The Eternal Walk Beyond

Sometimes I fear, no one ever gets the vibe.
The journey I sauntered, the conquests I conquered
The adventures that enthralled, the unknown who always called
The glory with no audience, for which I never took offense
Sometimes I fear, this loneliness will engulf my existence
The shackles unseen, will take better of my perseverance
The lights dimmed, the tunnel beyond elongated
It is indeed terrifying, to think of life such corrugated
But wait a second, my past holds a grudging difference
I have just not survived, but have functionally evolved
And there is no reason why can’t it be ever resolved
No, absolutely not
No fear is as horrifying as me
Neither any solitude is as monstrous
I am going to thrive, move, survive
Not because I have passion
But because there’s just no other option
New age Constantine
Call me that if you want to
I would like to think of myself so
My kinsfolk say it’s a boon
I can’t help but think it’s a curse
Boon, curse, curse, boon
Can’t see any more why it even matters
All I know is the walk can’t be stopped
And it will never be
Maybe a supernatural
Takes care of it
Maybe it’s my subconscious
Working on the subjugated conflict
The walk, it will go on
For eternity
And beyond
Till the stars shine
Bright and low
I don’t know my fate
Maybe it’s getting too late
There is no happiness left
Neither is there sadness
All I have with me further
Is the acknowledgement
That I exist in flesh
Hence my shadow is a precursor
I walked, I am, and I always will be
Carrying the Neanderthal genes
To oblivion or magnificence
Only dear time shall tell.

The Marriage Fever

The Marriage Fever

Out of nowhere, it turned chilly. Though everyone felt the unexpected drop in the temperature, for him it was a bit more than just that. It seemed that in the month of April, the ghost of winter that just went recently decided to spring back and shock him like a jack-in-the-box.

Toying with his pen, he looked outside; the rain was splashing hard against the windows, making them tremble. Drr drr brrrrrrr, drr drr brrrrrr. The trembling was quite rhythmic, he noticed, realizing he did it subconsciously. Drr drr brrrrrr….

With a bit of difficulty, he dragged his eyes away from the window. He felt irritated to be transfixed to something as mundane as watching rain splatter against closed glass panels of a window. But he thought it must be because he was not feeling like working today at all and his mind was actively looking for a distraction.

Thinking about nothing in particular, he opened the cap of his pen and started scribbling in his work diary. He gazed at the shiny, steely nib of his fountain pen. Seven months ago, he decided to write only with fountain pens and since then he never touched a ballpoint or gel pen again. He loved both the fountain pens he owned; one that he brought to work and another that he kept at home. Staring at the nib affectionately, he realized he didn’t just love his pens, he was quite obsessive about them.

The dark royal blue ink occasionally dripping from the nib, smudging his thumb and index finger, and the fragrance of raw ink wafting from the paper when he writes fresh on it - it is kind of exhilarating for him, making his mind spin in a soothing manner. Maybe it is because he travels back in past to those days in the fourth standard at Holy Cross when the students were allowed to use only fountain pens as a rule. Maybe because when he breathes in deeply the aroma of ink, he finds himself back in the classroom, sitting on the wooden bench, even if it is quite momentarily.

   

“You done with that article?” his team head, who sits behind him on the opposite cubicle, asked. “Already mailed,” he replied nonchalantly. Everywhere around him the keyboards were consistently hit. Pitter Patter pitter patter. Again, before he could have helped it, he noticed there was a rhythm to it too. How the hell on earth, he thought. Can’t be remotely possible. A dozen teams working on at least 50 different projects. Coders, designers, and content writers like him, all working on a set of tasks assigned to them specifically. How can there be any rhythm? How can there be any sync to the entire thing?

He looked at the clock. Must sleep early, must get up early, must exercise a bit. He said to himself. He has been doing it for the past seven months since he joined this office. Not that he never succeeded. He did sleep early, wake up early and exercise. But that was a handful of days in all those months. “Doesn’t really count, does it,” he said to the Van Gogh’s picture that was his desktop’s background image.

Wishing the day would pass sooner, he opened Facebook on his phone and started to browse through the posts. While scrolling down insipidly, he stopped at a post. Another schoolmate getting married.

These days, 7 out of 10 times he goes online on social media, especially Facebook, he sees a wedding post of some classmate, college mate, or a friend. This guy in particular, whose latest post he just watched, was a rather peculiar one back in school. He had this weird and annoying habit of grabbing students’ balls in the morning assembly queue, for no reason at all. He had been warned several times and once almost got expelled too, but it seems he was just obsessed with grabbing guys’ balls. Ball Grabber – they had nicknamed him.

