Somewhere along the mundane morbidity of this life, I have lost being able to lose myself into something. That scares me to my wit’s end.
A phase where it is impossible to concentrate on one single thing and be able to do it. Guess it all boils down to the Perils of a PhD. I just cannot help, but relate my PhD process to a beautiful line of a Tamizh song
“நான் தூக்கி வளர்த்த துயரம் நீ” “naan thookki vaLartha thuyaram nee!”
It literally translates to something like that of “You are a sorrow that I raised.” (willingly and lovingly, [my emphasis])
At times, I can only laugh at the irony of its aptness. Given all that! With twenty five days to go, Chapters to write and Drafts to be done, Corrections, Bibliography check, footnotes and citations and corrections pending. ALL and the least and the most I need to do now, is take care of my ownself, stop panicking every now and then, take few deep breaths at every possible intervals and be on the maniac, militant and drunk writing mode. Good luck to my own self. This is the last phase of PhD and it matters more than anything now. From March 2011 to December 2017, with a break of five years in teaching, I need to be strong and pass through the final passage of rite to complete this ritual and Ordeal called PhD. Go BeeNat, Go. Keep writing 🙂
In another world, another time, this should have been the name you must have been baptised with,
As the new adage goes, when was the last time, you did something for the first time, I wonder, when was the first time, I did something for the last time, there are so many habits that one needs to unlearn as they grow old. For people who firmly agree to believe and as well fervently refuse to believe that ‘Age is just a number’; something they overlook,
With age, comes a certain vulnerability. Say a graceful one. At times, they are visible, yet they can render a great invincibility. Being vulnerable doesn’t scare me much, but rather the lack of it scares me, more. The peculiarity, is that in a world mediated by cell phones and being connected, people have lost touch with their emotional side, that days and moments only count for Facebook or for an Instagram picture worthy moment. Just couldn’t help to smile and agree more with Ms.Buffay when she says, “How self-involved are you?”
I wish I was self-involved, I wish I could love me more once, and Hence this letter. To remind that self love can also be a worthy love at times.
To remind oneself the multitude of joys that one can attain, if only learnt how to live in this time, immediate – not the bygone, not-the-to-be-gone, but the on-going time. I have somehow learnt, say mastering the art of staying away from Social media – the way it makes me anxious, I have also realised that twenty fours hours of time is enough and adequate to sit and sulk, to bask in lazyness, to contemplate, to actually get the domestic chores done, to do run errands, to watch a film, or to re-watch-the-many-times-re-watched episodes of a sit-com,
Strange but true, I do have a better re-collection of things that happen in a day, I can cook a decent meal, read an article, read a newspaper, and write mails. ( I really should learn to cut down the number of mails i write to people, who at times, can be so emotionally retarded and unavailable, to even compose a few couple of sentences as a reply)
Stranger but truer, thirty can be quite confounding when it comes to certain conjectures about life, the way time overruns, overlaps, the way it is reluctant and reticent. It does a number on your head, mind and soul and yet gives enough time for healing. The way days plummet forward when my mind and heart race backwards in time and memory, everything seems a standstill
Which is exactly what I cannot afford right now, with work cut out to do and an impending finished PhD thesis. I race along time, day and night, in its stillness and in its momentum. All I need is a refuge in doing now. What needs to be taken care, should be taken care.
With souls departing in a jiff, all it takes is to be a still-home, in Happyness and in Faith.
Oops. Here I go,
Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving asErma Bombeck points out rightly, plus I realise that guilt is also an element that keeps the going on. For that matter, I don’t set out on a propaganda that I’ve stopped feeling guilty, but I don’t necessarily guilt myself for I have also realized the guiltiness of nothing and the nothingness of guilt is more dangerous than the guilt itself. There are things that matters as they are something that I have learned to appreciate. For I remember a few glimpses that which compels itself to be told and to be shown.
The myriad of memories that oozes out from me turns me numb in pain. I wish I could cry out loud and let the despair out than to be gnawed inside by the memories that are set on a painful blooming inside me. They create a pattern, a pattern that would set my mind to a roller coaster ride through the times I have lived. What I couldn’t do is to muster enough courage and say a Positive NO and be out of the maze. Photographs are not mere memories of the past frozen to future. The shadows bring in a cocktailed tinge of nostalgia and regret and set us to a brink. What can one possibly trade with time to go back once to a moment and re-live them? No wonder, God is cruel. And Fate is crueller.
