My Carnation

Today, for the first time, I bought a flower for myself. A carnation. It is not of peach colour. Not even aboli. I do not know the exact colour name. It is pinkish. Rather light red. I thought to myself, wondering about the colour, that, being a girl, who is so fond of flowers and all earthy elements, I should look up, rather learn the exact names of the colours. That strange but lovely shade was perhaps the only reason I got it. There were other flowers too, in that not-so-little shop. There were my favourite roses, lovely purple lillies, pink-white gladiolus (whose name I learnt today) and colourful and ever-ready jerbera. I entered the shop just like I enter any other shop, on whim. Yes. I blatantly walk into any shop I see on my way; even if I do not want to buy anything; and when the shop-helpers speak their "Yes Ma'am....??", I say with a pretty smile, "No, thanks. I'm just checking out." And I do check out. Stuffs. Stuffs which I hate. Stuffs which choke this planet. Stuffs which I stuff in my bag and closet. They are just so many. But these days I do not care about them. I just buy. Buy like an indifferent shopper. A careless freak who cares not for money or resources or anything like the decorated "higher quotient".

So as usual, in my constant pace, I entered this flower-shop and thought to myself why not buy myself a lovely flower today. I must say that more often than not when I am walking, I do such little things which make every walk of mine memorable. There was one time when I was returning from some mall totally distorted in my thoughts and ended up writing 'Distortions', the article which Young Lady admired for its flow. I will never forget that evening when I walked back to my temporary house just like I will never forget this evening when I walked back to my another temporary house. I started at 6:02 pm from the signal where my work-place bus, or shuttle as they choose to call it, drops us. I had a friend for my company for about 200-300 meters. Then we parted, as I, in my usual mood, decided to enter one clothes-shop. I found nothing. Just stupid clothes and socks which I thought I would buy but didn't and mirrors on every alternate walls. I just can not help looking into those mirrors and adjusting my hair-line, sometimes on left side of my head and sometimes on right side. I keep shifting. The hair looks bouncy that ways and I look more, if I may use the adjective for myself, sexy. In the same city-girl, independent attitude, I checked out that place in hurry and immediately came out, giving an impression of I do not shop from such cheap places. That - I am from Mumbai attitude exudes from me at such times. I like that.

With these carefree and live-in-the-moment feelings I asked the youth in the flower shop, the names of the flowers. I only knew roses for sure. But this time they did not attract me as much as carnations did. Perhaps it was the shape of the flower petals along with the colour which made me buy that flower. Those beautiful random petals with their criss-cross edges looked so lovely in the pale lights of the transparent shop. While on my way back home, I repeated the name in my mind - car-ney-shuns. Do not know why but my mind exclaimed - how suitable it sounds! I looked at that lovely stem which had five slender leaves curving their way downwards and thought, how unlucky they are! They never get displayed. When I got the flower, the second thing which came to my mind was I do not have a vase to keep it. A vase, I thought; it hides the slender, suave, stem with slender, suave leaves. It is only from the stem, formed from the xylem and phloem, that the flower receives it's nutrition, I thought. And yet it is not adored or appreciated for anything. Instead, they are cut to suit the length of the basket in which the flower is to be placed. How sad! The youth in the shop asked me how long the stem should be. As I didn't have any vase, I just pointed out to half-hand length, "Keep it till here" I said.

Ten bucks isn't too much for a lovely flower, I thought and planned to buy some other flower from some other shop the next time my fancy tickles for it. I may buy mogra from the gajra seller, the poor lady who daily sits with a small basket besides the busy street, and then from another shop which was smaller than the one from where I got my carnation. My carnation, my first flower, for myself. What a passionate pleasure it is!, to hold the flower in hand and walk down not the aisle but the uncouth roads with no foot-path but broken concrete slabs barely covering the gutters. I am so scared of walking over such broken gutter lids. One wrong step and you will be covered with the filth of the city. But I had a carnation in my hand. I had to be careful. And I was. Like I always am.

Holding it close to my body with my hand half-folded, I walked the remaining one third of my journey. It was already around 7 pm. I was near my house thinking aimlessly about the flower, about myself. I am like this flower, I thought, in a very poetic, or lets say - filmy manner and tried hard to find similarities between me and the flower. This flower is none but me. It grows tender, beautiful, blossoms in it's youth, attracts every one and be a flower. Just that. Pretty much like me and my pretty face, my tender youth, attracting every one I speak to, with my expressions, with my features. This flower has no aim. Pretty much like me. I feel lost, with no aim. I am just living in the moment like this flower. In the moment. And when the moment passes away, it will grow pale, so will I. Was I under the Dorian Gray spell then?? Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. Perhaps I had just chosen to ignore the "higher quotient" and just wanted the flower to touch my face. I wanted to feel its criss-cross petals on my sensitive lips and eyelids. I just wanted to walk. Walk with my carnation.