What lucky girl got to marry him, he thought, looking at the picture of the Ball Grabber, grinning at the camera cladded in a heavily embroidered Sherwani. The girl, in equally heavy embroidered saree, was standing beside him, trying her best to smile at the camera. They both were drenched in sweat as if they just came out of the shower in those clothes. Why they even marry in summers, that too wearing those clothes. The mere sight of their picture made him feel suffocated all of a sudden.

He looked at the AC; a perfect 22 degree Celsius. Must be in my mind, he thought, loosening his crisply pressed shirt’s collar. He looked back at the picture again, at the girl. She must be around his age, most probably younger than him. Of course, if it’s an Indian wedding, chances are, the girl is going to be younger than the groom. But I am not the groom, he said to himself. Well, the guy is almost your age. You were together in a couple of grades, remember? He answered.

The girl seemed to be stooping by some weight, some kind of unseen burden. Is it the weight of the society’s expectations she is carrying that made her stoop that way? Is it the weight of the responsibilities that have been bestowed upon her at such a young age that she didn’t even ask for but that came nevertheless as a package for entering the life of a traditional Indian wife? He sipped the metal-tasting machine-made coffee and put the cup near his snail figurine.

She is just tired of all the wedding procedure and must be longing for some spare time to rest for a while. Stop being a philosophical ass all the time, he answered as the bitter, bad-tasting coffee slinked into his stomach through his throat. What a waste, he thought of both, the coffee and the institution of the Great Indian Wedding.

The pitter and patter of keyboards continued, so did the splattering of rain against the windows. Now both the sounds were working in harmony to create a third kind of rhythm. It seemed the clock on the wall behind him also decided to join them with its wearing hands tick toking their way. This, he thought, is not everyday shit, not at all.

"Auto!" he shouted, trying to stop an autorickshaw for the umpteenth time, but it seemed none of the auto drivers was willing to drive anywhere in this downpour, and the ones that were on the road were already packed with the passengers.

He never liked rains much. It’s not that he hated it, but unlike most of the people his age, or any age, was not much enthusiastic about it ever. Yes, it makes the climate better, he admitted, but apart from that, rains held no joy in his life. With a screech, an auto finally stopped.

Trying uselessly to brush some water off his shirt, he entered the auto, which surprisingly, was all empty. “Laxmi Nagar metro,” he said, and the auto jerked into action in full blast. To great annoyance, he noticed the dirt smudges covering his shoes and water droplets all over his chrome watch. Fucking rain, he thought, trying not to think of his shoes and the watch but without much success. He is an absolute sucker of shoes and watches. He just can’t explain this obsession, but it feels so elating whenever he buys a new pair of shoes or a watch.

It was not like this always. Now he thinks of it, this obsession started shortly after he got divorced. When his wife of six years left him for someone else and he was unable to find anyone to replace the gap that she left not just in his life, but his home too. As the auto sped against the needle-like streams of rain, he looked at his watch again. Time has been one thing that has been odd to him more often than not.

Suddenly, there was a flashing thunder that echoed for quite some time, followed by an unusual silence. Even with all the traffic jostling around his auto, it all seemed to stop for an instant. And then, it was back to normal. Much to his annoyance, he now realized that even the raindrops were falling against the canvas roof of the autorickshaw in unison. “What?” he was taken aback by the strange sound the driver made. "Nothing sir, I have some problem with my nose. So sometimes my breathing sounds like this." Till he reached the metro station, the driver kept making those noises at regular, coordinated intervals.

The moment he entered the station, his phone rang with his favorite Star Wars theme. “Yes mom,” he picked up the call. “You heard about it?” his mom’s familiar voice came from the other side, making him miss home like every time. “Heard what?” he asked, a bit annoyed in the lack of the question’s context. These days, he feels annoyed at even tiniest of things. His doctor warned him to maintain his calm otherwise he might have to start taking medicines to control his blood pressure.

“Mehtaji’s son married a girl against the wish of his parents and in rage, Mehtaji kicked him out of the house,” his mom said. “Tinku?” he asked, trying to sound interested, “Isn’t he 20 or something?” “That’s the thing, why he needed to get married at such an age, especially when it was time to focus more on his career.” He didn’t say anything. Since his divorce, he tries to avoid such conversations, but it seems that the universe smells his conspiracy and keeps throwing these to him.

“Well, his life. He is old enough to marry whom he wants,” he said. “It’s not about that!” his mom sounded a bit offended, “Are parents’ consent on it nothing?” He had no answer to it. “Can you please talk to him once? Try to persuade him to return home. Mehta uncle and aunty are really distressed,” she asked, sounding not so sure, knowing her son better than anyone else. “Ok, I will,” he lied. “Great. That would be nice,” she said, knowing that he had lied and won’t call Mehtaji at all.

