Yonder

He finished combing his hair, let himself share a slight half-smile with the mirror, and smoothened his sweater rather unnecessarily.

The silence in the room was overwhelming. There was an expectant air about his reflection that he’d change his mind, or wait for tomorrow’s game show episode, or that he’d want to wait for his grand daughter’s next call. He let his mind dwell on these thoughts almost indulgently, and he snuffed them out in patience.

The sheets were in place…the wardrobe arranged…the last book placed by the bedside lamp, bookmark et al. There was even an After Eight kept under the pillow. If she ever could return, she’d be home.

He walked with solemn purpose upto the various cabinets in the house, picking up the things he wanted. The family picture from happier times. The jokebook he’d read out to his kids. The chewing gum he’d kept secret from his doc. The money. The letters. And the medals.

Medals he’d won for long distance running many years ago. They no longer shone, and the inscriptions seemed like hieroglyphics now…but they were a testament, all the same.
They’d all been forgotten until a month back, when he was desperately rustling the cupboards for every memory she’d have left him. Those races now seemed to be so many lifetimes ago.

Those races were starting again. Tonight.

He slipped them into his pockets, rapped the wooden table twice, necessarily, and strode out. Mumbled what was supposed to be a prayer at the foot of his door, wiped the nameplate clean, and stepped gingerly onto the stairs….

The plan was to drop the letters and the cellphone at the post box, and to catch a cup of chai at the station. The plan was to walk to Panvel, steadily and yet at his pace, and to avoid the noisy roads enroute. If and when he did reach…the plan was to catch his breath, have another cup of chai, and check the schedule board for the first train out of the city.

The plan was chai in clay cups and the fourth seat in the sleeper berth. The plan was
to sit in the luggage room and wait for another train to another direction, if he did not like the people or the place he was with. The plan was to send postcards every week to the Sewree cemetery in Mumbai, where a dear old friend would quietly direct them to the correct address.

Beyond that, he was incapable of planning. He may just step out of the station and visit a town or a dozen. He may just take up a job at a Wheeler book store in some quaint Dom Moraes town. And he may just get beaten or robbed or sent to some home.

But he’d reached a point where nothing truly mattered. He’d lived a full life. He’d live again.

Now listening – Wanderlust, Mark Knopfler

Wonderland

When men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know

Most nights it was a little niggle. Something that drowned easily in beer, that got outshouted by the playlist of the night, or that gave up and watched Leno with him.

There had been others like this one. They usually lived under the surface for a couple of months, peaked feverishly on a random, ranting trip to Hangoverland, and petered out quietly after. Status quo. So it goes.

The one haunting him today seemed to be of a deadly new strain. One that had sneaked past his usual daily antibiotics; and had waited till the lights in the house were out. And had chosen a sober night to attack. And attack it did....with a vengeance for all it's deceased earlier versions that had been thwarted.

The hapless author tossed and turned in his sleep for a while, and realised he'd been wide awake all along. Staring at the ceiling was not the answer now. Forced yawning or counting sheep were never the answer. He'd usually switch on something soothing on his walkman at this stage, but no song seemed to have the answer.

Dude rose wearily to wash his face. This is to be one of those nights. Denial was not the answer.

He switched on the low yellow bulb in the washroom, splashed his face measuredly a couple of times, and straightened up slowly to stare back at his reflection.It seemed a routine he'd been practising for a while now. Like say, a decade.

Work was so not the answer. This was something he'd figured out at the time of switching career interests (again, abt a decade back)...so the failure of this hypothesis wasnt breaking his heart especially now.

Workaholism wasnt the answer. Shirking work wasnt. Having a job description that sounded awesome wasnt. Cribbing wasnt. And comparing paychecks threw up more questions that the act alone would answer. And it didnt. Workmates werent the answer. Areas of interest werent. Certifications werent. Prospects elsewhere werent.

Music promised to be the answer for a good while. The act of listening, not playing. Both werent. There were some guitar riffs around that could make him orgasm involuntarily, but they'd been playing for a good while now, and the dude's niggles continued to bubble. And there were lyrics he'd probably copy paste into his wedding vows, or his "birds and bees" talk to his kids. But nope, guitar riffs and lyrics werent the answer.

Books werent the answer. He'd been reading them a million a year once, but more to avoid having to talk to people, than anything else. And he liked reading books for what they had to offer, and not for what he'd been trying to wrangle out of them. Fiction, thankfully, never pretended to be the answer. Non fiction usually fell into Paulo Coelho, self help, spirituality or textbooks. And all 4 categories could sincerely fuck off.

Religion promised way too many answers. He'd been born way too cynical to actually believe anybody or anything. Especially when they all insist that the really good stuff gets you sent straight to hell. It's almost as if he'd rather stay ignorant of this answer, than put away his beer.

Sex wasnt the answer. Not that he actually knew this one. But there was something incongrous about the idea that a mutually assisted emission of body fluids by 2 sweaty, frantic characters hopping about manically under the covers, would answer his usual questions. He'd love to be personally proved wrong by a rather fetching member of the opposite gender...but part of him knows that he'd find himself staring again at some unfortunate mirror that night. Before rushing back to his senses and the bed.

Love...tough one this. He'd been convinced this was the Holy Grail....so it takes a while to let this one pass. But he probably wouldnt fall into this unless it's with some1 who's asking the same questions. Some like minded one who'd rather ask the questions, than get them answered. That puts two peas in a pod. That does not necessarily solve or silence the question. Then again...I wouldnt know. Never have been in a relationship. Abortive or otherwise. Wouldnt mind being proved wrong at this one either.

Football probably was the answer during boyhood...but those days are done. Hobbies are more like distractions away from the questions, rather than a path to the answer and I'd prefer keeping it that way. So that saves beer from ever getting questioned.

Travel may just be. Cooking may. Biking may. But I have friends who are champs at all 3, and they've got questions plaguing them as well. And there are a zillion things I could pick up and mull over in this way, but they just wouldnt be the answer. Or there was no way of knowing if they would.

The guy's reflection now looked like he'd forgotten his wallet someplace.
Usually he wore this quiet, demanding, searching look that wouldnt waver or blink....but would stare right back at the dude, until the latter turned away with a muttered FU. Not today. Today he looked like the prosecutor, who'd been struck with amnesia. The dude had no clue about the question.

Which was what started this fucked up niggle in the first place. This wasn't a case of Dennis not going where he promised himself he would. The dude didnt know where to go from here.

The 'Now What?' syndrome, ladies and gentlemen, has finally landed.

Currently listening : White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane