I-DONT-KNOW-WHAT-IT-IS?

This is just another I-don’t-know-what-it-is. There is nothing special about it. And when I say this piece of

paper does not contain elements worthy to gain your attention, you raise your eyebrows with

your grip on that A4 size paper reshaping into a relatively strong clutch. Humans, you see,

we like to perceive the expected as the unexpected jolt, but of course, the one that doesn’t

harm us. A flash of the eye, a click of the fingers on your foot, and you say to yourself, as if

talking to your closest one, “Okay, let’s waste a quarter of an hour”.

So what is it, story of just another one of us, unlike all, like none, and that is the only

common element of his genetically human body, which he probably feels is reincarnated in

the logical form of a living entity. Call him what you want to, no holds barred, make yourself

feel good. They keep pissing you off, telling you all the time: Get into the character, feel

it. What a fool you are, don’t you get it, they are just making a mockery of the pissed off

character, and all the while, he keeps on his useless search of finding the one, who he

himself represents. Aah, now don’t multiply the lines on your forehead; you are not the

only one drenched and soaked wet in this never ending shower of puzzles which beckon

common sense as the sun to provide the silver lining on the clouds of uncertain certainties

or the other way round; this is what we do; we can’t keep it simple. See, I caught you again,

just when I mentioned we can’t keep it simple, you let out a sigh of frustrated failure; you feel

you can do nothing to alter its course. No, simplicity has not vanished into space through the

punched holes on the extinguishing Ozone layer. It’s just that we have lost it in our self-built

camouflage of complex high-rises and swirling highways; and in the not yet ready highway to hell.

Here he is, sitting on his chair that turns him into a workaholic the moment his rear is

embraced by the warmth of the cushion. I know, you know, but sadly, he doesn’t know

that the rolls on the chair aren’t getting him anywhere, leave alone what he desires his

destination to be, it’s his destiny’s desire that matters. But there is a good question I have in

store for you, what is his form in your free-flowing rhythms of imagination? Is he the one with

eyes glued to computer screen but is reprimanding himself for not visualising the destruction

beyond the window screen? Or is he the one who reaches out to you, but, you pull back

just when he might have made it? He might also be the one who’s a step away from the

chequered flag but has to meet other checkpoints too. And at times, he steps into the shoes

of the supremo who, when looks back on his trail of success realizes that he failed to hold

on to those billions of moments; which shall never come back to him, while striding to be a

millionaire. He is all that want you want him to be, he is all that he couldn't be.

Right from the time he took his first step to this date when he jumps three at a time, to be a step ahead of the rest, all that he has managed, is to get drifted off the track.

When he was still just another child in the primary school trying to grasp the usage of lines to encrypt the definition of geometry in that little piece of innocence placed on top of the human shelf, he missed out on realizing how beautiful these lines could be, if they were to dance to his rhythms. All his life he has been told to follow the ideals of a wall poster that read, "Walk the untrodden road, instead of racing down the beaten path". But today, he stands under the lights with the soothing drops of rain cooling his burned out soul under the fatigued flesh and bones, and questions to himself- Which actually was the untrodden road, rather the beaten path? He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. He looks around himself pausing at every subject; who seems to be at haste and an unnaturally familiar hurry. They seem to be walking his walk, talking his talk. Everyone has a train to catch, everyone has a road to follow, and everyone has a destination to reach. They are all tail-less rats (certainly not tale-less, each one has plenty). He lets out a sigh of relief in the form of a grinding grin. Now he knows the universal fact: He is not alone.

As a child, he used to look at the skies and wonder how so many stars were able to live in such huge numbers in that single sky without any chaos, without the blaring of horns, without one screaming at a million others………now he has passed two stages of human growth, and still wonders the same.