It has been raining pigs and cows since yesterday. I woke up in the middle of the night to find that the windows that I left open, only for the breeze to pass through, had no conception of differentiating between wind and water – And I was basically camping in my room, with an unwelcome midnight bath.
Raju, the pigeon which has been nesting on the window panes, decided that if there was an apt time to move in, this was it. ‘Not afraid of humans anymore?’, I asked him. And like so many people around me, he too decided to ignore me. I was not feeling adventurous enough to take him on a tour around WadalaHouse and let him know his place in the scheme of things. So I left him in peace.
My air conditioner has again broken down within 3 days of repair – Not that I need it right now – but better have it and not need it, then need it and not have it. No, it did not break down due to rains. Nor due to overuse. It appears that the warmth of the other side of AC is a perfect place for squirrel’s nesting. She feels that there is absolutely no reason for her to shift her base, even if her nest is at risk of being swept away every now and then, even though once I swept her nest away with a tiny squirrel in it, only to discover it later and spending next 24 hours trying to reunite him with her mother – Maybe I ended up encouraging her with my activities.
I realized that kids now might never know the concept of Rainy Day – If it’s raining classes will just be held online. Students in the last year of their graduation will never get the chance to do all the hooliganism that they planned as ‘super senior’ – No farewell parties, overflowing alcohol. Pandemic has brought forth scenarios that were never thought of.
Also – parrots are spies. And arrogant. And irritating at times. They act cute when you feed them, concealing their agenda. But not for long. Never cross a parrot, if you would take my advice – But why would you, it is an unsolicited advice. One should not pay attention to everything everyone says.
Do you remember your first fountain pen? Or your favorite one? That feeling of being old enough to own a pen. Moving on from Nataraj & Faber Castell. Truly jumping into the world of words.
That was a time when paper did not come cheap. Blank papers from old notebooks became new notebook – Rough Copy 🙂 This copy had papers of all shapes and sizes. All colors and tints. Square boxes of maths notebook. And three lines of Literature notebook. A souvenir, a gift, from last year to this – jumbled up, yet so simple.
All the thoughts in my head. And all the thoughts in yours. Will be ink one day. And paper and pen. And then, at last, I will write us a poem. And a love song, maybe.
Sometimes my mind is like a dangerous storm. And my heart is thrown away in all directions. I need to look beyond the eye of this storm. I need to write it all down. I need my pen – The one that is lost now.
A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head. He was a victim of concussion.
When it was all over he felt like a man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never – quite – touched – bottom – never – never – quite – no not quite – touched – bottom … and you fell so fast you didn’t touch the sides either … never … quite … touched … anything.
“To have lived and died as one had been born, unnecessary and unaccommodated”
A story set up in the colonial era, of an Indian family settled in Trinidad. Parents who only want their children to become what they aspire to be. Children, who continue being children, running in the green fields, getting flogged for a misdeed, on-and-off relationship with education. And gradually children becoming parents and continuing to play their role in the setup.
A dream of most middle-class families at that time – Getting a pukka house of their own. This is the main theme of this story. The main theme of the life of Mr. Biswas – moving from place to place, house to house, dreaming of one day when he can sit back and relax in a house of his own.