Have you ever sat alone and listened intently to the rain? Have not you ever realized that the rain drops falling on the roof with a clutter actually long for an intimate conversation? Have you ever looked at a child watching wistfully at the rain outside through a window? Why would we distance ourselves from such beautiful moments of life? I realize the beautiful rain, which rains inside me, when I sit and watch the rain that rains rhythmically to the music of my solitude. And then I do the loveliest thing. I let it rain and I let myself rain.
But where on earth or heaven can I expect a shower in this arid Hyderabad April? All I want is to rain outside my window and me cosily sitting with a book? For a change my thesis this time, as my countdown is set to write and submit. Here I come, to you, the world of academia….
I don’t have a clue, when I fell in love, my first memory of my love dates back to my six or seven years of age, when I first saw my parent’s wedding album. I regretted being not there and determinedly decided that I would sure want my kids to witness my wedding. Brings a stupid smile now. But, Why not???
Well coming back to the wedding album, It was the pictures that I loved the most, The coarse feel of the black and white pictures neatly arranged in the black charts, beautifully bound gives an almost nauseating nostalgic look which slyly creeps into me, making me feel want to live in the bygone times. It is the frozen memories of the past, well hidden from the Wheel of time.
I go to greater extents and take risks to collect copies of photographs of my people. I greatly pester people for their photos, for which many don’t have a clue why I should go gaga over photos. Believe me I have albums of many with me. Somehow I feel a magical connection of going down the memory lane and reliving them when I see the photographs. When I see those pictures, I see their childhood and adolescence unfolding before me- letting me get a glimpse of all the missing pieces that I had only imagined. They affect me in a strange way; I feel neither sadness nor anger for having missed living with them in their yesteryear lives. For I always love to grow up with people.
When I see my parents wedding album, I get a thousand thoughts. Well, for first thing it is love before marriage, then accepted at last by their parents and an arranged marriage. I wonder how my dad would have felt being the groom, knowing that he would be spending the rest of his life, with the person he loved so much. Did he really think then, that he would have a son, who would be writing about his wedding in a blog? How would have my mom felt? Had she ever looked him into his eyes and smiled with a mischievous twinkle full of love? Did she ever have the clue that she is going to be the mom of a son, who considers himself a treasure of their cherished love and wedded bliss?
Well the photograph speaks, each picture has got a thousand stories to tell, If you’re ever a willing patient listener, listen to someone ramble about their youth and blessed will be you, if they have photographs with them when they tell their tales of loved and lived lives. But for me, photographs are just not the magic alone. It is their youth and more importantly having lived their youth in 70s and 80s which I personally consider the golden/classic/ best of times in life.
I am thoroughly in love with the art and literature of 70s and 80s. Be it the movies/music/pictures/literature/persons/advertisements/Television serials, nothing beats the magic of those times for me. May be the black and white print gives a lived-in authenticity to them, And till my ten years of age I believed that Life was in black and white or in grey in 70s and 80s. I visualize how the mountains, lakes and greeneries would have looked in black and white. I visualize life in the metros, sub-urban, abroad and villages alike. I visualize how people would have spent their young and old life in 70s and 80s.
I feel a tugging at my heart with a painful lump forming in my throat and I sigh heavily till the tingling tinge fades away in me. How much I wish, I want to live my life in such a period. I get jealous at people who have lived/spent their youth in those times. Certain Golden olden movies rekindle my longings and stir my heart, making me nostalgic for the past which doesn’t belong to me, a past I partly own. I smile knowing inside that, though I didn’t live then, I belong there completely.
For the simple reason, I believe life was simpler then, people were inherently good and people had time for life’s little things, everyday chattering were part of life then, people had time for humane interactions; families had time for dinners and for gatherings at terrace after dinner, casual acquaintances was more happening than social networking. Neighborhood and life in government quarters gave people to come-together and rejoice in camaraderie. Life was less mechanical, people certainly had the humane touch and more than anything, people wrote letters. Yeah I know, I whine here. But accept me. Just once in your life, realize what I’ve fallen for. Take a paper and write a letter to a dear one, at least a text mail. You will know the magic for yourself.
That was the time when life was not commercialized. I greatly believe that the art of those days celebrated love, people and the human spirit. I believe I’m made of that and made for that. I precisely conclude I’m a person who still live in the black and white times, pen and paper days. My world still counts in 70s and 80s. I take everything possible of me to make life more momentous and memorable with just people and people around. As I know, I’m born to love and I live now to love.
