AT THE EXTREME EDGE OF NIGHT

She is not home tonight. She seems to have found a new companion. During festive seasons, she keeps busy. The neighborhood is quite abuzz with curiosity over some of her secret doings and some not so secret doings. She is bold. She drinks a little more than the men, she befriends. She eats a lot less than the women, she detests. She is not home tonight. I feel relieved that she is not home tonight.

I think, it is the fourth time in last two weeks, that she has gone missing. Last time, she had wrongly knocked on my door. Right in the middle of the night, she had knocked on my door. Bloody hell, who could it be? That was my first expression. On opening the door, my second expression was charming enough to leave a lasting impression – Oh, I am so sorry to have not imagined, it could be you!

Was she impressed by that corny line of mine? Yes, she was! I couldn’t press the door against her any longer. She walked in. She smelt of alcohol, burnt tobacco and the perfume advertised by Kristen Stewart (Channel or Chanel). She came closer; too close to make me feel uncomfortable (actually to get me more excited).

Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still echoes in my mind. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me excited. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me feeling a little pissed off!

After having asked the question, she had walked back to her apartment. I had followed her. Had she seen me following her? Had she not? She had slammed the door on me. I remember it tonight. Because, she is not home tonight.

I wish every night could be like this night, I am left alone with desires to hold her tight.

What is that smell all about? She had asked me once, when I had crossed over to her apartment, right in the middle of the day. She had gently opened the door. Her home seemed a little undone. I could see the traces of an undesired visitor show up loudly in her eyes. I had turned. She called for me. I turned again and made it back to the door of her apartment. She invited me in. I sat on the sofa and waited for her turn to close the door and settle down for a conversation. But all she did was, ask the question – What is that smell all about?

I remember of having sniffed and also having replied – That’s not a smell, that’s the fragrance of my new deodorant.

Deodorant? She had questioned. Deodorant? She had asked again. Deodorant? She kept asking. It’s still a smell; she had remarked.

Before I could call her a bloody whatever, she had suddenly come closer and whispered in my ears – Men smell good when they don’t wear a deodorant, do you understand Mister Ambassador of Deodorant?

There have been complaints flying wild in the air, within the neighborhood and around it. I was left a little unsettled by the realization – What if they ban her from entering her own home?

The fear of my realization did find its home in the notice they had slammed on her face. But somehow, she managed to stay back and continues to stay here, right here, in this home. Many haven’t seen her come in or go out; many nights after nights. But I’ve seen her sit here, sleep here and stay right here.

Because at the extreme edge of night, it is only her spirit, which wanders around. And prior to that, whoever saw her alive was of the opinion that she is one of those walking dead.

Thankfully, she is not home tonight. But I can still hear her hum:

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

I still wait for her; be it in her real form or in the form of a ghost that she shall come; we will definitely meet at the extreme edge of night.

Only, I have a different name for her, I call her INSPIRATION. And what’s the harm, if she decides on her own to visit my mind, at the extreme edge of night! And she is the one to also make me write; again at the extreme edge of night.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 26 | December Blog-3 | Making of the story | 2018

STARDUST ON HER EYELIDS

I wasn’t expecting the rains to come lashing back towards the fading end of September. Despite the reasons potent enough to complain against this fluid recurrence, I continued traveling adamantly. Purely driven by the instinct of the tireless Train Spotter Updater within me, this evening was no different. I had just left the metro behind me. The rains had started swelling. Each drop hit against the skin like missiles. Trains were plying way behind their schedule. But I remained unshaken. I was chasing the solo objective of boarding a train, protecting myself from the rains and trying to make it home on time. I was eagerly waiting for the train to arrive.

The train’s arrival sparked an infectious excitement among all eager bystanders on the platform. I was one of them; the Train Spotter Updater. As the train came to a halt, I jumped in and cut my way through the crowd. Even though my intentions were pure but my actions seemed otherwise. Pushed, pressed and pressurized against my wishes, I found myself almost squeezed against the giant screen of the gent’s first class. This giant screen is a passport to fantasies unlimited. This giant screen is also called the video coach. This is a gold window for us men to get to stare at women traveling by fist class. Some of us stare with loads of love in our eyes and some with unapologetic lust. Not too excited with this prospect, I continued making some space to stand comfortably. The train started picking up speed, so did the rains. Many arguments later, the women in the first class agreed to close the doors of the compartment. This gesture of theirs helped us men stay dry.

Two stations later, I too couldn’t resist the temptation of staring at the giant screen. My eyes fell on her. If I am not mistaken, she was on her way back home after attending an event. Or maybe she was one of those who sell highly priced brands of nail paint, lipsticks, kohl etc from behind those counters of beauty in a mall. Dressed in a dull pink top and a black skirt she was trying against her own luck to save the makeup. It was eroding. Yet she looked stunning. Especially because of what shone on her eyelids.