This train was too packed. He decided to wait for the next one. It seemed every day, the number of people was increasing tenfold. Are there more people coming to the city and settling here than ever before, he thought. People cramped together in each of the bogies. So much population and still people just love to get married and breed indefinitely, he thought. Better I got out of it before it screwed me up good, he found some solace for his bitter memories that never stopped haunting him.

He saw a couple. Amid all the chaos, they were trying their best to squeeze out some moments of love for themselves, holding each other’s hands, smiling, gazing into each other’s eyes lovingly. All this while people were hitting people with their elbows, trying to stand stiffly like cactus plants, ignoring the commotion around them. He noticed the thin line of vermillion on the girl’s forehead. Newly married, must have been a few weeks, or months. Certain memories of days gone tried desperately to flood his mind, but he knows how to control it now. He has trained himself for long. He knows how to willingly create a distraction in a matter of seconds.

As the train moved ahead, he heard it again. Why, he thought, why today? I have been hearing it all for ages, since as long as I can recall. Why these random sounds are drawing my attention suddenly? It was not a joke; he was seriously pissed off this time. The more he tried not to think of it, the louder the sound seemed to get. Dudder dudder, durr durr, dudder dudder, durr durr. What kind of rhythm is this now? Damn, it is giving me a headache. All of a sudden, he started to feel suffocated, second time in a day.

Though he was never claustrophobic, it seemed that the train compartment was closing on him. “Excuse me,” he said trying to keep the crowd away from him. “Can you please just… just stay a bit away…” This is unreal, he thought, feeling his heartbeat racing rapidly and sweat drops trickling down his forehead. Are these people trying to squeeze me to death, he thought fanatically. “Next station is Indraprastha,” the automated voice of the metro lady boomed out of speakers and he felt things returning back to normal; the compartment expanding, people getting farther away from him. He hurried towards the door and got out as soon as they opened. Panting, he looked at the leaving train.

With a shock, he saw the couple, the very same couple who were making all those loving gestures to each other, were staring at him and smiling oddly. It sent a chill down his spine. Unsure, he tried to look at them but the train had already passed. Must be mind playing weird tricks, he said to himself. Slowly walking towards one of the steel benches, he sat on it and waited for arrival of the next train.

“Next train in 8 min.” He looked at the glowing electronic sign board. There was a pigeon sitting up it. It was dancing in a circle, trying to catch his tail with its beak, just like a dog. In circles. It was going round and round and round. The train slowly came to halt and he realized he was watching the pigeon for the last eight minutes.

“There is something not usual,” he thought, grabbing one of the supports linked to the roof of the train, “what exactly is going on?”

“Next station, Praga…”

The windows blackened, the coaches became empty. Even though he could see people sitting and standing around him, there was no one anymore.

“Man of habits, man of materialistic obsession," a voice came somewhere from the back of his mind.

He looked at the blackened windowpane and saw his reflection, a much darker version of himself.

“Man of everything that he can control with utmost preciseness,’ the voice said.

Was it the reason he ultimately left her? Wasn’t there absolutely no control that could have made her stay? Despite her repeatedly cheating on him, he tried to control it all by painfully ignoring the situation, and what it got him? More pain, more suffering, more trauma…

He has always been like this. Either he is crazy about what his heart desires and does whatever it takes to get it, or he just kicks it out far from his life. Comic books, video games, bikes, love of his life… There was never a middle path for him. His existence has always lingered on both the extremities. He only stopped obsessing over her when his mind finally accepted that she was gone for good. That's when he began obsessing over watches and shoes – the more materialistic ones, which won't leave him out of anywhere.

And this very obsession has prevented him to consider remarrying. Despite his parents pleading to him numerous times, he has always very stubborn when it comes to the subject. “I am not falling into this useless spiral of society again,” that’s what he always tells them.

“What the hell,” he found himself in a bit shock, “What happened? Is the metro moving?” he narrowed his eyes and tried to look outside. The train seemed to be moving but he didn’t feel it.

The door opened to the ultimate void. He could see the silhouette of people but why they appeared so ghostly? He slowly touched the arm of a woman who, naturally, looked at him in an aggressive manner. “Surely they are here,” he thought and exited the metro. He thought it was just the darkness, but no, it was actually a void. From where he was standing, there was no ground or sky, just a very solid nothingness. Trying not to panic, he turned back to enter the metro but too late, the doors were shut.