பருவ வயதின் கனவிலே பறந்து திரியும் மனங்களே கவி பாடுங்கள், உறவாடுங்கள்.
“To those hearts, fluttering their dreams in the youth. Sing poems of life and love and celebrate them. “
Life makes everyone an orphan. The more a person tries to relate, the more he orphans himself. No one can orphan anyone because it is just an opinion. A considered opinion. It is obviously an individual’s choice of being belonged. Even when blessed with a beautiful family and many special people, we, at times can’t help our self feeling like one. Things are fine as long as it is a feeling. Just a feeling.
We do have an odd way of feeling it. Don’t know why, but everyone wants to be an independent person. (Here it refers to being on one’s own). We often hear ourselves justifying, “People will not understand me.” And when things get even worse, we wanted to be left alone. I personally and seriously believe that half the persons who wanted to be left alone never really wants to be left alone. Well, remember little Anne Frank who wanted to be left alone and she was always scared that she would be left alone more than she wished. True to her fear, she was.
It is not that we want to banish everyone from life and lead a happy one. May be we wanted ourselves to be banished from worst things. We never really know whether this is Detachment or even if it can be called so. Sometimes we feel more orphaned, not physically or mentally but because of been let down by people or the fear of being let down. We become very hurt. It almost becomes an ache. Heartache. A chronic never ending heartache. We wish to have a consoling and an understanding soul than a loving one to let out all our darkest fears. Fears. Speaking of fears, everyone can truly be crowned “King of Phobias”. This is certainly not Phobiaphobia.
The very thought of phobia brings an inexplicable solicitude for our very own life. We are neither diffident nor confident. People tend to become brave, only if the situation warrants. We are not a coward still. We stand up and speak up for every injustice done to us. There are times, when we conveniently recoil and not mind things even when they go completely wrong. Why bother as long as I remain unaffected. Nice attitude, though not a good virtue.
Will our ability or choice to willingly relate our best selves to people and their lives banish this heartache, or help us to conquer our phobias or stop our souls from being orphaned? No, but this gives the Comfortable warmth to life in which a gentle hand reaches soothingly to calm the Orphaned soul.
Life certainly becomes better when we learn a thing which gives the “Feel Good” feel. When an invisible soul emanates from our soul to heal everything. When it willingly embraces everyone in joy and with total acceptance in love. Life by itself gives us the best, when it is lived. Only when lived. Not when despised, envied, feared, frowned, hated, loathed, worried and what not. Learning everything, we live. Life goes on. We get on, to run along.
The True Believer, now In pursuit of Happyness….
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
Can anything be more lively than the life which is lived. I ask this question a thousandth time to me, just to make sure that i still don’t have an answer to it, Well At times, the answer to many questions in life is that there is no answer.
But there are many a re-assurances. I knew that, I learnt it… To all those reader-friends cum family. I owe this. I thank for the moral support. Archu, Uma akka, anu akka, rakesh, Vinesh anna, Vins anna, Nikhil, Mili, Priya a.k.a Supergirl, Preethi anni, Jeevan, Sonu, Ritu chechi, Ani, Raj anna, Thanks a ton for staying with the Jobless blog and the wonderful words of comfort. I pray for the strength.
I knew that I’m completely broke when I enter a Bookshop, be it emotionally or financially and that too for a bookphile like me, words just cannot describe the plethora of emotions I go through in me when I’m in a bookshop. From excitement to anxiety, near faintness when I get hold of a book. The joy which cannot contain itself it in me blooms itself into a mischievous knowing smile that I smile inside me. The empty feeling knowing that I’m broke just disappears when I know that I’m in a place surrounded with books. It is not just books, but more to it. A place where the righteous part of me rightfully belongs to. A place that can violently turn into an invisible dagger, which stabs me peacefully with a painful guilt. Wish I can freeze time, so that I can afford to spend a chunk of my life in reading. The Knowing joy that I’m gonna indulge is all the more intoxicating.
What can be done about late assignments? They’re already late. I seek an extension for a submission of an assignment, which should have been submitted last Tuesday. With all due respects, I got an extension till Friday i.e weekend (I consider Friday as weekends which exclusively ends on the eve of Tuesday for me).Considering the fact that Sunday is an holiday and I cannot hand over the paper in person, I naturally have to do that on Monday, which happens to be Diwali back home, I stay back to regale in the regional festival. And Tuesday happens to be Diwali in Andhra plus a local holiday, which pushes me unceremoniously to submit the paper on Wednesday. With all this it just happens to be late by a day. Well now you understand my logic of working and deadlines. Life is made simpler.