So I missed the first short-cut which I usually take when I return daily. I kept walking. My glucose levels started kicking my brains and I thought of CCD lounge first. But I did not have enough money. I shouldn't spend much. I have spent a lot, a hell lot in this month alone. I should be more careful with my spending. Where did the judicious and economical virgin hide herself?, this I asked myself and scrapped the idea of CCD and settled for some chocolate. Not Choco pie. I had it yesterday only. I must have something else. So I went to the same shop from where I got Choco Pie last evening, ummmmm..mmed... for few seconds and asked for KitKat. Arranging and adjusting with a cell, a handbag, my carnation and KitKat, I started walking, trying to open the cover to eat it immediately and enjoy live-in-the-moment feeling. No. The reason I ate it on the road was that I have room-mates who might think I am impolite to not have got anything for them. And I do not want to share my KitKat. So I slipped my cell into my bag, held my carnation in left hand, carefully opened the cover of KitKat, broke it into half in classic style and ate it while I was walking.

Towards my house there is little darkness of which I took advantage and bought the flower close to my face, felt its baby-soft petals kissing my skin which had been  breathing carbon-monoxide all this time. I almost felt that the touch of my carnation will revive my skin to its youthful radiance. The mild fragrance it had, of the roses from the shop, made me think of its uselessness. Pretty much like my life. But who cares? Does the flower know how useful or useless it is?! What does it strive to attain? Ultimate beauty? It just comes into existence, blossoms and dies. If this is aimlessness or uselessness, then we all are aimless and useless. We come from dust and mix in dust. And in between keep doing something stupid like fight for freedom or walk for almost 1 hour 15 minutes all the way from work-place to home. We do it consciously choosing our paths according to our likes. Then someday hug the cold brown dust.

My room-mates were not at home when I reached. I felt so contented that I immediately started writing this stupid article, thinking that the Young Lady will like its flow and will connect with it while reading it. Nothing encourages you more than appreciation. Who encourages the flower to be so beautiful? I kept my beauty in a small earthen pot I had got from a sweet shop, the shop where I went out with my new set of friends for the first time and had rasmalai in that earthen pot - matka. Now, my carnation stands still, with support of the wall, in one corner of my room. It looks at me. Calls my name. Asks to be held in hand once. Just once. And I can not resist. I am signing out now to hold my carnation in my hands. Once again. 

Never group by

My feet got a flavour of physical distance.
That separation on their head,
heavy and hurting, my lungs gasped.
The air was not my buddy;
it refused to cool temples,
who cried golden tears.
They are my genes not fears,
embedded without permission.
I am learning since two years, their
flower-soft shades, baby-tender texture.
Don't look at them when they run!
Cover them in pink basket.
Stones mar, gymnasiums over power.
I chose forest when crowds shout streets
I keep from the heat and glucose
Come off near and feel the skin.
The soles are sore off running.
They told me never to group by
They asked me never to display
They want solitude. They are shy.

Thirst

There. Your eyes fixed on mine. Mine on yours.
Fumes of anger, pain, psychosis, vengeance.
I catch hold of delicate glasses on the table.
One word. The glass breaks. Red thrill.
Dare to stop. I bite those little pieces. Munch.
Thousand rivulets around the rings of root,
worm through the tights of my skin.
You won't budge. You won't ask. No answer.
My soles crush points and edges. I feel wet.
Red boots put up to pressure, pleasure.
See me. I am now, what you always wanted.
Exuding my holy for your dark thirst.

Let eyes do the talking

Her smile was beautifully perfect, tailor made by nature with great care to suit her smart looks and match those wide brown eyes which glowed with a gentle sparkle each time her pink lips parted in happiness. She took praises with such modesty as to drop her eye lids and colour deeply in feminine blush which would make any man, regardless of his age, fall for her instantaneously and for his own fancy, would want to make her smile time and again. Her speech was elegant, full of passionate expressions, every word uttered with greater care, pronunciations complying with rules in dictionary, statements overly simple yet stylish made by her sensuous voice and expressive eyes which just couldn't fix on one object but frolic around the boulevard of her imagination while she talked.

There she was, standing in beauty, playing perfectly the role of a desirable company, holding on to that book which her brother had given her that same morning, aware of the pretty sight which she herself was. She couldn't let go off the book and would quickly peep through the bookmarked pages to read a few lines, try to make sense of interwoven words, delight in subtle ideas, indulge in entropy and make the book even more desirable to herself. She wore a jet black, back-less dress, which fell from her naked shoulders down until it covered her thighs only  partially. It was rather unusual, she thought to herself, to carry a book to a party as that, flip through the pages every ten minutes and enjoy the goodness by herself. But she couldn't have done anything better to keep herself entertained at the mundane celebrations, which did not allure her a bit, for she was shy amongst the crowds which spoke little or none of her interests but gossip around with loud enthusiasm of wannabe up-town creatures.

A couch at the corner, which she found, was cosy enough for her delicate body to rest and peaceful enough for her thoughts to take shape. Unlike flibbertigibbet ladies with colourful dresses and sparkling diamonds, hopping across the hall to get into random conversations in the groups which they thought were the most happening at that instant, she chose to relax herself in solitude beneath the warm saffron light, hiding from everybody's sight, making her absence felt amongst the overly dull crowd. She was the object of envy for the ladies who found her dressing sense disagreeably stylish, choice of discussions too intellectual to participate in and hence chose to ignore her for very apparent reasons. She was used to all this and did not care more. In fact she wished for solitude or a simple, small decent company which would readily discuss about the most fascinating places to visit, interesting books to read, soulful music to listen to or may be indulge in some delightful witty conversations. She found none but solitude beneath the warm saffron light which made her feel a little more than unnecessarily burdened.

Since the time she had arrived there, she had taken interest only in two things, her book and a handsome man noticing her every 10 seconds from amongst the crowd which he was pretending to be a part of. His eyes just couldn't get off that beautiful structure of flesh and bones with pretty face, which was like an exquisite flower imported from some far off island of corals, featuring the expressions of a shy, young school girl. She had seen him before just once at the cafeteria but didn't get a chance to hang around in the place for some more time to get acquainted with his mannerisms. He surely had noticed her then, for the first time??.., she wondered and was not sure. Hers, then, was the first time indeed. There he was with a glass half-filled with a sparkling golden liquid she did not prefer to drink, a hand in his smart jacket's side pocket. She felt consciously beautiful.

The lines of the poetry would pull her inside her own head and she would sit motion-less, staring at one object with her eyes wide - not blinking. He would notice her countenance which resembled the ancient Greek-sculptures. Sometimes she would smile briefly, sometimes wear the face of The Thinker, sometimes twitch her grief muscles and sometimes give a straight blank look. He would adjust himself amongst the group so as to keep a side eye on her and would turn around completely whenever chanced by bursts of laughter or cheerful exclamations of the company. She would close her eyes and sip on the milk-shake she had ordered to forcefully keep herself from obviously standing out from the crowd. She thought he would be aware of her agony of mundane party and then she wondered, based on his repeated glances, if he was smitten her.

The next time they were chanced upon only for a brief two - three seconds, when she,  with her regular folks, was walking post lunch around in the lawn just before the entrance and he came by riding his bike with a familiar lady riding pillion. A moment was enough for her to acknowledge that beautifully dressed lady and resolve in her mind that it was of her propriety not to take any interest in matters as such. He understood her gesture as that of a well-thought young lady and was affected by her response. The moment's glances at each other were enough for both to exchange the unspoken messages.

There was no doubt in her mind that he secretively admired her for reasons not very apparent to her. Her contemplations pressed her to wonder about herself and her work. She was a gifted writer. Her bemused feelings about him had started to show up in her works which had recently developed a touch of romance. Every time they would look at each other for a brief second, just when she would blush in her cheeks, lowering her sight but he would keep the sight maintained for another second to delight in her feminine beauty. His steady gaze would make her conscious of herself. It was almost like he could see her through the shades of her clothes. Her heart would pound like a heart of a runner who just returned from a 5 km run. She would carelessly look at different places just to avoid his constant gaze trying to be indifferent but failing miserably every time he fixed his eyes on her. She didn't expect anything from him for he was a stranger and she disliked unnecessary acquaintance. But this particular stranger tickled her fancy for reasons unknown and she liked exchanging glances more than she disliked useless conversations. There was fun in this mystery, she thought to herself.

