The Thumbker

Drogo’s silence spread in the air that surrounded him, making a fog that engulfed his very existence. Untouched by the transition that was all around him in the town of Mata, he continued to be the one that refused change. The people who mainly worked in the toy factory were scattered around in the mud houses that looked like upside down tea cups in an age old tea party. The air was always dry and the sun stood lonely. The town was detached from the rest of the world except for the occasional few mails that somehow made its way through the heavy range of blue mountains that guarded the north and the calm grey desert that secluded the south.

Drogo was one of those old lamp posts that held no lines. He was forgotten by time that left him at nowhere. His beard carried what he ate his entire life. His eyes were fading into the skull. Wrinkles that somehow made a map on his face. The clothes that couldn’t be categorized into any genre, just a sheet with holes sheltering a broken body inside. His main company was the concrete floor on which he laid a mat to sleep. Under the solemn shade of a pavement with the rest of the building that remains as an unfinished design that failed to come to life. The floor would change its color to suite the climate. Fascinated by this, Drogo made love to it, passionate love.

There was no one else in this part of the alley. The rats that fed on the pile of garbage at the further end were often subjected to the vile stories that Drogo narrated, with every emotion expressed in great ferocity with his actions and granite voice. After a while, the stories gradually faded into a big void and all his expressions turned into a bitter cold stare. The vermin fled, bored of hoping for a happy ending.

Drogo was not like the others in town. He never listened to the news or worked in the factory. On the brink of dawn, he would wake up from his loved one’s bosom, stare at his right thumb for a solid five minutes. When he had finished taking in all the details, the position of the tiny bits of dirt, the cracks on the skin due to the arid air and the nail that never grew right, he will bite down hard till the thumb left the rest of his finger and rolled into his mouth. He could feel the texture that he was staring at, he could taste it. A moment of euphoria, a moment where Drogo felt alive. Blood oozing out like an open tap, the red thick liquid warming his body. The thumb still in his mouth and Drogo savoring it with light and unusual bites at regular intervals. As he swallowed it, his want was finally satisfied.

This was his daily morning routine. People found it strange, a man eating his own thumb every day. They looked at him with disgust and hate. They looked at him as a cannibal, an old creeper that has lost its mind. They talked about him whenever he passed by their gaze. The man who ate his thumbs every day, The Thumbker they called him. One of the dwellers of Mata, a factory worker just like the others said ‘Look at that fella, nibbling on his thumb every morning. It’s strange to look at it. Shudders my skin when I see it.  It reminds me of those old shaky trains back in those days, shaky and loose. Nuts and bolts all over the place and still can’t hold it together.’

The people of the town never could understand Drogo eating his thumb. It was forbidden. You could eat any of your fingers other than the thumb. No one knew why it was forbidden. It was like that from as long as anyone could remember. Every morning they ate a finger and overnight it grew back, no one dared touch the thumb, somehow it was prohibited. Somehow it was wrong. The people accepted that it was wrong and labelled Drogo a mad man.

The town had a carnival coming up at the festival of the bloody one. A carnival where they celebrated the taste of their own meat. They ate their finger and rejoiced the birth of their new year. This year it was no different, wild music and wine. Young and the old all gathered around the center square. With the streets smelling of fresh blood and the warmth from all the passion spreading like a wide plague. In the middle of this commotion was Drogo. Lost among the people, chewing on his thumb, avoiding the unwanted attention. Five seconds later he was on the ground, struggling and screaming. Trying to get someone’s attention and he finally did.

There he was, on the ground with all the people in the town looking at him. He was rolling and shaking. Trying to say something but choking on the words. His hands tried to grip the concrete road to ease the pain. In a moment his stomach exploded and thousands of thumbs walked out, they picked Drogo’s light body and buried it under the floor that he used to sleep.

Proud Indian.