A thick layer of stardust seemed to have claimed their occupancy on her eyelids. The rains had left a few parts of it wet. Delicately but with great care, she was still trying to save it. In between regular intervals, she would pull out her mobile, activate the camera and put it on selfie mode to keep checking if the stardust was wearing off.  I could see her smile. If that wasn’t enough, she would pout, click multiple selfies and stash the mobile back in her bag. She kept repeating her actions. I continued gazing at her. The train was slowing down. The rains were roaring. Yet the stardust on her eyelids continued shining.

The journey concluded. The fury of rains continued intensifying. I saw her walking; a few yards ahead of me. Following her was not on her mind. But going ahead, she herself paused. I continued reducing my speed of walking. Had she caught me gazing? Had she sensed me following? I didn’t see any of it coming. Taking a pause, she pulled out her mobile again, activated the camera and put it on selfie mode. I started walking across her. I turned around and found her seated on a bench. After a short while, she too started walking; this time out of the station. The thickening effect of rains seemed to directly threaten the stardust on her eyelids. But she started saving it with great pain, not allowing the stardust to wither. I stood there, watching her. The rains were showing no signs of stopping and neither were my eyes tired of dreaming.

-Virtuous Vociferous 

WHAT AM I WRITING NEXT?

I could have come up with 100 odd lies to tell a half-baked truth about my next subject/object of interest to start writing about. Believe me but I am still faking too much. At the same time, there is some truth to it. By truth, I mean the one, I haven’t told you yet. The truth simply being, I wanted to begin writing this post with an introductory paragraph that was supposed to be completely different from what I have ended up writing in here. It could have been much better; once again a less spoken truth, which stalks/haunts me forever.

 

Since journeys interest me, I probably would have weaved a story around some expedition of mine. But there are these sometimes rude, sometimes soft characters, which keep visiting my thought process. Some are real, some fake, some are fictionalized and some don’t even exist in this world. Due to sheer lack of passion, I excused myself from writing again, once again thinking what am I writing next?

The name Bukani resonates. Who is she? A village girl! Do I know her personally? Yes I do. She used to be my childhood friend, who lived in the front row home of our village lane. I remember her till the 16 or 18 years of my age. She had stopped coming to our home. Someone told me, she has been married off. Her name remained with me. I saw her young but never found her turn into an adult. She was much matured and senior to us (me and my cousin brother), yet she would spoil her clothes to partner  our mud slung roughness, close the doors behind us to chase cats and lizards, call out to us to show us what she had discovered underneath the dirty, stinking staircases. What am I writing next then? Bukani! Why Bukani when I know Yamini (once again a fictional character) personally!

In this jungle of a fictional inner world in a factual outer world, I am not lost but angry, hungry and thirsty for passion. This passion that I am talking about arrives/evolves straight from the womb of an idea to write about.

Who is Yamini? A woman with a past, present and future like that of none other. I met Yamini in crowded trains, in loud weddings, in cosy corners, in dirty lodges, in five star hotels, in business forums and sometimes calling out to me from her lusty wilderness.  She sat across legs crossed, short hair, without make up, extorting heartbeat, exchanging provocative looks and yet she always remained unwritten. So am I not writing about her? No I am not because there is this guy nameless, without an identity and ignored in hell or heaven; forgotten by me, his wife, his part time lovers, his crimes, his philosophies.

He sold our ideas to every client. He would strike a conversation with the receptionist, take them to premium restaurants for exotic dinners, carry them home in hired taxis, rented cars, auto rickshaws or ask them to ride pillion on his bike. He would slip into a group discussion, make his eyes dance, woo the sister-in-law of a company’s founder, fly to Mauritius for the most erotic vacation of lifetime and come back to settle with his love of life. After a long, long time I would meet his wife, completely drunk, clinging to the shoulders of one of her drunken colleagues, turning towards me and telling me about the debacle of their marriage. But then I am not writing about him or her too. What am I writing next then?

I think I am not going to write anything next till I relocate the core of my inspiration. On many occasions, I turned on the laptop, clicked on Microsoft Word and abandoned millions of thoughts, which could have transformed into stories, poetry, monologues or plays. I think I am not going to write the next best thing from my temporary territory of existence. But I will definitely write once I board the same train where I made new friends and heard their stories; our group was called Zatang Group.

I am waiting for that day when I pack my bags to head back home and begin a new conversation with the Arabian Sea. I will begin to write then. But what am I writing next? I think many things.

-vociferous