He had walked a  few steps in the lounge just when she appeared at the door. It seemed like he was expecting her there. She was alone this time with no company. The moment she saw him, she knew he was waiting for her to come. They looked at each other, exchanging mutual feelings of solitude, which they were subjected to by the presence of bare walls and absence of people. There was not a single creature around to observe their exchange of mysterious glances or sense the pounding heart beats. Her smile just could not be contained, for his eyes were fixed on hers as she walked before him towards the refreshment area to grab herself some drink which she needed to keep herself awake through her tedious work. He stood there besides her as she poured herself a cup. She knew he was observing her. Her posture, hand movements and expressions refused to be under her control. She blushed excessively.

Not a word was spoken all those days between them. There were only exchanges of anticipations which they both accepted to be valid. At lunch hour, the common area was getting populated just when he appeared, attended by his friends. His eager eyes located her at one table near the food stands, where she was having food with her party, laughing, talking and expressing agreement. She looked beautiful as ever. Her dressing never failed to turn heads where ever she went and she was completely aware of it. She knew that it was his timing too to come for lunch and secretively had been waiting for him. The moment he arrived, she blushed like a teenager but covered it well with the laughter that followed in the group. She knew that he caught her there and he was aware of it. His eyes followed every gesture of her, noticed her lips utter words with glee. She tried not to make her knowledge of his presence obvious to him but she failed badly.

Then there was some occasion for which people had gathered and were spread around the lobby. He stood there chatting with some people around and she came, descending down the stairs with a friend, thinking about him. The moment she got down there was a brief catching of glances, after which they walked inside the mini auditorium and were seated at places so far from each other and so at unfavourable places that they couldn't see each other again. After the session ended there was just a brief acknowledging glance at each other which gave away nothing except the message of parting.

They were once chanced before each other when she was waiting for the bus, besides the empty road, and he having found her standing alone in the evening which was fast maturing, approached her. She looked at him once, then lowered her eyes with mysterious smile, colored deeply and started to walk slowly towards the bridge which connected one suburb to another. In silence they both started walking, as the cold breeze touched their bodies, as their breathed in same air, neither of them wanting to speak about anything. Her heart was pounding with excitement of solitude shared with him, whose name she did not know. A poet at heart, she pulled out a small paper which she had carried all the time since she had written a villanelle on it. Their pace was slow, when she started reading it out to him whom she had connected with, long time back. As she read, in her voice of overwhelming expressions, he moved closer to her, their bodies just an inch apart. An unknown current waved through her body as she reached the end of the poetry she had written about him and her feelings. She closed her eyes at the end. He was so close to her that she could sense his heart beats inside her veins, his body heat beneath her skin, his warm breath on her tender lips. Only silence prevailed in the strangeness of connection between them. Him and her. Strange strangers, communicating with eyes.

Addendum: “I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 

shallow

Where are you, O god of small things?
The subliminal passions are calling on you.
Barricades are broken. Virginity too.
Let go off me, wild! Let go.
Every minute bubbles with ecstasy, through
skin, eyes, bones and roots.
Voices morph into melodious daggers.
Silence stabs in bathrooms.
I walk with anguish in my holy blood.
Tragedies hit me below.

I address your nights with charm.
Animations. Seductions.
You create me. I morph.
You breathe me. I morph.
You touch me. I morph.
I shall play in the lowest,
with your crooked brows,
with your red horns on my nails,
with your eyes on my platter.
Marinated flesh.

O Lord of headstrong air, I bow.
To your vast kingdom of burials.
To your barren lands and shaved heads.
To your sketches and scratches
on tattoos of my birth.
A headless ballerina!
I will appear at the grotesque emotions
to ring a death knell.
You will be done when I decay,
nauseous, in female hunger.

You

You laugh at our built -
the soi-disant claims, 
the shining cheapness
in railways, on streets,
the big bold bald bling.

Yours is nor a throne,
the golden glass either.
The rain you look at,
does not fall for you.
You are an ordinary man.

Your gypsy hair grab my sight.
I do not hunt you down.
I play with thousand cranes.
Just folded the last
and there you are.

Distortions

Around 10.45 pm

4th July

Strange evening it was!

Here goes the setting. First floor of Hypercity, a really bad flooring, grey tiles, crudely arranged stuffs, unfinished looks of the mall and a sense of “I know this name but....things are just not so good here...”.

Well I am in new city.

And this insect of exploration was bunjee-jumping inside me since the time I left for my temporary house from work. With all the confused enthusiasm, I started from my temporary house and caught the local bus, knowing that nothing will be gained in this whimsical trip to some mall I planned to visit, rather, explore; and that it's completely unsafe to roam around in the evening at new places, rather, at places like the ones I am having a temporary stay....a complete village structure. Spoils the name of the city... the beautiful city of Bangalore.

