The heat wakes me up early,
Torrid orange-yellow glow drifts in through the swaying, thin curtains.
The heat that wakes me up early is a kind of unknown warning.
The heat stops my aimless journey with fake dreams as consorts.
I touch her hand gently.
The heat is driving me to rewind and review.
The heat is the template on which my review workflow starts.
I am rolling, rewinding,
Like an innocent lithe figure running in one direction and the parallel frame running in the opposite direction.
You don’t know who is running to where.
It is the heat that is waking me early and making my eyes burn.
There were college kids on the road. Some of the them in pale-blue shirts and dark blue pants and others in casuals. They were walking aimlessly to their college.
Big, dry leaves were scattered all over the dusty road.If you take one of them in your hand, it might rupture. If you rewind that act of taking the dry leaf, holding it in your hand, the rupturing leaf may look like a breaking blood vessel.
Broken pieces from a pothole awaited the next vehicle to get dispersed. I usually push a few of them under my car to save them from being run over.
A woman was sweeping the road and whipping up all the quiet dust to the air. In between she pushed a dirty waste bin.
There was a dictionary that I used to look at every day as a kid and it had pictures of utensils, guns and machines. Only nouns had pictures.
The autorickshaw I took had to take a diversion as right in the middle of the road stood a lorry unloading concrete blocks. Somebody always constructed something here. The driver, an elderly man with a high, white beard, stopped the auto and awaited my orders, as if I were his master.
At every intersection, the driver turned his head, signalling that I issue the next order.
I was a navigation map sitting with a laptop bag and with two hands and two legs.
All of us have felt this problem with the route to take. Our route.
The house was empty. but there was someone inside.
Our entry into that house was interesting. I could not remember through which door I went inside. It was the living room.
The room was well-lit and the angle presented was like a tilted camera. The room was empty.
We moved into the next room from a door at the center. Someone was standing frightened in the room’s corner. My grandmother said something and the shabby figure did not answer back.
The dream ended. I was left wondering what that figure was doing in that house. The house that I grew up.
I could hear the key turning on the lock next door while I sat doing nothing beneath a shelf filled with books. I could hear the key turning as if someone’s hand was shivering.
In fact, there could be no ideal way of turning a key on a lock. It always sounded like someone was in a hurry to open the door and get in or away from the outside. I had tried to test the symphony of a key turning on a lock. For a couple of times, I locked the door from the inside and told my wife over the phone that she should use the key to open the door while coming back from office. When she turned the key on the lock, I listened to her odd way of doing it. It was different from the noise that I often hear from the next door.
I knew the young man who was trying to lock the door in the morning and then open it sometime before noon. Just like other neighbors, I never opened my door, or my window, or appeared on the balcony to know what the man was doing or who was opening the door. I just listened to that sound of the key on the lock. I could not remember whether I had heard the sound of the key after that. May be I was sleeping, watching TV, browsing aimlessly, or reading a book or that wretched newspaper that I always wanted to stop reading.
The man was not alone in that flat. There is a woman, his wife, and a kid in that flat.
A long, winding highway. White line on the black road. Brown hues all around, undulating earth and evening Sun.
A car darts into the scene from the left. Something does not look right.
The scene shifts to the right, as if someone is looking to the right from the back seat of the car.
A man in black coat is running parallel to the car.
The car driver looks back, the man in coat reach the edge of the road, towards the car.
The man holds a long rod.
In the next 20 seconds, the driver screams as the man hits the windscreen with the rod.
Everything goes slow.
We enjoy the unequal mitosis of the glass. The driver loses control. The car skids to the left of the road.
In the next 20 seconds, we see a pool of red as the man kneels down, hit with a bullet on the stomach. Red splash on a white shirt.
The man does not want to live; the close-up of his face says. I don’t want to live.
New Year is just a construct. Today is the same as ever and there is no difference in me either.
I don’t know why I want to visit a European country like Italy, or sit facing a blueish lake reading the classics written so far.
The Sun is not out today, the chill in the air starts to crawl up the legs. A squirrel darts across a terrace and then stops to gaze at a swaying green branch.
Where is this year’s greatest living author?
A narrow road. To the left is either a pole or a stick standing a bit awkward to the left. Behind leaves on tendrils.
There is something on that pole or stick. A sign board, may be. On it, a half-drawn circle and a cross.
Just before I woke up, I remembered my home where I grew up. I, the poor boy!