“This is bullshit,” he nervously swiped his sweating forehead with the handkerchief. Unable to think of anything, he tried moving towards a direction that he hoped would be the right one.

“Being a part of the society is inevitable.”

“You want to live here? You have to follow certain norms.”

“Go and be a Baba in the mountains? Why even bother?”

“Everything happens by a design.”

“Sun rises from east, sets at west.”

“12 months in a year.”

“There is a pattern to it all.”

“A system.”

“A harmony.”

“Rhythm.”

He knew the mild tremor was no more an incoming train. It was his own heartbeat.

“What I am supposed to do?” He pressed his chest hard, hoping to suppress his heart’s efforts to break out of the ribcage.

“Compromise? I don’t know how long I am going to live. How can I compromise on this thing!”

This was killing him. He knew it.

Gradually, even the memories began to become distant, when he tried to think of them, it felt like they belonged to a previous life, where he was someone else, something else.

Tik tok tik tok, his newly purchased chrome watch, he could see it amid the thick darkness, all of a sudden.

“What the…”

It moves.

It finds a way.

There is always a way.

Another way around.

“Well.” A gush of wind filled his lungs, uplifting him in the air like a helium balloon. He felt lightheaded, after a long, long time.

His black leather shoes came into the vision. And then his well-ironed black trousers, the black leather belt with its shiny metal buckle, and the bottle green full sleeved shirt buttoned to the collar and nicely tucked in the trousers.

“Yes!” he felt in joy.

“I won’t close my doors forever! I will find a way around!”

He felt clear in above, able to work on a plan, to think something, anything.

Gradually, everything else came back to vision.

As he boarded the next train, coming into existence one tiny particle at a time, he felt a mild suffocation, again. Worriedly, he looked around.

“Oh,” he sighed calmly.

It was the collar button. He loosened it, just like the way he always leaves it open. His usual style.

When a pretty looking girl standing a few paces away smiled at him, he didn’t feel feverish anymore.

The yellowish, sickening thoughts, he left them at the previous station. Hopefully.

Fin. 

The Chair

The moment the clock ticked 11 in the night, the jingling of the keys was heard. A few seconds later, the Doctor entered his apartment. Quietly, he removed his shoes, went to washroom and came back 10 minutes later. All the while, the ancient grandfather clock in the hall was ticking away, in slow rhythmic motion.

“And the state police is still looking for the culprit who broke into museum last night. The officers haven’t yet found what was stolen, but the investigation is going on actively,” the reporter in the television continued reading in her monotonous voice while the Doctor prepared some dinner for himself.

He entered his bedroom and placed his plate of dinner on the floor. Sitting on the bean bag, he picked up the plate, stared at it for one full minute, and before beginning, muttered to himself, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Silently chewing the same old dinner that he is having for six years now, the Doctor couldn’t help looking at the one corner of his room that he dreaded most. A picture was sitting on the wall rack; a beardless, more human-looking himself with a smiling kid and a pretty girl. The dim, yellow lights were hiding most of the kid and the girl’s face. Still, the boy’s smile and the girl’s eyes were highlighted somehow.

All of a sudden, the Doctor almost threw his plate on the floor and sprang up from the bean bag. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a pack of smokes from the hall table, he hurriedly made himself a drink, neat, and lit one of the cigarettes with shaking hands. Inhaling deeply, he released a thick puff of smoke. He was visibly calmed now, his hands no more shaking. However, the battle inside his head raged on.

Slowly, he returned to the bedroom with his drink and smoke and sat on the bed this time, quietly looking at the picture, while sipping from his glass. Reluctantly, his eyes were drawn to another object in the room; a calendar. “Six years, four months, three days, 22 hours,” he whispered to himself.

He heard some commotion in the adjoining apartment. “Bloody neighbours,” he muttered again as the noise increased. Suddenly, he heard loud thumps on his door. He tried to ignore it, but the thumping increased. “Go away! I’m off duty now!” he shouted, but in vain. It seemed that the visitor was determined not to leave till he saw the Doctor. Angrily, he put on his shirt, walked towards the door and opened it. “What?” he almost shouted at a scared looking teenager boy.

“Pplease ddoctor…” the boy said, stuttering, “My…my grandpa, he is not well.”

“I’m off hours now,” the Doctor said grumpily, even though he knew that moments afterwards, he will be carrying his bag and exiting his solitary apartment.

“Jus…just come for once doctor, he… he doesn’t look we…well…” the boy insisted, shaking.

“You called the ambulance?” the Doctor asked as a last effort to get rid of the boy. However, he had already picked up his bag and was wearing shoes.