Around 7.30 pm I boarded this very strange bus where the driver plays the dual role of a driver and a conductor, sitting with a small metal box of tickets, immediately issuing the tickets to passenger boarding the bus from the front door, while handling the steering wheel of large radius with slight touches of elbows and forearm like a complete expert. It wasn't my first time in that bus. I travelled in such a bus, I guess, day-before-yesterday also. Nevertheless.

The killer traffic in this ugly village junction gave my swing second thoughts of whether I really should be out at this time and what the deadline of reaching back should I set for myself. For some very brief period of time I almost felt like I am in some African country I cannot name, whose language is beyond clarity of syllables, where I am wandering aimlessly, like a tourist, where ever the bus takes me. All I knew was that – my safety is in my own hands.... and still - I was out!

Those scary feelings are due to the gender to which I belong. I wonder if every girl has those fears when she is alone. Those fears suddenly make me conscious of my body, looks, clothes and belongings, making me alert even of the cockroaches crawling up the walls of the gutters beneath the yellow-black stripped footpath. Strange indeed! Just to mention in this context, my eyes caught the sight of two huge cockroaches, whose whiskers, I thought for a moment, I should catch hold of, were moving around in the dark on footpath on my way back to my temporary home in village. Well, that happened on the return journey.

Continuing the story of the strange evening....

I finally ended up at Crosswords in Hypercity, where, as usual, I found my section and grabbed for myself a hard-bound copy of the most anticipating-ly amazing book, which is in my list of  'to read' since the start of this year, especially after the amazing review from Miss Avid Reader, The Picture of Dorain Gray by Oscar Wilde. And there I was on the red leather chair with the book in my hands,..... the feelings of enthusiasm, I cannot describe.

Started with the Preface.

I was astounded by the first two lines, which seemed to contain a 'black hole'-like gravity, sucked me totally inside them. I re-read for my hungry satisfaction.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Preface

“The ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is the art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner of a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth-century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban* seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism is the rage if Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral of a man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in as artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.

No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not the life, that are really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about work of art shows that work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.”

Oscar Wilde

So it ended.

And there I was, holding the biggest, -- still too pre-mature to call by these nouns, -- joke or sarcasm or  truth or senseless ideas or deadly poison, hunting my eagerness and curiosity down to the long forgotten corridors of my mind, unveiling the blankets to expose the unknown, unvisited, un-sought-after, questions lying dormant on the colourless couches of my conscience. The Picture of Dorian Gray! gave me distortion in truest sense, in subtlest form which pulled me inside the cream pages, winning that single-sided tug-of-war, I never realised I am a part of.

“The  ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things.”

Agreed.

“To reveal art and conceal artist is art's aim.”

What the! How am I suppose to interpret this? For first thing, the lack of the apposite adjective 'real', just before the last word, displaying the arrogant and straight confidence of Oscar Wilde,  grabbed my attention. But it wasn't just the statement or the (lack of) word per se, it was the reflection I saw, of my secrecy, giving my thoughts a strange form of, -- I take rightful pleasure in using this adjective for the very first time for my writing, -- beauty.

The flow was abrupt. I initially thought the preface to be a set of basic definitions, of the most common words we encounter, set by author for the ease of transition into his book, to put forth his ideas prominently. But. I realised that I am going through a complete belief system of the most amazing writer. Again too pre-mature to say that. Still.

Down amongst the next few lines were those words which I love the most, which reminded me of a delightful conversation I had with Young Lady, who agrees to them with equal accord.

“There is no such thing as a moral and an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written”.

Gives a blow straight in face to anyone reading the book. It's like the utmost pride in the arms of a body builder, the extreme sense of  “I am always right.”, the ever-dominating, ever-powerful  dictator attitude. Period.

“That is all.”

So, is the beauty being described here, really the external appearance? As I read through the preface, pondering over each statement as much as I can, with all my energy and little brain, pulling a nerve to make sense and justify the lines for myself, the word came up with a shallow meaning. (Honstely, I am avoiding the adjectives.....inspired by rash but straight setup of language of the Author....to improve my own writing...for my own benefit....for the beauty.)

The ideas on morality come to me on perfect time when I think of my start here. “Moral life of a man forms part of the subject matter of the artist...” Anyways, after morality, another words under my scrutiny are – art and artist. “Morality of art consist in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything.” Oh man! There is just so much in this which I could relate to. My existence and crystal-clear attitude can be kept straight with these bold statements. I act for my own selfish passion. It may be unpolished art by I love it to the core. I do it for myself.

