An Act of Kindness

The summer did not disappoint us this year. It was hot. It was dry. The wind was hot and the wind was dry.

 

The roads were empty and the shades were occupied, mostly by dogs with their tongues sticking out as if to lick moisture off the air.

 

The birds had long disappeared and I don't believe the heat was that bad wherever they were now.

 

Mostly, everyone who had any say in the matter, did something about it...everyone except that little potted plant which my roommate, Ashok,  kept on his window sill.

 

I have no idea what it was or why he kept it. I mean, no guy living in a boy's hostel kept a plant.

 

Picture of deities- agreed.

Some toy car - OK.

Gifts from girlfriends - SOB but ... fine.

Playboy cutouts - hallelujah!!

 

But ....a potted plant?

 

Yet, there it was. And the rest of us had learnt to ignore it. Heck, it did not even grow anything we could smoke - a completely useless thing!

 

And so it remained.

 

Ashok would pour a mug of water on it everyday before leaving for college and it became a part of our morning ritual. We just never gave it a thought. I put gel on my hair, Ashok poured water on his plant. He didn't enquire about my gel and I didn't spend my hours wondering about his plant.

 

We lived a completely contended life and never intruded upon each others matters.

Last night Ashok got a call from his home and he took the first train to his village. Apparently his parents had dug up a girl and wanted him to check her out.

 

Never was there a more compelling reason for a guy to take the first train to anywhere than this. And he did take the first train home, without even a bye.

 

Which was fine.

 

If I was given a parental clearance to check out girls, bidding adieu to Ashok and his potted plants would have taken a back seat. And I would have taken the first train home, like he did.

 

So I forgave his lack of etiquettes and started to get ready for college. In fact I was putting gel on my hair when someone knocked at our door.

 

"Bhaiyya..."

 

It was Poltu, the mess boy. He was carrying a tea cup and stood there in a faded t-shirt and ill fitting Bermuda shorts.

 

"Yes Poltu... I didn't ask for tea"

 

"Bhaiyya ... I saw Ashok bhaiyya leave in the morning.... Is he gone?

 

"Yes.... To see your Bhabi. Ask him for sweets when he comes back" I advised without taking my eyes off the mirror.

 

"Oh okay.... Bhaiyaa...."

 

"Yea Poltu... what do you want?

 

"I have brought some water for the plant "

Fireflies (A touch of Phosphorus)

Verse 1

You would not believe your eyes,

If 10 million fireflies,

Ganged up to sell you phosphorus.

Verse 2

You may not know the need,

But phosphorus is good indeed,

It helps to belch up burping gas.

Chorus

You need to make yourself relieved

of yesterday’s lunch…slowly.

It’s hard to breath when you are so flatulent when asleep…

coz everything is never as it seems.

Verse 3

Coz I get a thousand blasts,

From ten thousand farting arse

As I try to run for self-defense

Verse 4

A stink-bomb above my head

One more and I am dead,

This life is just hanging by a thread.

Chorus

You need to make yourself relieved

of yesterday’s lunch…slowly.

It’s hard to breath when you are so flatulent when asleep…

coz everything is never as it seems.

Verse 5

Leave ALL doors open front to back

(please take me away from here)

Coz it smells like a rotten potato sack

(please take me away from here)

Why do you eat those radish chips?

(please take me away from here)

These farts can sink a battleship.

Verse 6

To 10 million fireflies,

Please come and save our lives

Your phosphorous is our only chance.

We need to purify, air which now smells bizarre

We tried gas masks but it sucked.

Chorus

You need to make yourself relieved

of yesterday’s lunch…slowly.

It’s hard to breath when you are so flatulent when asleep…

coz everything is never as it seems.

The Writer

It was 4:00am - the time of the day when the world, or most of it, was either asleep, or was having semi-conscious sex.

He was at his desk. A mug of coffee by his side, a cluttered desk filled with books, pen stands and notes and staring into his eyes, was a blank computer screen. 

He stared back at it. 

Or so it looked like because he was not present in that reality. He was looking into another dimension, maybe into another realm through a portal in his mind into another world where story-dust was swirling to form nebulous shapes and plots.

He saw a character was forming and it was showing its traits, some strange quirks of its own personality.

The writer was impressed. He had never imagined this character before. Especially the way it said "Shei, Shei" whenever he made a mistake - yes, it was a man. 

And he was a .... Butler?
He had no idea where did "Shei, shei" come into his mind. He never used the phrase and had never heard anyone use it as well. He did not remember reading it anywhere too. It was just his character's quirk - that queasy little imperfection that we all carry, which is uniquely our own, and thus, making us tolerable.

Perfection is irritating. It's a constant stress for the beholder. Look at Hrithik Roshan. Wouldn't he be more tolerable if he would just try to relax a bit? That was the reason he was such a heart-throb when he started out. He was the plain-guy next door- a good looking chap, you can call in for a beer. And yea, he could dance really well.

But then, he had to go and become this plastic "Greek God" and destroy the very thing which made him endearing. People do not like Greek gods. They like awe-inspiring humans. Humans with character flaws. 

And so the character continued to say "Shei, shei" and the writer allowed him to.

Blank Page. The cursor blinked in quiet expectation. And the writer continued to stare at it.

Weird?

Probably is, if someone were to look at him and saw him staring into the monitor for the past twenty minutes. But then it would also have been creepy as hell, if someone were to look at him from a dark corner of the room at 4:20 am in the morning, while the world, or most of it, was asleep or having semi-conscious sex.

"Is he constipated?" he asked. 

(Who asked? I don’t know. I want to use this phrase)

"Is he constipated?"  a gremlin would have asked if it would have been sitting on top of a roof beam with nothing better to do than watch a writer trying to write.

"Literally or literary?"  the gremlin's wise-assed friend would have asked..

"Hahahah" and they both would have laughed a quiet, inaudible, gremlin laugh.

But then there were no gremlins. So no one had the above conversation.

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

He was typing!!!

Yes!

Did he finally get something to write about his "Shei, shei" saying character?

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

Click. Clack. Clickitty-Clack-Clack.

And the dawn sneaked in.

**********The End*********