Fragments

Seated in the dim glow of the lone bulb, that had exhausted itself after years of service, his life seemed splendid. In darkness light reveals itself and in fear courage. A blunt courage that had made him act earlier eased its grip; he felt a familiar sense of belonging rise up from within. In an instant the bulb went off, leaving behind darkness to wrap around him.

Twelve years ago in darkness had he lost his only friend, years seemed to fly by. It was a rainy night, thunder and lightning continued their routine disputes. Thunder lost its rage and ripped opened the sky with sound, as lightning cautiously retorted with insults of silence. Fred who happened to be the oldest was not home yet, on his way home he realized he wouldn’t get back to that familiar plot of land. He was dead, a victim of a fight he had nothing to do with. A fight no man could control, with flashes of white and bursts of sound the fight continued. They knew of the incident the next day. Robert had lost his only friend, someone he would never hesitate to talk to. This was in a way the beginning of silence as well as fear in his life. For the next twelve years he stayed out of two things, conversations and darkness.

But this time something had changed, fear ceased its control over him. He felt perfectly safe in the warmth of the night. Time passed, the night grew old and withered away making way to a new dawn. As the sun rose sprinkling drops of light onto everything around it, those eye lids that had rested now opened to see the pleasant light of day. Blurred entities began to take shape slowly. He recognized his room but failed to remember anything else, fragments from his past lingered in his mind. He moved around like a ghost, searched for his wallet, nothing was found. His thoughts he spoke aloud in monologue, hoping for something to come out of it. He was truly a ghost, a kind of ghost that was alive but could be killed.

He felt freedom for the first time in his life. The reset button had been hit; he had the chance to turn the wrongs of his life to right. He was one of those lucky men who won not lotteries but a life itself.

In haste had he gone out to discover a forgotten world, but he failed to discover anything new. As each second passed and as his eyes moved from object to object from person to person somewhere in his mind those images struck a note. His freedom or the strangeness and distance he felt from all that surrounded him seemed to disappear. The world of his past came back to him. The street vendors, the busy college goers, the old, the young, faces and voices began to rush through his mind in frenzy.

“Robert…aye Robert..why no Times?” a voice called out.

Realizing that it was his name, he turned back to find the source of that deep odd voice. It was a man holding up a news paper. Forcing a smile on his face he moved towards him.

“So what made you think you could miss out on a day’s action?” the man said “not once have you forgotten to buy the Times”

Robert still sporting a smile moved close and said “Has the world changed so much. I thought it could wait”

“Ahh….that’s clever..but you ought to be informed, don’t you?”

“Fine let me have it”

The news paper seemed to be same, as he skimmed through the pages while waiting for a cup of coffee. Homicides, suicide, scandals, and occasionally award announcements were reported along side pages that contained the list of all those fortunate people who never had the burden of waking from their fruitless slumber. The restaurant was a dust covered building; the grey walls had literally turned black due to the dust. The coffee came shortly, so did the bill.

Once back on the streets he tried even harder to figure out the ambiguities of his life. How did he lose his life’s memory, the most dreaded yet valued possession he had. That was a question that made his brain overheat and produce a migraine.

Seated at a bus stop was an old gentleman who had the air of a government servant, taking quick glances at his watch every two seconds.

“Do you know the way to the medical shop?” Robert asked as gently as possible

 

The old man drew a quick glance, motioned his head in the forward direction and let out a short undistinguishable murmur.

Getting the hint Robert began in the direction towards the shop, with an irritated mind and an aching head. A few meters and strange faces later he reached a brand new shop with neon lights and huge banners that read “Alpha Medicals” in three different languages.

The drug was handed out quick, in an instant it vanished and the so called relief process began.

Stepping out again into the dust and heat he once again began the lesson of familiarizing taught to him by nature. Almost all of his past had returned to him but one, his job. But that was not to be for very long.

“Hey…where have you been…a lot of people are worried!” said a fair young man who unlike every one else was dressed in a three piece suit on an extremely hot day. 