“No, no… mumma is not home, so…so I called her and she told me to get yo…you.”

“Alright, alright, let’s go.”

They both entered the neighbouring apartment. Though the Doctor had been living in the building for almost six years now, he never befriended the neighbours and this was first time he was entering another apartment.

The hall strongly smelled of medicines, dust and poverty. The paint on the walls was chipped off and there was barely any furniture. The boy led him to a small, gloomy-looking room. A rickety old fan was dangling from the ceiling, spinning slowly making a lot of noise. The window panes were open, though it wouldn’t have mattered even if they were closed as all the glasses on it were either cracked or shattered. There was a dirty, spotted curtain tied to it, which was swaying slowly in the wind, giving the impression of a spirit with white robes, leaving the room.

There were only three objects in the room; a metal bookshelf, a rickety wooden chair and a rusty iron bed beside it, with someone laying on it, covered in thick blankets. The boy pointed towards the bed. The Doctor slowly walked to it.

There was a very old man on it, moaning, with his eyes closed tightly. The Doctor knew that the man was in pain as his brow-less forehead was contracted with numerous wrinkles. The moment the Doctor saw the old man’s face, he knew that he had counted days left.

The Doctor was about to sit on the chair when the boy suddenly said, “Not there, don’t sit on it.” The Doctor looked at the boy, but didn’t reply. Putting his bag on the floor, he approached the old man.  

“Where’s your mom?” the Doctor asked touching the old man’s forehead.

“She’s not back from work yet,” the boy said, a bit calmed down but still shaking nervously.

The Doctor nodded and took out his stethoscope from the bag. After checking the old man’s chest with it, he took out his notepad and wrote some medicines. It was just a normal fever, nothing serious.

“Get these medicines, the fever should wear off till morning. And close the windows, otherwise he might catch cold,” the Doctor said, giving the prescription to the boy.

“Thanks,” the boy murmured and accompanied the Doctor to the door.

***

The bright sun rays felt like a blast of light as the Doctor woke up.

“Shit,” he muttered, looking at his wristwatch that he was still wearing. Getting up, he stumbled upon the empty bottle of whiskey. An overloaded ash tray was sitting on the windowsill, with several cigarette butts laying around it.

Readying up hurriedly, the Doctor left the home, forgetting to switch off the lights in the hall.

At the strike of 11 in the night, the Doctor entered his apartment and after freshening up in the washroom, he entered the kitchen to prepare some food.

“In yet another bizarre robbing incident, the office of state archive department was found broken this evening and just like the last time, the culprit hasn’t taken anything. Police and the authorities are confused regarding the intentions of the culprit,” the reporter blurted in her mechanical tone as the Doctor entered the bedroom with his dinner.

“Six years, four months, four days, 19 hours,” he said to himself as he chewed a piece of bread.

Though he likes to live alone, the most dreadful moment in the Doctor’s life is when he has to go to sleep. For years, he has trained himself to sleep as less as possible, without losing his sanity. However, after a particular hour in the night, he is not able to resist the sleep and then it happens, all over again; first, the happy laughs, the warm, comforting touch of the skin, the innocent smiles, those pretty, big eyes, and then, the fire, the shrieks, the paralysis, the inability to do something, anything, and last, the smell of burnt meat, the suffocating fumes and a captivating dizziness.

Every single day since last six years, the Doctor is having the same dream. He visited the psychiatrist, his parents, his friends…nothing worked. The dream just kept haunting him every single night.

Hence, he came out with his own device; he started to drink, and drink heavily and he began smoking too. Sometimes, when he thinks of it, he can’t stop smiling at the irony. He was known as a teetotaller among his friends…she used to be proud of him, telling her friends that how the Doctor sets a perfect example for the kid.

But it is gone now, she is gone now, the kid is gone now…and the Doctor? Well, even if he likes to think that he has no purpose left in this world anymore, there he is, as alive as any human being can ever be. So, he is just going with the flow. His hollow, empty eyes neither looking to the future nor reminiscing him of the past. He is just a dead man among the living ones, or maybe, vice versa.

The thump on the door brought him back to the present with a shock. In frenzy, he stood up hurriedly, knocking the dinner plate in the process. Cursing himself, he went to the hall and opened the door.

“Grandpa is better now. He wanted to thank you. If you are free for a while, can you please come and meet him? He is unable to walk much, so…” the boy from the other night was there.

Staring at the boy for a moment, the Doctor went inside without saying anything. In a minute, he came back.

“Let’s go.”

The old man was sitting on the bed, supporting his back on the headboard.

