A Silent Man’s Soliloquy

I

I wish I could  put an end to this misery. The very thought had earlier disrupted my pleasant musings as I sat quietly in a sparsely filled bar somewhere near Park Street. An otherwise gratifying day had ensured that I sit there, by myself, ‘celebrating’ my success. I believe a fragment of that idiosyncratic rumination still lingered in my mind as I gulped down three glasses of single malt whisky which in itself proved to be a futile attempt at shutting out that persistent disturbance. Somehow, I was unable to reach any conclusion regarding my current predicament. Here I was who had just been rewarded the highest honour in my line of work and yet I could not figure out why my heart was filled with an emotion akin to remorse. It even made me question the competency of alcohol intoxication in inducing a temporary escape from reality. The shabby walls only added to the increasing burden of melancholy infesting my mind and I began to feel claustrophobic in the presence of the few people to whom I was perhaps only an inconspicuous stranger. Nevertheless, I paid my bill and hastened out into the streets in order to grasp some fresh air. It was drizzling and part of the city visible to me seemed to be soaking in the rain after a hot and humid summer.

Unaware of my destination, I promptly began walking to get rid of the cumbersome contemplation clouding my thoughts. I walked, past the tall, archaic buildings adorning both sides of the narrow streets and the crowd of people immersed in their routine activities, like an unobtrusive shadow smelling of scotch and cigar. But at each and every corner of the avenue it seemed that some unusual nuisance was lurking behind prepared to pounce on me and nullify any hope that I had, of attaining peace. It felt as if an inexorable spirit of dysphoria had latched onto me refusing to let go. A surge of debility overpowered my soul as I continued to trudge amidst the perpetual hustle of a busy street. Just as I was preparing to surrender myself to a period of eternal tribulation, I chanced upon an erased shelter from my past.

II

Even after all these years the unkempt tea stall, which I used to frequent with my friends during our college days, had remained unchanged. As driblets of rainwater leaked through the age old shed and blended with my ginger tea, I kept staring at the people rejoicing the ushering of monsoon as if the downpour signified the end of a season of anguish in their lives; a young couple celebrating the blossoming of their love, a jovial group of children jumping, perhaps, at the thought of a prolonged vacation (or maybe they were eager to create delicate paper boats and float them in the water- a childish pleasure I never quite recovered from), an elderly man using his newspaper as an umbrella for his wife and laughing acquiescently even though they were both getting wet, his wife equally delighted and smiling endlessly. Their wrinkled faces bore no sign of worry as if their merriment had made all their troubles seem trivial. I do not remember for how long I kept staring at them….a faint memory of wiping away a tear did come into my mind though.

And then, after being transported through a tunnel of abandoned memories I found myself standing adjacent to a child I knew several monsoons ago. The boy, with whom I shared strikingly similar facial features, seemed excited about something as he darted across the street to a small building nearby. He was absolutely drenched from tip to toe yet the simple smile he bore on his lips generated an aura of warmth all around him. He took out an unidentified object from his pocket as he climbed up the stairs in pure elation and knocked on the door. As I moved a little closer to get a glimpse of that vaguely familiar entity the door swung open and out came a middle aged man with a vexed frown plastered over his face. The boy’s eyes beamed with glee as he showed his possession to the man- a sculpture carved out of a broken twig.. The intricate details displayed in the miniature statue reflected the aesthetic capabilities of the artist whose face was brimming with pride over his creation. However the tight slap that followed from the man shattered the child’s animation. A look of malaise cloaked the boy’s eyes as the man went on to quantify the sacrifices he has made only to watch his son “sneak out and play in the rain, make dolls out of broken things and exhibit a lack of interest in his studies.” After a downpour of reprehension, he warned the tearful boy how this one callous mistake would have terrible consequences during his examinations and commanded him to go inside. The little boy tossed away his work of artistic excellence in utter disgust and carried out the order like an obedient son.

A cascade of diverse emotions overwhelmed me as I picked up the lifeless wooden structure and began plodding back…still unaware of my destination.

 

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