There is no downpour here. It looks like a summer, rather feels like summer in the broad daylight and the temperature drops to freeze you at night. No November rain here, only the academic November pain, the last minute rush to call the semester off. I wish for a vacation now. Anybody out there feeling the same. Join the club.
People knew me well. If they thought I had enough and spoke enough. The one obvious question to put me off is, Baratha! What happened to your blog? I knew I had been quite for a long while. But I never intend to be. Well Logged in.
“Barath! wru, drop in our school. Need to talk wid u, reg the docu. C u in 10 mins. Cm fst na.”
“can u cm here n gimme the key.”
“hey u free na, we need to talk abt our proj.”
“chaai kudika poovama?”
well all I could do was. “Yours obediently, Main hoon naa.”
I badly wanna go home. See some tons of missed out movies, leisurely lay back at home, be with puppy, blog till my heart’s content, read n read n read n write. Take a neva-ending vacation, meet grannies, be at the place where I loved and longed to be. Meet people, only the ones who can bring a smile in my face. Go deaf to all others. I wish I can live a life like this at least for a short while. I wish that I could really wish.
Anna moved to Bangalore, appa still doesn’t mind my frequent indulging in books, which means I can indulge more, I learnt that one bad !dea leads to another good !dea. I still didn’t inform many about my recent change from !dea to BSNL. Nik n chundha left to UK. Nishu is quite okay. I seem to be lost in oblivion. Ankit got a new bike. It’s going to be a month that me, adil n winny boy had ice cream ceremoniously (read it three dogs fighting over a family pack). I joined face book. I still haven’t watched dark knight. Annil doesn’t write poems anymore, I don’t talk anything other than CAT to raul, Abbyyy and archu, raj, karthik, sonu and mano are not writing regularly here. Mano missed his train that day. I realized that I didn’t have any crush for the last two months. Met karthik here in Hyderabad after a long time. I still didn’t call up navin anna. I didn’t post that letter still. No signs of fellow ship in the near future. Met diviya at last here in hyderabad itself. Singer senior anna and Psycho-sisters have been out of contact for a long-while. Its Thalai Deepavali for joy anna and janani akka. Does reading of Diwali special editions count under diwali celebrations. Do I have a diwali? I don’t GTalk properly when I’m online.
I plan to write more, but before that Two Term papers, Two presentations, A research project on blogs, a documentary, an exam, semester finals, Some unkempt promises, some broken words and hearts to be mended and put to heal, a wedding to be witnessed, and things to be considered, a past to be shut-out, an effortlessly effort ensured to move-on, a life to live and the side-effects to be experienced. With all this I type this blog post at an unearthly hour making sure that I start my term paper right after this. Take care. Life beckons……
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
Yet another beautiful night, the place where she really belongs to. The night belongs to the ghastly creatures called men. In a way, she belongs to them. She had been sleepless all her nights. Now she is lying next to someone stranger, but familiar.
Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to sleep. She was tired from the day, cleaning up the house, those-to-be-done-but-still-undone chores. She got up from her bed to check; whether the doors locked, dog and birds fed, lights out. She stopped before her mirror, tidied up her hair, cleansed her mouth, applied little of her perfumed-moisturising lotion, her ways of warming up before getting into bed with someone. She spent few minutes looking at the birds in the cage, which reminded her of her own life: An Illuminated Illusion.
She climbed back to her bed. Somehow she found it strange to be with him, The one who came often to her house to just crash into sleep. She got reminded of those other men she met in her nights. Those fiery animals, who were lustfully less concerned that she was a human. Those men to whom the very act was a mere ritual. They came, They performed, They went. Those shy individuals, who always wanted lights out/doors closed because they were orthodox. Those who get turned off at any sort of signs of love in her maneuvers. She smiled her usual mocking smile at the ‘down to earth’ men-folk. She sat in her bed, staring at nothing, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She sobbed silently in the night, with the moon outside, the sole witness to a soul’s unsung sorrow.
The friendly someone pulled her close to his side. It was a touch, an act of assurance, not out of affront or wantful lust. She looked at him sleeping beside her. She listened to the breathing, that was not disgusting, but amusing. She was more amazed at how, she could cherish the sight which was like that of her sleeping pet.
She kissed him on his eyelids and snuggled closer to him. She felt the warmth of masculinity in his abated breath. The room was silent except for the uneven breathing of two tired souls. Sometimes She does belong to him. Him alone.