“Really obliged to meet you my dear sir, I can’t thank you enough,” the old man greeted the Doctor in a surprisingly bold and firm voice, which the Doctor was not expecting.

“You look better,” the Doctor said, trying to smile.

“Again, thanks to you,” the old man grinned under his toothless lips.

As soon as the Doctor was about to sit on the chair, the old man almost shouted, “No! Not there!” Taken aback, the Doctor looked at the old man in bewilderment.

“Please forgive me for my indecency, sir. You can sit on the bed, there is plenty of space.”

The old man shifted a bit and the Doctor sat beside him.

“How are you feeling now?” the Doctor asked.

“I’m fine, at least for now.”

“Where’s your daughter-in-law? Is she still at work?”

“I guess so, but she should be here anytime now.”

“And your son?”

The old man looked outside the window for a while and without answering the Doctor’s question, said, “I’m sorry that I acted rude.”

“It’s fine, I didn’t mind,” the Doctor said, avoiding any awkwardness.

“Well, there’s a story,” the old man said. After a brief pause, he continued, smiling, “There is always a story, isn’t there?”

“I am all ears,” the Doctor replied. In a weird way, he actually felt good about sitting beside an old man and listening to his story instead of going to bed. This way, he will get a few hours more to avoid that ever-haunting dream.

“You must be wondering, why I didn’t let you sit on the chair,” the old man said, shifting under his blankets, “Actually, the thing is, till recently, I used to be an atheist, since as long as I remember, I never believed in any god, or for that matters, any supernatural entity that controls the human beings.”

The old man paused again. The doctor was looking outside the window; he could see the tiny lights blinking and moving in the distance, and a river, reflecting the moonlight.

“Then I got the news from my doctor that I was not going to live for many days,” the old man continued, “That’s when it all started to change.”

“My grandson got this chair for the visitors. However, one day, all of a sudden, I don’t know why or how, I felt like, I need something, or someone, to help me with the pain, which can ease the suffering, make me feel like I am not alone.”

“That was the day I decided to worship this chair.”

This broke the string of thoughts in the Doctor’s head. Flabbergasted, he looked at the old man, who was keenly watching the chair with a soothing expression on his face.

“That’s when things became better. I know I will be leaving soon, but this chair, it will be there for me, forever, in this life and the one after that. It is my god now.”

The old man was exhausted with all the talking. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes.

The Doctor waited for a few minutes.

“It will be alright, don’t worry,” he patted the old man’s arm. When he didn’t reply, the Doctor got up and left.

***

“I don’t know what happened! He was fine! All of a sudden, he started to gag and now…and now…he…he is not moving! Please…please hurry up!” the boy was crying.

The Doctor immediately picked up his bag and rushed to the next apartment.

“What exactly happened?” he tried to ask, but the boy was weeping uncontrollably.

The Doctor almost ran to old man’s room. “Damn family,” he muttered angrily, “Where the heck are this boy’s parents always.”

Entering the room, the Doctor rushed to the old man, when suddenly, a bizarre sight almost gave him a seizure.

The old man’s head was resting on the chair, as if someone had dragged him half to it from the bed. However, it was not just that; his head was not resting on the chair exactly, it was hovering a few inches above of it.

With his eyes closed, the old man was smiling pleasantly. The Doctor slowly approached him. Checking his nerves, he found that the old man was dead for sure. He tried to lift his head and put it on the bed, but he was unable to do so. Tired of making efforts, he asked the boy, “Where are your parents? Have you called them?”

The boy was standing near the door, sobbing.

“They won’t come, they never come,” he said, his whole body shaking.

“What do you mean they won’t…” the Doctor looked angrily at the boy.

The boy was staring at him and the Doctor looked into his eyes.

“Is he with his god?” The boy asked, with a deep voice.

The Doctor was unable to move, it was as if someone had clamped him tightly. However, the moment passed. As soon as he came back to his senses, the Doctor grabbed his bag and ran out of the house.

He entered his apartment, packed all the necessary stuff and left it in frenzy.

He even forgot to pack the picture with the girl and the kid.

He had no idea where he was going, what he was doing and how he was doing it.

All he knew was, that he needed to get away from that apartment, that old man, that boy…

And most importantly, that chair.  

That kid from 90s

Yes, a lot of us have spent our childhood in 90s. While some of us moved on with the life and remembered the decade as one of the sweetest memories of our life, there are some who never got out of that golden era. Of course, they grew old physically, but something of them got stuck there, forever...

That kid from 90s 

“Jungle Jungle Baat Chali Hai Pata Chala Hai, Chaddi Pehen Ke Phool Khila Hai Phool Khila Hai.”

