Location: Latitude: 22º 07'
Longitude: 84º 27'
Time: 0925 hrs
A lonesome crew of motley boys at a dusty railway station, where the weather is foreboding and humid, and the grime on their faces tells a gruesome tale. The tale of survival, of compromises, and prominently one of a indomitable spirit to come back, to fly again... The train to New Delhi arrives on a platform replete with filth, humanity and mayhem of staunch activity. One of them laments the words "Oh Shit! Time to go home!" His enthusiasm is greeted with similar cheers and bleeps of decrepit fatigued bodies, drooping shoulderslangourousus voices, yet somewhere in those notes of an oxymoronic deportment, you could absorb the aura of a positivist, which intermittently transcended that morning.
Some looked down at the track, with a mercurial smile, like some longed memory that was permeating the bearer's mind, and the bearers had one thing in common at that moment, none of the memories were associated with the place they were to depart in just a while. These four months had turned out to be the most conscious-intensive in their respective succulent lives. With no idea about what they were getting in, they had arrived with an erstwhile gusto, each one in a class of their own ardor. And then it arrived, the train to El Dorado. The place having its own references in each one's mind, and like prisoners, waiting for their orders, whatever they are, to be set free, to be deported to some other penitentiary or to be executed, their visages turned like a set of keyed-up toys, all unwinding from the drilling travails, only to get grilled again, but the anguish to return was far more diminutive to the tangibility that was emanating from their mien right now. Their pupils dilated, like an elevated mind, they could almost feel their feet leaving the floor, coupled with a synchronous movement of their arms, the fingers quivering to hold the door, to break free.
***
The mess food last night was pathetic, something the devil cooked up himself. Anyways, half of the guys who had it last night had got a commode reserved for themselves the following morning. These guys had to leave, this opportunity was too critical to let it be squandered by some dysentery. They had to leave, even if it meant shitting in their pants. The harrowing look on their faces, like the blood had been flushed out of their bodies was because after the half hours ride in the auto-rickshaw, their hind muscles just could not hold on any longer, to restrict the ever-percolating and fumigating sludge anymore. Trust me; you don't want me to explain this to you anymore. For the more disgusting people it's the same old infelicitous address again, ravioactive@gmail.com. And, more than anything else, at that moment that epochal train was another outlet that would let them let it out! The philistine calm was maintained so that each could concentrate on their own digestive manipulations, so that olfactory doesn't give way to the gustatory, and henceforth the excretory! Couldn't get it? Indian Railways has got dirty toilets and the mess food was more detestable than anything, so this was merely a beacon to those lousy officials, as diligent as the minister under whom they all 'serve', to get the shit cleaned.
Moral of the story: Don't let me go overboard, but then you don't really have a choice, do ya' PUNKS?
***
Bend In the End:
And Tanu, love your idea of the 'parting shot'. So here's mine, 'Blast at the Last' or 'Bend in the End'or still...'sedimentary thoughts'. Just another brummagem phrase from this largely inconsequential 'writer', if I may dare call myself by that title! By the way, talk about 'inspired writing'. This fore stated lingua exemplifies, although cheaply, this new 'genre' of writing. Kaavya, for one has done a better and a more plebian job than the original cradle of creativity, if the disrespected soul, seeking refuge under my condolences may like. But dude, you're done. Kaavya is there, enjoying her time under the sun. Only the sun becomes the incandescent filament of the paparazzi's flashbulb! So back off! She has done a commendable job, and above all has been hailed plaudits from the reviewer and the reader alike. So the point of bringing in an inane charge like that only helps, because, Kaavya is what they want, which ever way you are going to present her, and they damn right love it!
No comments:
Post a Comment