Life was good, uncertainly good, when I had to keep waiting till 12 in the noon for the postman to arrive and then get hold of the letter only to read it 112 times a day till the next letter. The sight of the street promising the post-man to walk by was much better than the monitor showing zero new mail(s) in my Inbox.
Yeah. I had been always a man of letters (No!!! from Boy of letters to Man of letters). The magic of letters cannot be expressed in mere words. Receiving a letter is a ceremony that is to be cherished, if you’re not into much of snail mail. I don’t think that there is a possibility of you appreciating e-mail, either.
The gentle feel of the rough textured paper covered with smudged ink and stamp, thoroughly mishandled by a dozen of postal authorities is an excitement about to explode in me. I, carefully take time in ripping the corners of the cover to make sure that the stamp stays intact. I can imagine how the other person would have taken time and pleasure in writing the letter. I can see a busy battering brain, sitting on a table with a pen and a mind totally in action, laziness doused on a bed with a paper at an unearthly hour, someone exhaustively lost in woods, someone sitting in a boring lecture, faking a feign air of attentiveness in taking notes, but actually writing a letter.
Does a place determine how a letter would be? In a snail mail, right from the stationary, place and to the ambience, everything affects the writer, letter as well as the reader. A letter written on a dining table differs from that of a writing table and a coffee table. Your mood differs to the smell of the meals gently waft in from the kitchen to the aroma of a nice coffee or an herbal tea, so is the content of the letter. I remember writing an exciting letter to my vegan friend about the recent delectable Hyderabadi biryani I had, just to get an annoying two worded reply. Yeah! That’s what came in reply.
The magic never fades out. I keep reading and re-reading the letter. I ran my fingers across the words, tracing the paper lightly to know where the hand had been rested before writing the letter. In spots, I can see the smudges, the pen made. I can imagine the rush of the author in completing the letter. I look at the crossed out words, wondering what he/she intended to say. I take peace in knowing that someone has taken up time to give up their time to spare some time for me. I love the words carved out of love. The scribbling of the gentle hand makes the relationship a resolute one.
Days of long letters are gone; People don’t find time to write letters, rather they don’t find themselves to write letters. Phone calls had made it easy. No tones of regret here. If it was all hand and words, now it’s the voice and words. Well even then there came a time, when people couldn’t find time to make phone calls. Never mind. I get replies to my letters through phone calls.
“Da machaan, letter kedachudhu, Sorry da time illai, aparama ezhutharen” aparam never came in life.
“Got your letter, sorry da, couldn’t find time. Will reply later” Later never happened.
I wonder how people don’t find time to write letters, when they have time for every thing and every other thing. I, a kid enjoyed the serenity that life offered in writing letters. It became synonymous with me. I write letters, long letters, only to get telegraphic mails in reply.
With time, I switched to e-mails, for me it was the same feel, but a different medium, yet I found it annoying to sit before a monitor and let my muse out. I just cannot ruminate before a monitor’s reflection. I am a paper-pen kind of guy. I need to get lost in the tranquil of thoughts to think and write. SO I stuck faithfully to my paper. Write and then type. I always let out a gentle sigh, after seeing the length of the mail in the monitor. Just got reminded of this essay, where a guy sits to write a letter to his brother, “Brother, I write to you because I have nothing to do. And now I wind up the letter because I have nothing to tell.” This brother seems much better than my friends who are good at sending MUL mails.
What makes me wonder so much is how people who had been writers of long lengthy mails turn to someone who just sends MUL mails. There was everything written in letters once, from the book read, the cricket matches, the movies and their reviews, the visit to grandpa’s place, the first dog, the first love and those code words for the secrets. Change is inevitable and the inevitable happened. Whenever I write mails, as I told, I write long letters. The reply is a total fascination for me,
“Dude. Got to go, got a meeting tomo morning. Mail u l8r da.”
Life is already full of If(s) and But(s). I don’t believe in the Later(s) of life. For Life is now or never. I kind of changed now, I refrain myself from lengthy mails for I knew I always end up with a “Mail you later” mails. I scan my inbox for text mails; sorry I don’t give damn importance to those “please pass on” mails. I delete them ruthlessly but spare a moment for those funny and witty forwards.
Dude. Got to go.
Will talk to you later. Bubye
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;
Well. Am sorry that I kept my blog unattended for a long time. Couldnt helpt it, honestly. So just republished a old post of mine, If you have read, “Thirty One days in february” if not, this is that. Thanks Anu for tagging me, well that’s the next one, for I have to complete my project soon. Sorry Guys, promise to be regular once i’m done with that.