“Hey” he let out a single syllable not knowing what to say.

“So how come you decide to take a walk when the company has decided to throw you a party?” he asked with a hint of dissatisfaction.

“I was sick.”

“That’s sad. After years of reporting you get a promotion to stay indoors and voila you’re sick” an air of arrogance was now rising.

Minutes past, a few more ‘voilas’ too and some more arrogance came along with some chit chat about this and that of the office. Once all that was out, he moved past Robert with haste and a friendly nod.

He was apparently a journalist, he was the one who defined the views of people on a lot of matters and issues, and however he was the only one that wrote about all ages not knowing his own life in totality, still trying to piece together fragments of his past. These fragments however over time guaranteed him that if time was allowed they would fix themselves. Such knowing brought him relief.

*************************

The next morning, fixing his tie, he prepared himself to come face to face with all those less fortunate souls that had woken this morning, rehearsing each line he would speak to them, each nod, each gesture, ensuring not a millisecond robbed him of that air of familiarity he intended to display.

He had been reset, how he didn’t know, that was the incident that had gotten him over his fear of conversations and darkness. Now in front of mirror stood a new man, Robert last name unknown, journalist, unafraid of darkness and conversations. How these changes were brought out in him, he failed to see. The passing of each second made him less and less concerned. In an hours time he would continue in his share of misfortune, his life.

The clock struck nine, a man in a purple tie, hands free, walked out of that apartment with a new found attitude. His face glowed as a result of some unknown victory.

Reaching the corner of that busy street, Robert stopped, let of a sigh and moved towards the newspaper vendor and said “The Times..I ought to stay informed!”

“Yes…it costs dearly to live in the past” sounded the deep odd voice of a man.

With a smile he parted, with not many memories to his possession but with hope that he could make some more, for the plainness of his existence alarmed and frightened him.

He followed his path, as he was guided by the address on the newspaper. And there it was a three storied building with a board as big as a truck which read

“THE TIMES

            Where the past recreates and the present unfolds”

Reaching the third floor, after being greeted with strange yet familiar faces, his typical day began or so he assumed. It had taken him years to earn a chair and table, however today his freshness never ceased. For on that eventless day, a day which was same as day that had passed for many, he felt new and ready to recreate his past. For it was the first time in history that a man could change not his future but his own past.

The day progressed just the way he thought it would, eventless.

In a day there lies so much to be conquered, so much to be lost and so much to be forgotten as well as remembered. The arms of the clock moved at different speeds for different people, for some it lagged and yet for some it rushed. For a man with a new found identity the arms rushed, they moved so swiftly that Robert cared for nothing but to savor every passing second even as he considered his life as something less fortunate. He envied the dead, the ones that had found peace in an everlasting undisturbed slumber.

Packing his bag, he moved towards the exit, completing the first day of work after his re- birth. The elevator helped him descend, in a couple of moments he found himself standing at an cold empty corner of a nameless street, still not knowing why he stood motionless.

He felt peace.

He stood undisturbed, until a dark silhouette of a woman appeared a few meters away from him.

Time stopped.

Moving towards the last piece of the puzzle, he knew not what to expect. Her dark brown eyes made him move swiftly.

Out of nothingness suddenly appeared a mob of unfortunate souls, busy and in a hurry to get where they were supposed to go. The crowd swallowed them both; Robert couldn’t distinguish one from another. Moving with the crowd he was lost. In a city of millions this was common, if only he could remember that.

Turning a corner, crossing the road, he went into uncharted territory. A little neighborhood which seemed to exist a few decades back, still unchanged with an atmosphere that felt stagnant and unchangeable by its greatest enemy, time.

Dark clouds gathered, cutting off the sun from its usual habit of savoring its last moments before it had to set. Flashes of lightning and eruption of thunder made its presence known. Rain hesitated to wash away the weariness that lay after a hard days work. Thunder and lightning grew louder and brighter. A few windows closed, and the sound of silence was heard except at moments of dispute. With each flash of lightning a scene recreated itself, breaking almost all laws of time and space that made clocks frown, a scene of tragic consequences unfolded.

