been the most momentous day for me. For, I have found out the way (a second time) to channel out my burdens. This is the only way that exists, I shudder to think of what would happen to all those generations of people that would live after us in total uniformity.
Uniformity would kill the civilization, needless to say of course. But that, my friend is all I can see from here. I think I should leave now. Should go charge this up
Few more lines before I end. I am loving this. Every one else in the carriage are staring either through the window or at the people before them, or at someone else’s feet, or at a bag there or the fan suspended from the roof. I, on the other hand , I am writing. Where all these people have lost, I have found. I have found ways to live. And, I must live, for if I don’t, what will all these empty glances’ people do. Wouldn’t the civilisation collapse, for they can offer only uniformity, for they can only eavesdrop, for they can only stand to attention to fall preys to the cultural indecency. And I must live. Oh! I must charge my lappy now. Now…
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