What do I know about the country that I live in? we are people divided by language and ruled by faith. People die every day. Scams are a trend. Children go missing. Corruption is just another way of life. Women are given too much respect, at least in those temples. Diverse in culture and thoughts. An array of sprouting ideas. The youth are caged, in a way for their own good, well that’s how they say it. Life is normal. Your goals are already preset. All you have to do is achieve it or tie a noose. Fights happen, people in power grow roots and settle there. Garbage accumulates. Freedom of speech is at times a lie. Women are assured safety on the streets. Yup that’s about it.

All this doesn’t matter, because the view sire, the view is just simply spellbinding.

Reality, In a Bowl Of Pasta

Paradox, as I read the name of the café, I knew this was my next destination. Probably on my way back from college, I will deviate a little of my usual route and give myself the luxury of exploring this peculiar place. The name itself was striking; I didn’t bother to check the menu or read the reviews which I usually do when I find a new place. It’s just this feeling from the gut that tells you there is something special lurking for you to come.

Classes got over, I left. The roads were less crowded. Wheeler road flyover, seemed deserted almost. It was an easy ride except for some busses trying to run me over and autowallas assuming I’m invisible, which is quite normal in Bangalore. I reached within 20 mins. Took a while to find the café, but finally maps came to the rescue.

I found the café in a small alley. Right next to a men’s clothing store. It was on the second floor. A red building with graffiti on the walls that made it seem more alive. There were some people scattered in the café, they seemed to be the owners as they greeted me when they saw me.

‘you can sit over there.’ He said, pointing at the long table at the end. ‘We are just fooling around.’

There were around four people. They were discussing about something. Some small talk, what usually happens in a café. The menu was unique, after a quick glance, I ordered something called the Nut Case. Mushroom and walnuts. The name is what got to me. The mystery of how walnuts would taste with mushroom made me ignore the juicy meat dishes and order something that I rarely do. The waiter gladly took my order, as I was the only customer, he seemed to give me his complete attention.

The wooden tables looked heavy and the cushions on the chairs looked tired. It was open on three sides. With those wooden blinds that are rolled up to let enough air in. The dust on the blinds seemed to be old and the wind didn’t disturb them much. It was silent except for the chit chat that was going on and the sound of vehicles from the highway nearby. The alley had green on both sides. The dried leaves and broken twigs was a thin layer of carpet on the road. I slowly grew contented to the surrounding. There were paintings on the wall. Abstract, what it lacked for in color, it made up in depth. I wondered under what context the artist might’ve gotten the idea to bring in this strange form of human imagination on canvas. The white background, thick black outlines and blotches of meaningless red.

The pasta arrived in a white bowl with two pieces of garlic bread on the side. The walnuts looked like small turtle shells in the thick white cheesy pasta sauce. The mushrooms were cut into abnormally small pieces and I had to order a search party to rescue them from the clutches of heavy fusilli pasta. I took a small portion of pasta, sauce, bits of mushroom and a piece of walnut. The fork already seemed too full. I savored it for a long time. The bits of walnuts that mixed well with the cheesy sauce and the juicy mushroom gave me a higher level of satisfaction and made me feel like all the other pasta I ever had was a trickery. A copy made less perfect. And this thing on my plate right now, was the reality. I have been living a lie of eating something that seemed like pasta but tasted nothing like it. A complete illusion. I finally found reality, in a bowl of pasta.

I finished the entire bowl. Slowly. Enjoying and loving every bit.

‘This has to be my adda.’ I thought to myself, like I always do when I find a new place. But somehow I fail to come back. Even if I go, the place seems to have lost its charm. The excitement and adventure was replaced with regularity, I somehow despised it. With thoughts on my mind and a heart full of feelings. I walked out. Looked back at the café, the red building, the retro sign board. Something I can’t seem to let go. Your presence, an illusion that I rarely escape from, your presence made all the difference.

The sun gleamed at me through the branches of the trees nearby. I stared at the open road and the wide possibilities staring back at me. The gear shifted smoothly and I left.

