of one and many...

It was a Wednesday morning. Sitting in an autorickshaw, waiting at the traffic lights, I was late for office. Constant glances at my watch didn't help abate the tension either. Frustrated, I looked out into the street. There, on the pavement, lay scattered some pieces of glass. Probably shattered from the window of some car, I thought. The rickshaw inched forward, a little, and the glass caught the sun. A flash of light. It was as if the glass had imprisoned the sun's brilliance, and trapped it into a smooth, luminous reflection. The immense light burst forth, enveloping the cruel, jagged edges of the glass in a softness endowed by illuminance. The rickshaw moved another inch. The vision shifted. A rainbow of colours now greeted every eye, but there were none to attend. Drops of colour were held still in an embrace of time, unknown, bizarre colours, one blending into another, so fast they were nothing more than a blur. The cosmos shifted by in that one frozen shaft of time. The...

He sees the hundreds of eyes, Watching him like a hawk, As if he is nothing but a prize, To soothe the hunger of the flock. He knows they will judge him, Flay him for any mistake, For he is at the mercy of their whim, and their juvenile justice. He takes a deep breath and steadies the mike, preparing for an onslaught of attention; he refuses to give in to fright, And the possibility of rejection. A half hour later, he stops, the lecture finished, the lesson done, Now he awaits the verdict, and drops his guard, vulnerable, nowhere to run. His fate is in their hands, As on his future they sit and decide, Will he in their respect stand, Or, in indifferent disdain, be cast aside?

The darkness isn’t complete, it is hazy. Outside, you know it is night, but in here, you can’t tell. It’s been hours and hours, but Einstein’s time is cruel, and it has been eternity. You are alone in here, your phone doesn’t work, your voice isn’t your own, hoarse from shouting, hollow, your fingers are deadened with spent effort, your legs gave way long ago. The air is stale with a million breaths, The mind is numb, thought turned sluggish by panic. The morning bathes the building with light, But the lift still stands in darkness, dead.

It is late night as I return. The darkness is complete, having taken over the reins from half-hearted twilight. Time has never been a friend; I close the door on a day never to come again. The night begs me to submit —— The empty house, with the stale odour of a dead day leaves no room for choice. I stand on the threshold —— A blank epitaph to an absent presence. I have left time outside the door, and there is nought to do but await the next moment.

The glass door slides shut. Behind it lies a wholesome, throbbing vitality. A roomful of pleasant exchanges, polite noddings and gracious handshakes, drinks in hand, anecdotes on the lips. Out here, a mere glass door away, lies a different world, where the background tattle of etiquette and an almost familiar music, is all but mute. Out here lies a world of unruffled peace, where moonlight plays against moonshadow, unbroken, for once, by the unsubtle harsh glare of a yellow streetlight, a world of serenity and quiet solitude, introspecting upon itself. I stand in silent, enchanted contemplation, forgotten drink in hand, as the moments are stitched together on the greyed fabric of the night, and i am a mute part of the weave. The glass door slides shut. Soft footsteps approach me, carrying the faintest whiff of the discarded room with its smoke and drink and honed conversations. The night swallows it all, as you put your arm in mine, and say, "I missed you..."

If, in the heat of the day, you come to me, I will say no. If, on a night such as this, which has no meaning, yet must go on, you come to me, I will say no. If, in a moment of hesitation, the truth is bared, and unbeknownst to you, you come in a shroud of lies, I will say no. If, in a gentle embrace, sweet words dripping from your hardened lips, where sits wisdom borne of a practical existence, you come to me, I will say no. I have given much. Love needs to be loved too. I must say no.

In clothes that were rich once, Now reeking of the street, The child walks barefoot, With a swaying balance. Meeting every tired, indifferent eye, Hoping to sell his wares –– A score of heavy colouring books. The boy stood in his man’s garb Of pain and reality, Not pleading, not begging, Harsh childhood-less voice churning out words, Meaningless, worn with use. All he elicits, are shakes of heads, And sometimes, a feigned, determined ignorance. As he waits to alight, Hands still a score full, Does he debate – will he beg? No, he doesn’t. The train stops, the child grunts off, Leaving only a Cheshire look –– No reproach, just emptiness. And in the train is left only A shifty-eyed awareness, and denial.

Daydreamer, Daydreamer, Don't make me your slave. Don't take my day from me. It belongs to me, my right. Life has its receipt --- We pay for every day squandered. Time has its count --- Of myriad seconds orphaned in the mind. Amidst this reckoning, Dream beckons, sly and fulfilling; Dream answers to none. Of our uncountable, unnameable masters --- the Dream is one. Yet it belongs to the night, It is the Brethren of Sleep. It fits not in the cosmos of Day, Yet, like the air in water, Dream lies hidden, in the shadows of Day. And Daydreamer wields his weapon. But make me not your slave, Daydreamer, I want my Day, to me.

I was widely read once. People read what I wrote, They fought over the senses my words evoked, And how best to explain them. Be it at a Saturday evening dinner, over wine and cigars, with blushing ladies and emboldened men, or at the weekly theatre, where everything must mean more than what they do --- I was widely read once. Then, time conquered, and life contracted. The novel is now read in commute, on train or bus, or at night, to lull oneself to sleep. The written word now conforms, to a multitude of norms --- and fights for its voice, weakened in the everyday clamour of impromptu authors and hurried nonchalance. Alas, I was widely read, once.

According to a number of people I know, bloggers and non-bloggers, the best way to get your voice heard above the multitude of identical others jostling around in BlogSpace, is to write a blog. I am still part of the uninitiated, with only a vague notion of what blogging is, and a firm one that my voice isn't exactly what BlogSpace ordered, or what others would find a fascinating read... Still, for what it's worth, this will be my occasional holler to the world at large. Hulloa, everyone! I have a question, though, for anyone who cares to listen, let alone lift weary fingers onto overused keyboards worn with the blogger's alleged instinct of penning (typing...?) the most insignificant of thoughts. And this is a question for anyone who, for whatever reason, has left his/her own hometown, either of their own volition or at the insistence of the over-eager, under-protective, ultra-modern Indian parent. If you shift base to a different city, do you become a Roman, being one amo...