The Silent Echoes

As the eagerness of returning to a familiar location reached its brink, I stepped on what seemed to be the soil of a place long forgotten. In the humid air of a night in March, I carried my belongings and subconsciously walked to my depot of transportation.

But on arriving at this depot, there seemed to be a change in the chaos that would usually embrace me as I looked the other way with the slightest bit of snobiness. Not disturbed by this slight change in proceedings, which could probably be another step towards reating the ideal world, I grab my wheels and head home. As the shimmer of the street lights light up my vehicle as it arrives on the centrestage of madness and disorientation, the lull seems to continue. It was as if my hearing abilities seemed to have been enhanced or deteriorated. Everything looked the same,smelt the same but somehow the fragment of discontent and disturbance seemed to have vanished. I raised my ears to gather the blare of a horn or the rumble of an engine but of no avail. Maybe it was the wind that was different or the time of the night was too late. But it actually remained the same as it was before. Probably I had changed.

Proceeding on through the streets of the forgotten metropolis, I glanced at the walls and faces of the millions. In the glow of the street light, I seemed to have caught the face of a woman in her late 40s holding her child as her better half drove their scooter. Making use of my ability of deduction, I deduce the age of the scooter, the cause of its dents, the price of the driver's watch the nature of the barber who cuts his hair. But what I was really interested in was what I had seen first. Surrounded in the halo of the street light that decided our fates to cross paths, was her visage with the hair on her face a little more prominent than expected. Not the hair that sprouts from your head and is a nuisance to get rid of from unwanted places, I talk about the tiny ones that are millimetres in size and almost invisible.The ones that seems invisible but are felt at the back of our neck whenever we feel the chill run down our spine. They stood as one and chose to accept me as their admirer. As I smiled at them, they waved back at me.

As they illuminated her aura that was shadowed by the smoke in the air, it seemed to be a masterpiece of sorts that was yet to be signed.

And it was in the middle of my admiration for the picture I had just captured that the baby chose to intrude and cut the strings I was attached to. A wailing cry leapt up in the air and grabbed hold of the chaos ready to erupt. And it was then that I caught a hold of my own belongings and found myself back where I belonged, the epicentre of noise and cacophony.

It was good to be home

The Mean Mobs

I am a child of a sweet nature that was brought up in a society that wished for us to live and let live. Today I look at that society as an imaginary and utopian image of my screenshots of life. I look at the dogs who fight for their trritory, I look at countries that fight for their oil, I watch bureaucrats fight for their seats and then I watch my colleagues, turn into number-crunching maniacs of the 21st century. Where strengths and weaknesses are more important than Simon and Garfunkel. Pay Packages are more influential than Item Packages. The hopes of a parent hangs above like a pendulum of knives, where a simple internet connection tends to act as a portal of who is the president of what under whose reign in which country established in which century under what circumstances.

I look at my beligerent predecessors and tsk at their accomplishments for the youth that they lost in the colours of festivals are now strewn in the mud of today. Where black and white of the rain clouds are more prominent than the seven colours of the rainbow. Or are they the colours of the LGBT ? Who knows, they just might ask us in the interview.

It is the line of control that is crossed in my war with my own youth. Where innocence is lost and confidence is the unanimous winner. Who wondered about the bottles of beer as long as you know the amount of consumption that takes place in each city, based on how many can afford it, steal it, racket it, hoard it or even sell it at showrooms. Distribute, add, subtract, divide and then make the percentage of a fraction.

Will I be ever selling a washing machine wearing a tie who sails his words through the tunel of doubt and comes out on the other side with a fake smile but an incentive to the bonus ? Or will I revolt to the society and continue being the sloth of the middle class riding a scooty and chasing after electricity bills ?

I will never know, maybe Gurus can predict it for me, maybe they can even choose my wardrobe, maybe they can sow my careers and give me the blessings as i raise my family of 4. They will frown upon my divorce and grant me my first grandson... Or will the balloon just pop and I shall be back on my cradle, playing with my He-Man and living a life devoid of any sort of worry or disdain. Maybe I'll just close my eyes and head for a slumber in the blind light of my future and dream of a perfect world.

The importance of being alone

The sunlight seems dimmed, the four walls of proximity are surrounded with lights of green and red. The bottle of water seems to be misplaced but the bottles of beer seem to be up for grabs,and the only sign of life comes from the dimly lit speakers that lie in a corner. Faint, yet hallowing sounds of the electric guitar hum through the dim dimensions of this cage. Staring down at the two phones which have been given more care than your personal hygiene, wondering how they have made your life and dug your grave. Somewhere in the far reaches of the Earth where the winds are colder and the trees are barren and bare, lifeless to their skin and rabbits scurry to their holes when it gets too dark, there is a room which is exactly like this one. The dark symphonies of hapless tunes fuse with the mind and bring an anoerexia of thoughts and feelings.

Lies and jokes mean nothing, money spends rotting in accounts. All that matters are the constellations up above and how many can we actually recognize. Everyplace has a peculiar smell, that will one day in the future carry us back to this stage. When all meant nothing and nothing meant all. Where books carried us to worlds beyond this one and the speckles of dust could be counted and then left to wander in the free space of our emptiness.