Concatenation

                                                     

It had been very hectic the past couple of days – classes, assignments and internships circling over my head like vultures, ready to devour my corpse the moment I lay dead from the stress. I got out of the house at 8 in the morning and sat through what seemed like a seemingly endless train of classes. To top that, I realized I had to go deal with a bunch of 11-year olds soon after, and I just wanted to drop dead at that point.

Salvation is a hoax. At least the one that is promised in this life. I had prayed to the God I don’t believe in, “make the kids behave today, please?” Of course, he didn’t listen. But it’s just the 6574^th time this has happened, and I am sure my day is approaching (along with a few bottles of wine as a reward for my patience). I mean he has to listen to like a billion other people too, right? I sometimes get angry about why my turn hasn’t come yet. It’s not like I ask for something grave, like world-peace? What can be the harm in keeping a bunch of 11-year olds quiet? Are you listening, you male, Caucasian Jesus?

Anyway, after an hour and half of tackling their random walk-outs and mutual death threats in their usual, casual aggressiveness, I let the kids run out (or maybe ran away myself, I was too tired to notice) the second the clock struck five. I am slightly afraid of heights. it’s almost non-existent; I take a mere 30 minutes to climb down 6 steps of a ladder. But it had already been a wild day, so I decided to have an escapade of my own – I climbed up the ladder onto the terrace.

The view from up is not conventionally pretty. It’s just buildings - tall, short, most of them dingy, reds and blues and greens all around, clustered together like a bee-hive. I waited for some time. The wind was beautiful. Slowly the ant-people (that’s a term I coined; I still don’t know why) started gathering on the terraces. They unfurled their kites which started soaring, one after another. There were not many of them, and most of their time was spent in hurling abuses at each other or detangling the kites, but it was a beautiful sight. I couldn’t take my eyes off the sky even for an instant. It had become a palette, different colors in strings fluttering around in the wind. I stood there, captivated.

As the sun started to descend, pigeons flew into the sky-scape, one flock after another. The ant-people had spread out grains on the floor, and were calling them out to land on their terraces. They strangely seemed to obey the people, the entire group descending into one, eating to their hearts content, and flying out again, always together. I watched them perfect their synchrony: each flock would fly around in large circles, over and over. Once they land, the other flock would take over. I was transfixed, my eyes tracing their paths as they flew round, and round, without a trace of worry or concern. I longed for a cigarette as I imagined myself as a part of some movie - wind in my hair, blowing a puff of smoke and looking at the horizon, into the array of dancing kites. It had to be one of the best evenings in my two years in Delhi.

The sun was not visible anymore, the shadows of dusk engulfing the beehive gradually. The nearby mosques started their ‘Azaan’, and their synchronized voices took over the neighborhood. The sky had a tint of orange, and the wind was at its mightiest. The setting sun, the flying pigeons, the wind, and the melodic recitals diffused a feeling of divinity all around me. Every person, every brick, every leaf radiated incorporeality. It could have been a beautiful movie-sequence, with ‘Kun-faya-kun’ playing in the background and the protagonist, soaking in the aura.

Fast-forward to three hours later- I am in my balcony, smoking a cigarette. The sun had set by now, and the wind had reduced to a soothing breeze. I watched the people in the nearby buildings go on with their routines. The lady on the second floor in the building in front started preparing supper – boiling lentils and rice and chopping vegetables. Another lady, an old woman came up to her window and stared listlessly at the street below. I could see the Tv in another apartment, the door of which always remains open. I took a long drag on the cigarette, again imagining myself in a movie. All I needed was a velvet robe and a lavish bedroom on the side. I pictured myself, hair ruffled by the wind, slowly putting on the robe and walking out into the balcony after sex, and uttering the words like, “I detest cheap sentiment … I wish someone would tell me about me” in a sultry, smokey voice, like Bette Davis in All About Eve.

My trance was soon broken by the horns from the cars from the street. I realized, it’s not a movie. It’s just my cold, pathetic life. The moment of disorientation was over, leaving me to face the loud, harsh reality. I took the last drag of my cigarette, crushed it and entered the room. The sudden bright light startled me, but I got used to it in a couple of seconds. I closed the door and sat down at the table, burying myself in the heap of assignments and presentations and the blandness of this reality.