Asymmetric dreams. Windowpanes smitten by the storm. Abani is stranded at the crossroad. There are four ways to reach home. He contemplates each of them. He may have done this the whole day, even without a drop of rain. Actually, his clerkship exams guaranteed him five thousand over the table. Black was never that fascinating to him.
His house is akin to the cave in which some Robert, who was heavily influenced by a spider, stayed. The only difference, the house lacked spiders. In their place, were lizards, who meticulously consumed vermin flesh. The calculated steps towards the heedless prey and then gobbling it up is all he missed during this period of stagnation. Though, its nothing new.
Abani’s tattered umbrella acted like a sieve. It resisted the attack of hails and their sharp edges. He ponders on the degree of serration his parasol saved him from. He overlooks the entry of water, which has already wetted his attire. Certain sequestered memoirs seem to revisit the conscience. Alas! Its like the wailing wave. The moment he expects it to speak, it froths.
Abani checks his watch. Its late. Too late. He heads towards the least traversed street. The monotony of the relentless day was already disturbed by the storm. He thus adds sauce to the dish. On his route, he encounters an abandoned park. A specter of a park to be more precise. He decides to digress a bit. He can afford to as the desk back at his place was devoid of the regular folders. He voluntarily attempts to disturb the symmetry of the place. He picks up a broken log, lying beside him, on the bench, inanimate. He keeps his umbrella on the bench and gapes at the wood. It should have been living before the storm, as per Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose. Now its dead. What difference does it make? He discovered the log is akin to him. Mirth paved its way. A desire to smile coaxed him, but he was obstinate. Now, back to the goal. He gets up and hits whatever he gets in his way. Repeated blows oozed out lunacy. What happened to this perfectly sane bloke?
A peal disturbs his action. He throws the log and picks up his umbrella. He scampers out of the park without even opening his parasol. He darts towards his den. His acceleration hurts his inflexible muscle. The agility he is used to is no where near to this new found speed. The gyration of some wheel in his think tank pulverizes the conventional sanity the world is used to. The world as always will perceive it with a negative filter, since its new, unaccustomed. That’s the law.
Newton’s first law of motion says the body tends to retain its static position. A genius was he. This is applicable in case of the society. The prejudiced lot will rot the fresh. The penetration of reason is inapplicable. They fear a change but are desirous of it. The outcome is the generation of corrosive force, which epitomizes the barbarism in them. They inoculate their peers too. Generations after generations of monotony. Same inclination. Same oppression. Same depression. The clerk is not the defaulter. His father has confided in him the easiest way to consume life. Pay heed to the basic amenities. Neglect the idiosyncrasies.
That doesn’t stop the great to purify the land. The clerk has returned. He freshened himself. Siesta won’t embed in him tonight. He became one with the monotonous desolation of his existence. The giant wheel still revolved in the realms of his conscience.
Dawn struck its quarter.
The palest blue was omnipresent. The weary faded brown in the eyes revolts. Gazing at the last visible sparkle, he contemplates. The diluted orange strata poke. His conscience provoked. He lifts up with a mighty jolt, searching for her soul. The halogen brushed green of a distant canopy, may be the missing abode. Or is she the hydronium ion of the yellow muriatic bottle. Or is she in the crumbs, left alone. Maybe she is encumbering the exhausted palette, exhausted by the toll of clerkship. Or maybe she is the colorless slumber in his arid throat.
She is the answer to Abani’s dying quench. She is the answer to the monotony. The answer to the beguiled existence of mankind, unyielding to the newness. The answer to the pathos leading to cannibalism percolated through generations. She is the answer to the never-ending regret of proletariats.