 

No One Writes To The Colonel

I finished reading the last line and stared at the blank page which followed, like a duck, clueless and deceived.  What the hell is wrong with this guy? Why give so much of hope and shatter it right at the end. From how the story was progressing, I was hoping for the fighter cock to go Jackie Chan on his opponent in the Pit. Nothing of that magnitude happened.  The story continued its simplicity till the last line and broke my heart.

The story as simple as it may seem, has a lot of depth that I might have missed. It’s about hope, hope in its purest form.  Hoping for survival, hoping to live. Right from the start, the colonel, as everybody knows him, is a mystery.  We don’t know his name nor anything personal about him. Marquez doesn’t show the courtesy to tell us about this old man, who becomes the centerpiece of his novella. He served in the army.  Was promoted to the rank of colonel at the young age of twenty, played a vital role in the army and all those vague details is all that Marquez tells us.  Marquez shows us how the colonel is proud and stubborn, yet humble in the subtlest way.  Everybody seemed to have a kind heart towards him. The doctor who treats the colonel’s wife for free and lends him newspaper.  The children that takes care of the rooster.  Everyone wants to help him but his pride and stubbornness doesn’t make him bow down to these kind gestures. For 15 years he has been waiting for the pension from the army.  Every Friday, he finds himself at the post-office, watching the postman with those Eagle eyes.  But not once has he received any sort of letter. Every time the colonel goes to the post office, he’s filled with hope and energy.  His old legs seem to come alive and his senses are more alert. He is fighting a war, war against poverty.

 

Another main character that we find in the story is the colonel’s wife. Her regular asthma attacks are a constant source of worry for the colonel. The colonel doesn’t have enough money to feed his wife, himself and the rooster. Colonel’s wife is portrayed as a tough, strong, authoritative and witty woman. She has a strong hold on the colonel. Even though the colonel may be seen as the one who drives their life, its actually her. Her careful planning and the ability to bow down to people to ask for favors is what keeps both of them alive.

She is also a mother. A mother who has lost her son to the civil war.

‘We are the orphans of our son.’ She tells the colonel.

It’s very evident that her son’s untimely death has left a big void in the life of the colonel and his wife. The rooster is the only thing that reminds them of their son. For the colonel, the rooster is a way to connect with his son as he is no more. The colonel uses this excuse to convince his wife not to sell the rooster.

The rooster is the main culprit. All the chaos that surrounds the household is somehow related to the cruel animal. The rooster is the calamity and addiction that the colonel and his wife has to overcome. No matter how hard they try, it clenches itself onto them, never letting go. Colonel is attached to this rooster and surrounds his hopes on this tiny memory of his son and refuses to accept reality. He refuses to admit he has lost everything and start from the scratch.

Marquez does something special. He takes an old colonel, a war veteran stuck in poverty, a dad who has lost his son, and gives him hope. The colonel’s hope somehow feels to be leading him into his doom. He drowns in his hope, dragging his wife along with him. Moreover, Marquez gave me hope too. The hope of seeing the colonel and his poor wife survive the harsh winter and this destitution. And in the end my hope is left unanswered. Marquez was messing with my head, something that I thought only an expensive psychedelic could do. Curiosity wakes me up at night, searching for an answer. How will the colonel survive? Will he ever sell the bloody rooster? Will the wife let him keep the rooster? Will the rooster turn out to be a blessing?  And that’s how Marquez’s little novel haunts me, like a one-night stand that I didn’t want to end.

Broken bad.

I don’t know where it went wrong, I made her cry. It haunts me,  in every way. Sleepless nights and a silent rush of guilt that tears me apart from within. What have I done? I know not. Something grave and violent, given my arrogant impulsive behavior and shitty temper, I can’t even remember what. It hurts me. She wouldn’t know, she wouldn’t need to. This stays right here in these words and in these lines. With clichéd statements and cheeky little promises that will be forgotten along with all those beautiful memories which I thought would last forever.