“It is the spectator, and not life, that are really mirrors.” (I doubt the use of adjective here.....will check it some other time...) Now this gives me weird ideas. What if the I am the reflection caught in  some 3D world inside mirrors and that pretty face, staring back at me through the silver coating on the backside of the glass, is laughing at my senseless thoughts, pitying my vanity, wondering how I will react when she finally decides to speak to me. Wow! That is madness indeed! I am a figment of my imagination. How do I exist then? Hah! Funny! Like two hungry dinosaurs plunging into each other to eat each other and then disappearing with a boom! Gone. The only difference being, I create myself and destroy myself. There is no other me. I disappear like a black-hole sucking itself.

Anyway, I am in no accord with myself. I am distorted. My ideas are distorted. Nothing of what I think makes any sense. Whatever I create makes no sense. Whatever I indulge in makes no sense. “All art is quite useless.”

Preface ended.

And I ended up writing the entire preface in my small pocket diary. I couldn't help but finish the first chapter there itself in one go and was introduced to Lord Henry, the man of 'poisonous theories'. Around 8.45 pm I left the place, satisfied in my distortion, with compulsive questions bombarding my mind. The Kannad script on the bus made no sense, much like what I had read in the Preface. So I asked the driver for Borewell and boarded the bus; the same strange bus with the dual-role driver, took the first window seat facing the crowd and was thinking of my obsessions, springing forth due to the first chapter. Surprisingly, I was no more scared of the opposite gender. I was so carelessly deep into thoughts that I missed my stop and had to get down at next stop and then walking all the way back through that dark road towards the village where I had my temporary house.

The road was slightly wet when I got down at subsequent stop. It was drizzling. I was without an umbrella but I did not care more. For a fraction of second, I thought about the much hyped climate of this new city, compared it to my own native city, felt pride for the heavy Mumbai rains and allowed the devil to scorn at the shaky and weak weather of Bangalore. Anew in my thoughts, I continued to walk.

I walked faster, saw the cockroaches, overtook the man walking fast on the footpath, ignored the people coming towards me, crossed the road to shorten the distance, kept walking, walking fast. Thinking about weird stuffs.

I allowed only the questions. I framed them as they rushed. Unfortunately, I, now, at 2.21 am in the morning at my temporary house in this village, can only recollect one of all the frenzy of questions – “What's wrong with my obsession?”

I walked in that frenzy, crossed the road, walked to the ATM only to find it out of order, turned back, walked, maintained my speed and entered the short-cut. I saw some ladies of the village and thought about the families who stay there. It is pretty much like my parents' native place. I deduced and resolved that I should not fear, despite the dark short-cut at the new place which was the village. I kept my pace anew in my thoughts. The packets of chips in the shop at distant were alluring me and I decided for Lays tomato flavour but unfortunately and then fortunately I did not find it in that shop. That want was a whim. I let it pass. Kept walking and almost ignored the next two shops, again in frenzy of questions which I very unfortunately do not remember, I kept the pace and took a right turn and only after I covered 2/3rd of the turn I realised that I had lost my way into that village. Surprisingly again, I was not more scared, I could have as well traced my path back to the shops I crossed on my way and again could have made my way home, but I decided to walk further down the last 3rd and see where I get. I was sure that the smaller roads will ultimately lead to the same main road. So I furthered my way down and peeped on the other side of the left turn. It almost seemed like the colony of my temporary home was some kind of a replica of the original one and that I had passed a forbidden shortcut and entered a world of mirror where I was trapped for life.

It was dark and the road was full of mud and dirty water. As I was making my way towards that replica, somebody flashed a torch on me and then on the road and mud and made his way through to the other side. I only got a little relief when I saw the watchman going inside his room to get me the keys for my temporary house. But what if that entire place was just a replica of the original place? I had forgotten all my thoughts. I entered my room, switched on the lights, turned on the television and saw Arnab Goswami shouting about the food security bill and breathed a sigh of reality. But again the pretty face in mirror, hanging in the bathroom, scared me to my bones. Amused with the idea of alternate reality, I tried to listen to what Smriti Irani was saying on Times Now and Headlines today at the same time. Whatever.

A talk with mom got me completely relaxed. But I decided to write about this. I am sure that the way I came through was not the same as I use in the morning. I'll figure that out tomorrow morning. My head aches badly.  Good night.

2.48 am

5th July