A little attic
A little silent
Corner of my eyes
Farther from my home
Further off my heart
Fused to my footsteps
Is weary and smeary
I am bound by its ladders
Is not it’s people
It’s upper top
Is hoisting my self
Left right of it’s centre
Never ever I thought
Never ever I felt
Turbulence in the walls
Tremors in the concrete
It’s so pale, pillars never seen
Inn, a sober inn
Is around this attic
Inside a pile of buildings
Brought up in haste
Brewing up smoky lives
Bruising itself in this course
Bragging time and again
Feeling so feverish
I crawl up the ladders
Leading to a larking future
Coiling left right and centre
They grew in courage time and again. Every time, I see them in kitchen sinks, or washrooms, or basins, they appeared insistent on their right to exist.
I was a proud owner of this 1445 square feet renter apartment, only to be challenged by these tiny cockroaches in the late hours of the night and early hours of the day. Yet I am quite convinced that the other species and beings from taxonomy shares the same sense of occupancy in this tiny earth.
Since last year, I have developed a sense of conscience camaraderie or willful coexistence with them. Many times I felt that these six legged creatures understands our pulse and impulse more vividly that our fellow homo sapiens. Perhaps their primordial heritage in living pre-human era has given them better understanding about our ways. In that sense they own all these places from time immemorial.
These brown bodied souls were always conscious enough not to disrupt my normal proceedings at house. At the same time, they were also feeling quite comfortable on our accidental and coincidental confrontations somewhere at midnight. They slowly faded away into the potholes and nether lands of our abode as soon as I interrupted their treasure hunts.
Not all of them were food gatherers or water surfers, or treasurer hunters. Some of them were aimless wanderers and nomadic beings with no strings attached. They found pleasure in simply gazing at the way others lived and died. Irrespective of all the differences, all of them must be good at sleeping peacefully at day time.
In this flummoxed state of affairs, I decided to leave my rented house for another day at work. Let them sleep the rest of the day without the husky ways of my daily routines.
In between the work hours and the late evening calls, he sat down near his favorite notebook and browsed through a few pages. Those spectacles in the table corner glared at him. Suddenly, an old internet browsing cafe glanced through his mind. It was handled all in all by a self taught computer savy young blood and his mother.
This narrative develops through the brief interaction with her. She considered her spectacles to be more efficient than the computer mouse that she had to confront the every other minute. Perhaps she knew how to open a browser and check if the internet connection exists. Before handing over the computer to each and everyone, she used to give a brief lecture as to how carefully we should handle the mouse. When we look through her ways, may be the computer terminals were as fragile and important as flowers in a garden or the home furniture.
Within a few visits, we became friends. She told me about the hardworking life of her only son. He seems to be struggling to run the cafe profitable. Apparently, in between his struggles, he has forgotten to marry. Computer terminals, internet URLs, downloaded files and his mother, were the only considerations for him.
I never had a chance to know him better as my human interest was more towards her interactions with machines in her peculiar ways. After so many years, her spectacles confront me every time I struggle with a new tech gadget !
When will you stop writing? She was all against his impulsive attitude to writing. He was not in a listening vein. He was sitting in a chair on the corner of that room, fragile and tired. Yet he was determined to write. He was half awake, half sedentary. Yet he tried to absorb all the energy possible from that chair. He sat in oblique angles, moving his center of gravity to all possible trajectories. What is center of gravity? Whatsoever, it was something of grave consequence to this little earth and of no consequence to this writer in focus.
What was he writing about? His tiredness. His doldrums. His empty wishes. His nomadic illness. Yet he was unable to transition from one thought to another. He just dwindled about the happiness of clinging to a no man’s land.
He penned down many irregular rhythms. Music was missing all throughout. She left him to lurch in this cacophony. All things looked grey and gone until those hours. His chair broke down into multiple pieces of four, as if center of gravity proved its existence. He was floored. Papers spread left and right. He looked at the walls. They were waging a tough weather.
He was not sure if she would listen to him again. Hence he decided to sleep over the papers and a spoiled pen. Nothing much could have been written. Walls continued to stare at the anemic shade of the floor and he was quite contended in his futile encounters.
A wiseman climbed a steep mountain. A mountain stretched so long like a wrinkled lips of a wavering woman. He fell ill on the 13th step on a Friday night. He had nightmares all throughout that night. He woke up next day morning seeing an army of ants and grasshoppers marching over a lush green grass. He gazed at the grass wedges and their gleaming pupil. He smelled a foul mushroom and felt so agitated and aroused. He felt an exuberance of ebullient kind. He walked further uphill. He found many kind of stones upward. Pink stones, peal wreaks, prisms, pennies, pieces pieces, piercing poppies, penchant potatoes. These were some of the peculiar stone hinges. Then came a nomadic solar eclipse. It lasted 21 days, 17 nights. There were so many steps ahead. It was all well until he reached the 29th step. Everything looked clumsy, chiseled and shattered. He took a moment of pause and looked beneath. 3300 feet above the mother earth and the warring tides. He just took a breath and loved the lace of gentle air beyond him. He must have stood another 3300 seconds and 33 hours ahead in time ! Everything stood in frames, nothing but inverted coma !!