Ramesh was so much startled that he hit his head hard with the cupboard above his study table, trying to find the source of the song in a frenzy. Of course, it was the TV in drawing room. But “this” song? 

“Papa, papa, see Papa!” Raju was dancing on his tiptoes excitedly and pointed towards the TV. What Ramesh saw, it gave him goose bumps. It was the same old Jungle Book, from his own childhood, with Mowgli and Bagheera and Baloo. Except that unlike his favourite cartoon series, it was a live-action adaptation.

Apparently, Disney was making a new movie on the classic Jungle Book story and it was a trailer that they were broadcasting on TV. Ramesh watched in awe as the characters from his childhood emerged on the screen in spectacularly realistic forms. “I want to watch this movie, Papa!” His six-years-old son pulled at the hem of his shirt, still jumping around. Ramesh looked at him, smiling. The song had brought back so many memories…

Ramesh is a grown up adult now, thanks to all the years that passed by since his childhood. He is grown up enough to get a job, get married and have a kid of his own. He works in a reputed IT company, has a nice, cosy home and a lovely family that consists of his wife and son and his parents.

Now, Ramesh is not your usual Indian adult, no sir. He belongs to an era when the kids in India were having the best days of their lives. Like any other 90s kid, he spent most of his childhood and teenage days preoccupied with several activities ranging from playing with WWF cards to reading comic books of Nagraj and Bankelal.

Ramesh still remembers that one time when his teacher first introduced computers and he stole the rubber ball from the mouse, when he longingly waited for Sunday mornings to watch his favourite cartoons and shows on Doordarshan, and when he had a fight with his best friend who cheated in the game of Snakes & Ladders.

You would ask, what’s so special about Ramesh? He is just like any other 90s kid, right? Well, yes, he is, mostly. However, what really makes him different from the other children, or adults of his age, is the fact that even though Ramesh is the father of a kid now, try as hard as he might, he can never stop thinking of all those golden days of his life.

Even though he is doing great, providing for his family and taking care of his old parents, more than often, he finds himself trotting on the path of his past, which he knows will never come back.

This one time, he was in a music store, browsing for a good pair of speakers for his iPad, when he came across something; it was a Sony Walkman, showcased in a glass box. Hesitatingly, he asked the shopkeeper about its price. the shopkeeper stared at him for a while, and said, laughingly, “Sir, that is just for the showcase. No one listens to it anymore.”

That was when Ramesh realized how old he had grown. Another time, he took Raju to get him ice cream. When they reached the ice cream parlour, Ramesh spotted a very old man selling a particular kind of sweet toffee with which Ramesh was very much familiar. He remembered how the sweet was crafted into watches, necklaces and wrist bands, which he and his friends were very fond of.

Ramesh asked Raju whether he wants one or not. Raju looked at it for a while and said, “This is disgusting. How someone can play with their food? I will get my ice cream.” Ramesh couldn’t help but remember how much he used to insist his mother to buy one of those sweets.

So, this is our Ramesh. Amidst all the happiness, the only thing that really makes him sad at times is, he misses his childhood more than anything else in the entire world, and no matter how hard he tries to relive those moments with his only son, it never goes as he expects. Raju has absolutely no interest in all those stuff. He is just a normal kid who loves his PlayStation 3 and gaming PC.

“PlayStation 3!” Ramesh suddenly remembered. Raju wanted the new Call of Duty game so much. He had been insisting to Ramesh for a long time. However, Ramesh had planned to gift him the game on his birthday, and it was Raju’s birthday tomorrow.

Hurriedly, he put on his shirt and rushed outside. It was 10 in the night but he knew of a game shop which would be open at this time, hopefully. The road was blissfully empty, with hardly any traffic as the rush time was over. However, just when he was a few blocks away from the shop, he spotted something and pulled the breaks of his car.

The car stopped abruptly with a screech. Ramesh got out of it and slowly moved towards a dingy looking shop. It was a toy shop; a very old one. He knocked on the door, but found that it was already opened, with one of the hinges broken. Hesitating a little, he entered.

There were all sorts of toys inside; cars and dolls and catapults and spinning tops… Every corner of the shop was bringing back a flood of nostalgia to Ramesh.

He picked up a spinning top and the rope with which it was played. He remembered how he used to have a match with his friends, betting on whose top would knock out the others. He remembered those days as if they happened just yesterday.

The inside of the shop was all rickety and smelled of old wood and dust. Ramesh wondered how the shop was so big from inside when it appeared so small outside. Putting the top back on the shelf, he approached the dusty counter and ringed the bell.