My alarm went wailing like a mad banshee. It was two in the morning. I should rather sleep now for I’m tired, even tired of being tired too. Its bit weird that I set my alarm to sleep. For waking up to the sound of an alarm is a next-to-impossible deed. I just couldn’t stop resisting the urge to throw it away when it rings.
I was on the whole not pleased with my day. I took a sip of my lemon flavored ice tea and felt heavenly. Lemon does that wonder to the senses. I love tea, it rejuvenates myself, (rather I feel rejuvenated) and also am a coffee freak too. It is quite strange for others to know or rather accept that I love tea and coffee equally. I remember my girl friend (girl as a friend) fighting with me for having made this statement. It is the nature of girls. Also she sometimes kind of gets strange when I talk to other girls. (the girlish pangs???)
For I never seen tea getting jealous (or ???) even when I longingly look at some one’s cup of coffee. But this is the exact opposite in the company of a girl, well one-not-so-intended look at someone opposite you. I promise. Its gonna be a war of words!
I remember another incident. It was my friend’s (again a girl) birthday. I was first to wish her and even got her a recent novel of her favorite author. Still she was hurt for having not complemented about her new dress (even it was me, who accompanied her to all the shops in Cross cut road to get that) And again this guy friend of mine, who was offended when I just commented on his new khadhi kurta (honestly his warbrode doesn’t know anything other than tees and jeans) and not on his Hayabooza. I drained the last sip of my tea and went inside my library. I was wondering, how different it is to be a girl and a boy. I was casually taking a look at the books. The answer came to me in the form of the book, “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus”. How True!
I thought about my sleep and went to my bedroom. I saw my little bro, sleeping among the layers of blanket. He needs at least a dozen pillows and half a dozen blankets to sleep. Under normal conditions, he would have smiled and greeted me and cracked a good number of his poor jokes. I suppose even he had a bad day. When I spoke to him in the evening, he answered in his usual don’t-bother-me tone and glanced his mind-your-business look. Well Bro! I got the clue.
Now seeing him snuggled cosily in his bed among his pile of books, clothes, CDs, MP3 Player, mobile and what not. It looked more like an ancient excavation site where anything you name, from Oliver Twist to latest Cine-Blitz to Apple ipod can be unearthed. He loves to call it, “A Beautiful Mess of an orderly mind” He looks totally exhausted, his tousled long hair spread unevenly over the pillow, his hand over his head, a drool of dried saliva in the corner of his mouth, the new thin sprouting trail of beard on his cheeks, his favorite red crocodile tee, blankets thrown around his waist, his leg slightly out of his blanket. He looks calm and peaceful in his sleep, I prefer to call him a live pandemonium, when he is awake and at home for i couldn’t match his restlessness, rightly called ‘his bubbling with energy’ state and his never-tiring attitude.
Togetherness adds to beauty, be it the Hutch’s little boy and his dog or my lil bro and our ‘gentle-giantess’ German shepherd. Hope the reality won’t treat him harsh when he wakes up to his adulthood. I wish he has enough pain to grow up and grow on. I remember looking at him till my eyes become moist with the yellow light inside. He slightly moved in his sleep. I went round the bed and switched off the Winnie-The-Pooh table lamp. I touched it and felt something stirring inside me. The last gift from my parents, with that, every year it was always two different gifts for any occasion. It was then that life changed for us. When my brotherly instinct took on me, I started being this, from then, what I am to him now.
I looked out of the windows. The street lights are on. The road is empty except for the occasional whoosh of a vehicle. I belong to this time of earth, when I’m truly awake to me and my surroundings for I cease existing in the bustling day-time.
Yet again, the alarm went with a loud buzz. I came to my room, flicked my lighter on and lit my cigarette, and sat on the sofa. My dog sneezed her usual sneeze whenever I smoke. So I extinguished my cigarette with a gentle push on the ash-tray. My dog came and sat between my legs. I heard some muffled movements in the next room. I rested my head against the cushion and was about to give into my growing tiredness. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. “Good morning anna!”. I greeted him back with a sleepy smile. “Nightu thoongaliya?” (didn’t you sleep in the night?) I nodded a smiley no in reply. He gave his usual cheering smile and left. As he walked, he turned back and murmured something about tea. I remember drowsing on the sofa, he came back and woke me up with a cup of tea. Then he started rambling about his previous day’s events. I listened sleepily to him with occasional nods and smiles.
And yet another day set in.
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;