A short story and her micro-soul

He pulled a cigarette from under his pillow. He then stretched his hand to get the match box from the table beside his bed. He lit one, got up and sat on his bed still under the sheets. The bitter thick smoke hit his throat. It really hurt and he gulped a few lumps of cough coated with tobacco smoke down his throat. He moved his tongue over his teeth and felt the yellowish rough coating which will smoothen out later when he will brush his teeth. The burnt tobacco smell lingered in his nostrils for a while. He remained there till he pulled on the last puff from the cigarette and then threw it on the floor. He got up and stubbed the bud lying on the floor.

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I am his closest friend. Or rather the closes companion. I was born on the same day, same time he was born. I don’t remember the initial years but remember every incidence since the time around he started school. He is a normal human being. He needs food to eat, needs water to drink (though he drinks more of alcohol than water these days), needs to sleep at night, needs money to survive and a needs a job to earn that money. I don’t need any of this. I get fed on his emotions. He achieves, I criticize. He enjoys, I warn. He suffers, I enjoy! I am with him during days, during nights, when he visits toilet, when he masturbates, in his public moments, in his most private moments and even in his dreams.

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I stubbed the cigarette butt on the floor. ‘I should quit’, I thought when I observed the fingers shaking while I was holding the cigarette. But cigarette is my real friend. And books. And mountains.
‘One should only love non-living things.’
You never know when a living organism will betray you. Even a dog when pushed in the corner, comes and attacks.
‘How the hell did I believe her! A women!! A girl!!!’
She is the sweetest dream to me and a cruelest reality. She has no right to treat me like this. She has no right to leave me in wreckage. She just used me and then kicked me. ‘Should I give her a call and yell at her? Nope!’
Let me not get into all this again. Buddy, let her go. Thinking about her will not change anything. C’mon! Get up! It’s 9’O clock already.
‘What the fuck!! No cigarettes. Shit!’
‘Aah! There is one. Thank God! The fucker God!’
There was one by the window. I stretched my limbs and got out of the bed. I thought of getting ready first and then smoke this one. But I guess I need to smoke this right now. Let me get out these thoughts out of my heart with the thick smoke.

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He thinks that the world has been unjust to him throughout. When she was going with him, he thought of leaving her. Not only once, not twice but may be thrice. Or even more times. He thought she is not compatible with him. This bugger never thought whether he is compatible to her or not. He always thought of individualism, open society, free sex and what not. But what he did actually? Talked with her about books when she might needed a romantic talk. Took her to a off-bit movie with powerhouse performances (as written in the newspaper review. He always survived on the news-papers or quotations from the books he has never read but are highly recommended by the so called scholars) when she might had wanted to watch a light comedy. He tried to enforce his thoughts upon her, his enjoyments over her entertainment. And then he thought she fails to understand him. Bullshit!

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One more day at work. It’s 8.30 in the evening only.
‘A Gold-flake Kings pack, bhaiyya’. Man, I am smoking too much. This is already second pack of the day plus two cigarettes from the morning. But fucker what’s remaining in life? Atleast my cigarette doesn’t leave me. She doesn’t fuck me. Like her. To hell with her!
If she was bored of me or thought that I am useless, she should have told me straight way. Why did she break off on a paltry reason? That was a pure farce. She didn’t need me anymore. She simply used me. Fuck off!! When she wanted, she made me call her. At night, at mid-night, at dawn, at work, during meetings, from the toilets. From everywhere, at anytime for anything. And once she went back to her home, she gradually stopped. Fucker!!!
Hey, I should not abuse her. She was very sweet. And very soft. And plumb. And beautiful. But crooked and wicked!!! Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am going to go mad now. Fuck you! Fuck her!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Fuck man, this is third cigarette from this pack. Already smoked two in last half an hour. My throat is hoarse and dry. I need water. Shit! Shit!! Shit!!!

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He is preparing a cup of black coffee. Drinking black coffee makes him believe a notch above his room-mates. And he doesn’t fail to make it a point to his roomies. He is the biggest hypocrite I have ever met, well technically, he has ever met.