‘The world is a strange place.’ I would tell myself one day, probably in a bus travelling to places that haven’t lost its charm. I don’t even know what I’m trying to do penning  like these. I mean,  isn’t it supposed to have a meaning, a deeper truth and some hidden message…  I neither have the skill nor the inspiration to conjure words to express how and what I’m feeling right now. I know it’s a lot of words already and that whoever is reading doesn’t give a shit about what is going on.  But wait, read ahead, see where it goes. Maybe you might feel something similar in the near future.

I hate hurting other people,  I’m pretty sure you do too. But the shit went down in such a way that with no intention whatsoever, I hurt her. Reason remains a mystery and the pain surfaced for the whole world to see. Her tears left a burn in my heart and it killed me from within (I already warned you about the cheesy clichéd lines that were coming up). sorry is a word that we use too often, it doesn’t solve anything, I wish it did. Guilt, guilt, guilt, it doesn’t feel right. It makes me feel nauseous and a little light headed. Makes me ride carelessly, punch strange people and probably even kick a brick in the middle of the road. The only thing that’s good about it, it taught me how to hide pain. Pain in the purest form is a blessing that cleanses your body and mind. And with all this pain and guilt boiling inside, smiling and breathing like yesterday was forgotten and hopes of you understanding why I am the way I am. Broken, helpless and addicted, down this road of guilt.

Maybe in another world, you say sorry three times and make a soft gesture to the gods and all will be forgiven.  Not in this world. this world is too dark for you to hope. It’s filled with demons that steal your precious and ghosts that teases you with echoing whispers of your failures. The only light is inside and when you cut open yourself for that light, you end up in an urn in someone’s living room.

Talking about urns I prefer a blue urn with silver writings to a black one. Don’t get me wrong I love black, but I think blue urns will be cooler as it gets a little congested inside.

 

In Pieces.

The soul cries when the heart fails to handle the grief that cannot be expressed. It boils inside me. It runs through my veins and pokes on my bones. The way I cage myself in and bottle the fire that burns deep within is my way of surviving in a word full of hawks. I have been damned with rage. Rage that drives me insane, that the grinding of teeth and breaking jaws can’t satisfy. My hand trembles and my eyes become blind. Love seems a little less and life seems a less bright. A giant ball of pain gets stuck in my throat, no matter how hard I cough, no matter how much water I drink it refuses to be unstuck. It grips and expands inside until I blow up into a ten thousand words, but none gets spoken. It’s all there, hanging in the air. Waiting for someone to see, to realize how broken I am and gift me a smile.

Love, love and love.

​Love that’s unspoken. Perfect and pure.  Love that happens every moment, mostly unrequited and rarely mutual. Yet always hidden and silent. Hiding beneath simple gestures and sweet words.  A starry smile,  a long stare,  a silent walk, cold rides,  all the happiness,  I fall in love a million times.

Limitless.  People tend to drag down this feeling. Love is not just between two people.  Romance is not something a couple can enjoy.  Everyday my life is a romance. Falling in love and staying in it. Mesmerized and fascinated by people,  places, and strange relics.  How can I not fall in love everyday when the world unravels  a beauty that captivated me and  takes me to different realm.

My life is influenced by these strange moments of love.  It shapes my life and character.  And people who think I’m a maniac who falls in love everyday are those who don’t appreciate life.Happiness comes with exploring the unknown. And that’s how I live, Everyday,  in the end I die only to rise up different tomorrow. This is my meaning of love,  unspoken,  unknown and heartbreaking.  It’s all about the chase and desire dies with the satisfaction you get.

Dying and living in love,

The Armed Hermit.

 

2nd PU, First day.