At first, he thought no one was there to answer him. A little bit disappointed, he was just about to leave when a very old man came out from the inside of the shop, smiling at him.

“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked with a warm smile.

“Umm, actually, I was looking something for my kid,” Ramesh said hesitatingly, “but…” “But you are not sure what you should get him, are you?” the old man completed the sentence.

“Yes, yes,” slightly taken aback, Ramesh said, “Uh, can you please help me?”

“Of course!” the old man said jovially, “That’s why I am here. So, what kind of games your kid likes?”

Ramesh was blank. He had a look at almost all the toys in the shop and had no idea what Raju would like most among them.

The old man stared at him for a while and then said, smiling, “Don’t worry. I know what the child would love. Give me a minute.” And he went inside.

After a while, he came out with a box. “Here,” he said, putting the box on the counter.

Ramesh looked at it in disbelief. It was a board game, and not just any board game. It was “Ludo,” his most favourite one. A slideshow of pictures started to scroll in front of Ramesh’s eyes. He was best in the game. He used to beat his cousins and friends every single time. They actually used to call him the king of Ludo.

“It will be his favourite too, worry not,” the voice brought Ramesh back to the present. The old man was speaking to him.

“Well, OK. I will take it,” he said and took out his wallet to pay. Suddenly, he remembered something. “I would take one more thing,” he said to the old man.

Driving back to the home, Ramesh couldn’t help thinking about the shop and the old shopkeeper. Suddenly, he remembered something with shock. How the old man knew Ludo was “his” favourite game? He sharply turned his car and drove to the shop. However, for some unknown reason, he never found it again.

Just when he parked the car at home, Ramesh realized that he completely forgot about Raju’s game. “What was I thinking?” he murmured to himself. Anyway, he decided to gift him the game of Ludo and hoped that Raju would like it.

“Papa! You got the new Call of Duty!” Raju came running to him the moment he entered. Smiling, Ramesh procured the Ludo box from behind.

Confused, Raju asked, “What is it?”

“Find it out yourself,” Ramesh encouraged him to unwrap the box.

When Raju saw the Ludo box, he asked Ramesh again, this time, a little bit annoyed, “What is it?”

“This is a game of Ludo, Raju,” Ramesh said, “It’s a board game, and really an entertaining one. Come here, I will teach you how to play with it.”

“But I don’t want it,” Raju was in tears, “I wanted my game, and you got me this? I don’t want it!” He threw it away and ran to his room.

Ramesh was hurt. He looked at the scattered tokens and die.

“Don’t feel bad,” his wife said, “it’s just that he has never played it. Give him some time, he will get it.”

Ramesh didn’t say anything, he was too tired and hurt. He just went to his study table and sat, lowering his head. He recalled how happy he was when his father had got him Ludo for one of his birthdays. It was not an ordinary one; the board was laminated and the die was shiny and big, like a gem.

He tried his best, but he was not able to control his tears. “It was a mistake, those days are long gone, never to come back,” he whispered to himself, “I should never have got him this game.”

He decided to return Ludo first thing tomorrow morning and get Raju’s video game. Just when he was about to get up, someone pulled at his trousers.

“Papa, I’m sorry papa,” it was Raju, his cheeks wet with tears, “I’m sorry papa, I shouldn’t have thrown it.”

Ramesh put his hand on Raju’s shoulder and said, smiling, “It’s OK Raju. I will get you Call of Duty tomorrow.”

“No papa, I want to learn how to play it. It looks interesting,” Raju said.

Ramesh looked at his wife who was standing at the door. She gestured him to go ahead and Ramesh knew who convinced Raju to give Ludo a try.

“Alright, it’s a very easy game, but nonetheless, a very fun one,” Ramesh said, putting the board on the table and arranging the tokens.

“Four players can play it, each having an option to select tokens from green, blue, red and yellow,” he started to teach as Raju watched keenly, “Each player gets a turn to roll the die and move their respective tokens accordingly. Are you getting it Raju?”

“Yes papa. I want to give it a try,” Raju said enthusiastically, “Can we have a game right now? Please?”

“Of course, but just one game, OK? It is late and you have to sleep,” Ramesh said, “but before that, I have something else to show.”

He reached for his trouser pocket and pulled something out. It was a spinning top with the rope.

“What is it!” Raju asked excitedly.

“Do you want to learn how to play with it?” Ramesh asked.

“Yes! Of course!” Raju said jumping around him.

Ramesh didn’t say anything. He just smiled and looked at his son who was now seven-years-old. 

The year was 2016, but who said 90s were over?