Lost for Words

Had I been a poet, I would had written something similar to this.. but as a human, I am feeling this..


Lost For Words
I was spending my time in the doldrums
I was caught in a cauldron of hate
I felt persecuted and paralysed
I thought that everything else would just wait

While you are wasting your time on your enemies
Engulfed in a fever of spite
Beyond your tunnel vision reality fades
Like shadows into the night

To martyr yourself to caution
Is not going to help at all
Because there'll be no safety in numbers
When the Right One walks out of the door

Can you see your days blighted by darkness?
Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?
Stuck in a word of isolation
While the ivy grows over the door

So I open my door to my enemies
And I ask could we wipe the slate clean
But they tell me to please go fuck myself
You know you just can't win

------Pink Floyd, The Division Bell

I am Jack's wasted life

wake up every morning with her thoughts in mind.. go to sleep, rather attempt to sleep again with her thoughts... spend endless days.. working, the only time, i dont think of her.. i dont know how long i can succeed doing this.. someday she will creep into my work as well..

thoughts of suicide linger on my mind.. thought of running away.. but where? i dont know.. its something like 'Run' from Pink Floyd.. where, why are unanswerable and then the thought becomes unthinkable.. i cant run.. i cant sleep.. i cant enjoy.. i cant weep.. i cant commit suicide.. i cant live any longer..

I am Jack's wasted life.......

Life

A surge passes over like the huge wave. I become excited, gay and at the same time helpless. I want to write. To write the naked truth and the dreamy tells. The cigarette butts and the dryness of the rum. The sexual urges and masturbations. Tragedy and loneliness of the life. Tired and blisterred body after the longed after treks and travels. The anxiety felt when a book nears the end and the void and the spell I feel after it is finished. The feeling of failure at the end of the day and the feeling of superiority after solving a problem. The tragic events in recent past and the kick I get out of imagining myself as a great cynic, sad, oldy in a lonely house at the fag end of life. The joy of jumping into the racks full of books with names such as Camus, Golding, Theroux, Sartre, Orwell, Salinger, Coetze and many more. The drooling over the memories of the long back read books. The feeling of dejavu. The subtleties of a poem. The long lost friends. Helplessness in finding a partner to share your thoughts. Imagining and rehersing to receive her calls with a shout at her with menacing words cutting through her ear-drum but hurting my own lungs. And then receiving her calls with the same fake tone and just dreaming to shout at her while another day passes without using the rehersed conversation because I never dare to hurt her. And it hurts like nothing else. The daily dilemna to drink or not ending with either of the option. The begining of another day, week, month and year. Rejuvenating books and travels. Killing memories and hostilities of close ones. The never spoken companion just burning herself to death by pushing the smoke into my body. And a desire to answer the never answered question... 'Why do I live?'....

A short story

There was a guy. Who loved a girl. There was a girl who loved the guy. Unfortunately the girl did not love this guy who loved her. But the guy she loved also loved her.
The girl got married (since this is an Indian story, it was an arranged marriage) to a guy (successful, rich and also handsome bcos in arranged marriage handsome is complementary with rich and successful) but not the one she used to love and even not the one who used to love her.
She lives happily ever after.

There is a bar. There is a bartender. There are two regular customers. They drink the same drink everyday for years. They have not spoken to each other anytime except passing the matchbox. Both are well settled in their professional life. But both are single and will remain single. They drink over some forgettable memories they are not able to forget.
And they drank sadly ever after.

Nothing

I should dedicate my blog to her. Everytime I decide to write anything, I simply find myself handicapped. She has occupied my 'form as well as space'. I always thought that form defines the space and space defines the form. Now for this condtion to exists (sorry to be mathematical but an engineer always thinks this way), form and space have to be different. Otherwise the whole thing will become either form or space. And then we cant term it as creation. It will be nothing. Simply nothing.

I have become that NOTHING.