She was coming back home in her allotted college bus. Her stop was close, she got up and walked towards the door which was in the front. Her eyes searched for something or someone. Her bag was not that heavy as it was the first day. The blue uniform felt a bit rough. It was new and that made her a little uncomfortable. She knew he was supposed to be in this bus. They were in the same tuition class but she has never seen him before, and that troubled her. She only knew he stayed near her house and tiny drops of hopes that he would be in the same bus. She turned slowly, her piercing eyes searching for him. Nope, he wasn’t there.

She moved closer to the door. Suddenly he rushed from behind stood in front of the list and put down his name. she stared at his handwriting ‘bit messy she thought to herself’. He was tall, she felt like standing next to a tall building and that amused her. His hair was like silk, soft and tender, she wanted to feel his hair. His smile had an effect on her that she herself can’t explain. He never smiled at her though. Later when she thought about it, mesmerized is the word that closely related that smile. Somehow she knew he was different for her. She knew that she was in a way, captivated.

She followed him as they got down the bus, her ponytail bobbing at each step. She stared at him as he walked away. His walk upright and confident. And he faded into his building. She stared for another few seconds. Then she too walked away. A head full of thoughts. A shy smile that her heart evoked, her eyes still in surprise looking around as if this was a whole new world.

Next day, she came too early. The bus stop was opposite his apartment building and her eyes kept searching for him. She waited with certain fondness that she has never felt before. Then she saw her, coming towards her with quick steps. He waved at her, she also waved back at him. Her smile as faint as she could hold it but inside she was dancing. She was happy. They waited for the bus. The yellow long bus that’s familiar to every Indian and this long yellow matchbox would be the setting for this unknown romance. Ignored by both of them it grew like a balloon, waiting for someone to burst it and let it all out.

Olleya Jathkadvan

I stepped out of the cafe into the blazing hot streets. The road shimmered under the Sun’s wrath. I was waiting for an important call from my ex girlfriend’s father. As there was no range in the cafe, i got out walked to the shade of the tree near by.

 

I stared at my phone and looked ahead. I saw a man, crossing the road and coming towards where I was standing. I couldn’t understand how he is still alive wearing a black dhoti, a black shirt and a small pinch of ash on his forehead. He had a small bag in his left hand. His right hand seemed to be painting in air. He was wearing a worn out pair of chappels which shouted out loud that he has been walking a lot.

 

He looked straight at me and gave me an harmless smile, I did the same. He came towards me and held my right hand . He had a tight grip and you could make out that he was used to doing it. I waited for him to say something so that I could react to his gesture.

 

‘Yavadhu bhashe gothu’ He asked me.

‘English and Malayalam’ I answered still confused by his approach.

‘Tamil pasama?’ he asked me

‘Ahh, konju konju.’

He smiled at that with all his decaying teeth staring at me.

He told me he was an astrologer and that he will give the exact reading of my palms and all that. I think all this is bullshit.

‘Nange yenu beda’ trying to loosen his tight grip on my hand ‘naan namballa ethalla’

‘Kannada gotha ninge?’ he asked me , pulling my hand.

‘Swallppa swallppa barathe.’ I said looking at my phone.

 

He never let go of my hand and his smile was constant throughout the conversation. I told him a dozen times that I was not interested. He just kept on talking. I wished my phone would ring so I could use it as an excuse and escape.

 

‘Ondhu mathu haidara holage ondhu number yojana madi’ he asked me.

‘One and five’ I asked, just to confirm.

‘Haan ‘ he said, his smile growing in his tired face.

‘Haa yojana madathe’ I said.

He finally took his eyes off me and stared at the sky and said

‘Olleya jathkadvana namma bagge yella helthare!’ an air of pride surrounded him. And his breath had a certain level of confidence.

I managed a faint smile. His eyes lit up and the smile stayed on.

‘Naanu number hella?’ he asked me, coming closer.

‘Beda anna.‘ I said.

 

His grip loosened. His smile faded. I walked of. And he stared hard at me probably conjuring some damned spirits to trouble me during this amavasya.

