Coming back to life

(BLACK)

As reality faded in, knocking on the gates of Mary Jane proved to be easily relaxing, like always. Oh!, a bravely thankful emotion surged through my body as I suffocated my lungs with more smoke. And, then I consumed what was optically visible in front of my eyes, diving in. I saw the young smoke melt into the air, in the background a table fan was resting on a plastic chair, and a table full of mosquito repellents and deodorants and other toiletries pedestrianized into being.

As I turned my gaze towards the right, lying on an elaborate niche of a rack, I saw a pile of completed copies, printed & bound. I had a feeling that they exhibited great potential. I tried to focus beyond the optical thresholds of the obsessively grilled windows, shifting towards the false ceiling. The surrounding environment felt very new, almost alien. This started to prove slightly disturbing accompanied with the perks of smoking marijuana. Within a blink of the eye, I fell down, rather consciously threw my gaze back at the criminal. Each drop of my blood mimicked the judge, jury and executioner smile. I noticed, in my generously gifted hands, a cigarette, but surely it constituted grass. I saw a box of chocolate cookies, filled with ash, quite a few cigarette butts and roaches. Before, rested my machine, my laptop, my old companion. Satisfied! Then, a yellow lighter, extensively used, besides it a strange cord lost in the essence of repelling, hideous bed sheets. I traced the charger cable to its source. And ringing through my thoughts was this feeling, this realization of how I wasn’t able to visualize beyond that moment. Oblivion had struck upon me. I was fathoming the happening, but only as everything made its way back to the right place, the right place in my head.

As I searched for more clues, I saw a note. A note I had left for myself. After going through the hard work of locating my watch and smart phone, I concluded that I had left this note for myself over twenty days ago. The day, 01st June 2012, had definitely left every single moment in my life behind, and proved to be the turning point of my life. It struck me, accompanied by a little worry. I was anxious how my wife would react. But, that’s why we were together, that’s why I loved her. I was inherently waiting for this to happen, rather we were waiting for this to happen. We had just preoccupied ourselves to enjoy the queue. And, the queue seemed so long, that I had forgotten the name of the ride.  It was bound to happen someday at least, that’s how we got together, I used to write stories during my college years, and she was the head of the drama society. Initially, we often got together over stories, novels and music before we fell for each other. Classic Rock had persisted amongst us.

And, I had slipped. Slipped back from one reality to another. I was a Marketing Head in this diplomatic, translucent window-paned multi-national high rise in a congested metropolitan city, working ten excruciatingly tiring hours a day for a handsome pay.

“But, one can’t just be satisfied, or can he?” I questioned my paradoxical inner spirits.

 

 

(After quite an intonate search for possible editing requirements scaffolded with legendary performances from the history of rock music to the tune of Spanish Caravans and Sgt. Peppers. From the very bests of Floyd, visible at the circumcising start, to the rarities of Rumours, with just the right pinch of Nirvana, and abundantly sprinkled Radiohead, my Single Cheese Margherita had mutated to a Pepperoni Pizza.)

I had it all. In a few weeks, I had blessed my future with three diversely and expensively complete novels, and a few poetic verses and short stories for change. It didn’t take exorbitantly long, after all, so many ideas had built up over the ages and the few incomplete works from a long lost decade. The note staring at me, also reminded me of my resignation stored on my laptop. I had de-comatosed myself back to life, to the life I wanted. I had stored quite a few instructions on my machine. For ex., How to carefully get rid of the possibly apparent psychedelics I had buffered upon, and instructions to clear out the alcoholic garbage. For my wife, I was on this business trip in central Europe while I recovered lost talents, “pondered on this dangerously irresistible pastime”, in my own Indian metropolitan.  Well, such a strict corporate life paid off somewhere.  Through that note, I had encouraged myself to go home and make her read everything. I knew she would love most of it. At the very least, appreciate the effort.

I said to myself   “My future is not the same anymore”.

I was going back to where I belonged, I was on my way home. The strategically calculated cocktail of powerful narcotics and alcohol, I had invented with a couple of close friends during the drug years of my college, was strong enough to allow me to fall consciously deep into the labyrinths of my minds for weeks. Just strong enough to materialize some great ideas into paper. Back in the day, we called it “Black”. How, I thanked my thrift indulgent abuse of a variety of substances from a forsaken decade. It felt equivalent to one of the greatest orgasms. Heavenly pleasuring!

The last eight corporate years deemed so different. After my graduation I had decided to stop fooling around over nothing, and obeyed my late military father’s wish to get a strict life. I, for sure wasn’t build for the army, so decided to suffer the corporate fever. All because my father was against these so called “insufficiencies”.

Alas! My delicate parents, neglecting the other side of the coin.

Well, they were dead since long, and so was I. “We are all accidents, waiting to happen.” Theirs happened two years back, a gross car crash. And, unexpectedly a part of me had died along with them, even though I wasn’t in that car.

Anyways, as I serve you appetizers, here’s something to occupy your brains with.

“Guess who’s back?

 

 

 

 

Ode To Your Neighbourhood/Somewhere near West Virginia

 

In the town you’re living in, there used to wander a rolling stone,

whistling around wherever the wind blew,

he roamed singular, without a crew.

 

Folks called him Barry, he made them laugh

and coloured their insipid houses pleasantly airy.

He had a cat and a goose,

who understood him “Kapeesh”, and never did he shop for a leash.

Like him, his entertaining pets, mongered about in free spirits.

 

In the 50s, the town was governed by bullying flops, their heads deserved to be chopped.

These acidic landlords tortured the innocent,

and afraid, the rest had to witness,

an inch from the sawed off barrel, no one dared to quarrel.

 

One summer afternoon, while Barry and his dormants entertained the tired crowd,

casted by god, those three were elegant chimes,

showered by blessings from their audience,

breaking for lunch after hammering the mines.

 

But, never could this world tolerate peace,

and they came riding on their horses, mules at ease.

Under the house you’re living in today,

the cat and goose were buried, butchered by the bullies,

who Barry consequently dragged to the local guillotines.

 

People still mock their attempt at supremacy,

massacring the strays, without a modicum of mercy.

And, as they returned on their horses loaded on rice & ration,

Barry jumped their leader,

the birth of an actor from the director,

he continued the show at the gallows.

 

 

 

At the corner of the street you’re living at,

the leader & his thugs were executed flat.

Barry never skipped town,

he was not the criminal but was awarded the crown.

Naming your street after Jill & Thatcher,

rewarding his honourable cast,

Barry died a few years back,

making this town a better place, at last.

 

 

 

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