A young man of twenty, moved forward, running out of breath, in sheer desperation, a young man that had familiarity written all over his face, a face that revealed itself in flashes. He resembled a good deal of Robert’s past, moving forward in panic, reaching no where but his end.

Robert moved to help him yet distance grew between them, time had revealed a lot but time had no second thoughts in stopping him from changing it. The young man motioned forward yet reached no where.

Robert halted, looked up to the sky as the rain had begun pouring down; the young man however faced downwards lying on the ground motionless. He kept his gaze steady at the heavens, the moment in history that had shaped his life had just unfolded before him, he was finally at peace with darkness and conversations, and this was the last piece of the puzzle that had reset his life.

Now at peace with his past, the fragments that had hidden themselves from him began to resurface. In a strange land witnessing the strangest encounter of his life he was no longer lost. He knew perfectly well how to get back.

*************************************

   

The Eclipse of Fantasy

In an ever changing world with people decked up with a million identities and faces there was a man who was not the least different. A man with so many similarities that all his life he went unnoticed, not daring to go against the tides, the average teen, later the average guy in a less than average world with a million other guys. His similarities acted as a camouflage as it did for everyone else. Now looking back to those long lost unused stagnant days of his youth he felt a sense of regret. The strands of hair that remained unmoved by the tests of time now grayed, this was what he regretted. He had forgotten to dye his few surviving strands to say the least hair. Too late to act, he moved nervously to the cubicle he was assigned in his office.

Cubicle No: 11223

Name: Victor J

Employee Id: sA183Zi 

The little piece of paper greeted him every morning reminding him of his name, a name that was given to him that had exactly nothing to do with who he was or where he was from, then what was it for he asked himself a million times including today, still not finding an answer. Papers filled his desk, cost cutting schemes had to be thanked for that, or else these papers covered with dust would lie not on his desk but on his desktop with their constant need to be corrected and rearranged so that their reader, another average guy could get the best of the best when it came to what a celebrity had for lunch. That sad profession was his, he was supposedly a journalist. A journalist that shaped the view of the world regarding matters of great importance and prominence such as what cars Mr. S drove, who he dated, what he had for lunch, how he managed to smoke without turning his teeth yellow etc. etc. That was his sad life.

Going through the latest happenings in the local La La Land, not knowing why he was doing this for a living Victor went through each and every piece of paper that lay at his desk in such mechanical movements that showed his experience better than in his portfolio.

Why he did this was a question he had neither an answer nor an alternative. In simple terms he was a hungry man at least thrice a day everyday and journalism put bread on his table and his bed at times.

The world he lived in was the product of his imagination and experience. His imagination was not imaginative and his experiences in life were just the monotonous days he had lived so far and the days yet to come which also seemed less promising and monotonous. Hence his world was the living definition of boredom and routine. Life presented itself before him as a habit. And he was the last person who would think that life was enjoyable.

Waiting in line for a cup of coffee that tasted like a mix of warm water and bitterness(if that’s a flavor) ideas of quitting sprang up in his mind, even though it was customary to think of such risky  thoughts and eventually discard them with ease. But this time it was different, he didn’t trouble himself to think. He walked out of that office, walked out like a hero walking into the sunset with pride and courage, walking out into a happy ending. He was finally out after paying no heed to

“Sir, you’re leaving? Is everything ok?”

“Hey you this ain’t your daddy s house to go for a walk when you feel like!”

and the strange glances he got from the clerks and people who he had not known all his life. He was now out and the 11 am sun that was seldom seen greeted him out into the open with its scorching heat. The city welcomed him with its dust and noise. The best welcome he got was from within, that congratulated him.

He said to himself in a whisper “Well done”

But such whispers were short lived, naïve and were the outcome of thoughtless deeds. Thoughts of going back soon started to siege his mind from all directions.