Survivor

Life has not treated me with kindness. I have survived whatever life threw at me and I will continue to do so because I don’t intend on giving up. The biggest blow that life ever landed on me was when I found out both of my dad’s kidneys had stopped working. I did not cry or drool over it. I knew I had to be strong for my brother, for Amma and for Appa. That day I rearranged my priorities and family came first. They needed me and I wanted to be there for them.

 

It didn’t stop there, Appa’s creatinine level kept rising. It was very evident the he would soon need dialysis but I thought I had more time. My second year in Bangalore. I don’t get a call from my parents for more than two weeks. Usually they call every once a week. Then uncle told me that Appa was admitted in the hospital and that I should call them. I called in Appa’s number and Amma picked up. I asked her what happened to Appa suddenly and she told me that the creatinine level has risen so high because he was having fever. I shouted at her at first for not telling me this before, then I calmed down told her everything will be ok and cut the call.Roshan noted the change in expression on my face and told me everything will be alright. I wanted to cry, but i think i have dried up my tear glands.

 

Next weekend I took a bus to Kerala. I reached early morning and I didn’t let anyone know I was coming. I rang the bell and Amma opened the door with sleepy eyes and messy hair. I smiled at her as she opened the door. She was surprised and asked me what i was doing here. I told her I wanted to see Appa and I got in and walked to his bedroom. He was sleeping, he was tired. His face had shrunk, his chubby and lively cheeks seemed pale. I stared at him and sat right besides him. This moment, I will never forget.

 

As I woke up from sleep, everyone else had already woken up. Joe had already gone to school. Amma was cooking and Appa was reading the paper.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked him.

‘I am good, It’s nothing. Dont be tensed.’ He told me with a faint smile.

 

I couldn’t see him like that. It was hard. I came back to Bangalore the next day. I had a lot of things riding through my head. I told Roshan I was going to college but I went to Shivajinagar, took a daily pass and travelled in different buses for the entire day. I knew Appa wouldn’t be able to run around and make money. I had to do something. ‘Take a full time job , quit college.’ I told myself. But something told me not to. Selling the house was another option, but that will take a whole lot of time. My options were fairly limited. I am not going to ask Appa to beg money from his brothers or relatives. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know  what I am supposed to do.

 

It keeps boiling inside me. I don’t feel like telling anyone because I don’t want their pity. I don’t want them to look at me with those pitiful eyes making a million assumptions on my life , how bad it’s going to be. I don’t want that. I just have one thing on my mind, money.

 

People might get the notion that I am a money hungry teenage fool. But you don’t know what it’s like to pay for dialysis and medication twice a week. To take care of Appa whose so tired and weak. In the end all people care about are their own. They will only shower me with sympathy as I struggle my way up the ladder of life. My dreams are on hold, my desires have perished in an never ending fight for survival. I don’t consider myself human,because humans are lazy and I can’t afford that. I am an adaptable machine that can survive on bread and water for weeks. Without wear and tear I will go on till I bleed and die. I know I only have one life and the best way to live is to die for the ones you love.

 

I have my share of happiness. I party,  I travel with a torn pocket and crazy smile. I discover the meaning of life in the strange land and strange people I meet on this journey. This is not me trying to make a big deal about myself, this is me opening up to whoever that has the patience to listen, This is how I live my life.

 

Amma called me one day,she told me she is starting her physiotherapy session because of her back pain. Something in her tone told me she needed money. I could feel it. I had received my salary two days ago and had kept it aside. Roshan told me he will give me 5000 and with that I will be able to give her a little room to breath. Life is these little little things that come together to be something greater.

 

These nineteen years that I have survived life, I have learned little too much already. People and their blank words, false hopes and broken promises trying to overtake each other in this mad rat race. I don’t believe in god or any such thing that gives you false hope but if there is a hell, it is this, the world we are living in. I intend on surviving it. Make sure Appa , Amma and Joe is safe and then maybe let myself loose. Follow my dreams and become someone worth living.