Around the corner, by the side of a gray building for almost a kilo meter or more the street was filled with artists, painters of all kind, unrecognized for they failed to gift the world with Mona Lisa’s and David’s but had given less beautiful descriptions of their minds. It was a frenzy of people getting their portraits done, bargaining prices for something that would look “perfect for the living room” stood buyers and sellers. Making his way towards something that had caught his eye, a woman with her large brown eyes looking directly at him Victor pushed forward not realizing a new emerged confidence that had risen silently.

                                                                   *****

Waking up to the same old sound whose duty was to interrupt the dreams that came as a relief were not frowned upon by him, but was just a sad routine that had dictated his life, his day and himself for almost thirty eight years. The buzzing noise of the people who were in a hurry to do all sorts of things and the noise of the traffic which happened to be the regional tune which all inhabitants in one way or the other hummed in the course of a lifetime there.

He was now awake and was facing her, her eyes cold yet unmoved stared at him with hostility, the kind of hostility which over the years he had grown accustomed to. Those large brown eyes were the only ones he knew of that could see deep into himself with frightening clarity, into the depths of his soul, if he had one that is. Neither had enough courage to break the silence, neither knowing what to say let silence do the talking, the accusing, the justifying, the laughing and the weeping, silence took over.

He was late. But with every passing moment he grew less concerned of missing the bus, being late, running through the streets, still not managing to find favor with the arms of the clock, still late, tired and eventually fired.

Neither of them had moved, not one muscle dared twitch. Silence had now finished the dialogue which both of them longed for. Without uttering a syllable they knew of what the other had in mind.

He apologized, she refused apology, he justified, she demanded an apology, with his head hanging low he gave up, now she smiled. Silence transformed itself into something warm, less hostile. He felt comforted in her presence. He felt the warmth of the air that was all around him, an air that was such a stranger to him as well as the remaining 3 million people that occupied the stretch of land by the side of one of the nation’s filthy rivers. Warmth was all that his life looked for, in a blizzard not just of snow what else could one hope for?

Time had passed; the longer arm of the clock had moved so much that it got back to where it had started. An hour had passed, twelve minutes and twenty three seconds to be exact. He got up and moved towards the sink, splashed cold water onto his sleep ridden face, inhaled a deep breath, not looking back put on his coat for the warmth that pampered him earlier had now turned cold, and left the building.

Now on an empty street, empty just because he failed to recognize all of those faces that moved in unison with him, empty because the others had not seen him, empty because he was a stranger in a strange land even though the strange land was the only place he had known all his life. In fact the place was the not the least empty, it was crowded and claustrophobia was a household name and disease.

Turning the corner, steeping over a sleeping dog, he saw it. There it was, there it had always been but there it wouldn’t always be, the lake. It was so old that it had to be named all over again, mainly because the old name made no sense, no meaning, so out of sheer necessity it was named The Lake. He tried desperately why he hadn’t visited it more often.

A glance was not enough, neither were two. He stood there looked at it, felt sorry for it, sort out solutions it needed in his head, cursed all that made it like this and left. That was all he could do and that was all he did.

Returning back to the apartment he left not turning his back he was once again welcomed with those cold eyes. It was true the walls in his apartment did have eyes and ears. But that was not reality; the walls and the sound of silence were just parts of him that were created by him in fantasy. Not reality. The sites he saw and sounds he heard outside his nest and his cubicle were the definition of real, not his job nor the cold eyes and sharp ears that existed within an 8”X11” piece of canvas bordered off from the real world with a fake wooden frame.

These were the last moments of their relationship he decided, she would go off into the world of dragons and ponies and he would enter the land of real, a world that couldn’t be defined at the moment, he would go into the world with neither dragons nor ponies. This were their last seconds of mutual existence, this was the end.

Looking at the clock he knew a day was almost over, time true to its word waited for no man. The portrait was taken down. His mind began to rise up. The dictator of his life seemed lifeless. He began to live. Not in a cubicle nor did he live in a canvas with a stranger, but in a world that with every passing second disappeared, in a world were lakes and rivers were dirty, in a world outside the grasp of imagination, in the world of the real.

                                                                   THE END