The Red-light

At the traffic signal, a man used to count the time in his mind along with the displayed countdown, waiting eagerly for it to turn Green again.

Read on to find out why he used to count the time along with the timer and why once he wanted the time to stop there.

… …

He turned the accelerator knob towards himself, and trying to turn it more and more, wishing the bike to run faster. But it didn’t. By the time he could cross the puzzle of other confused newbie drivers, the traffic signal had turned yellow and the traffic police had raised his hand signaling the vehicles to stop. He was diligent towards the law and so he slowed the bike to stop at the red-light.

He was the first one at the signal. All before him had somehow got past the police and had rushed past the cross roads, some even breaking the red-light. Slowly the empty spaces around his vehicle and the crossing in front of him started to fill up with more vehicles. He hated those drivers who went past the stopped vehicles, only to stop ahead of them, blocking the pedestrian crossing area.

He started whistling. It took him away from all the noise of horns (which made no sense as the signal was red, no one was gonna fly out of their way), heated engines of cars (which made no sense either, the signal was gonna stay red till a few minutes), the cries of the kids in someone’s lap, sitting pillion to the rider (which made no sense to him, the kids, they are just stupid to cry all the time without any cause, he thought).

His whistle soon took over his mind and him away from all these noise. He enjoyed the ups and downs, the variations on the scale of the song, the beautiful tune that several sounds made when joined together, the words that he spoke in his mind while whistling. It all was beautiful, the music was.

This was his routine. But that day, someone else was also listening to him at that time. He didn’t notice. But a girl on her bike, standing right next to him, was listening to him with her full attention. She had even removed her helmet to hear it clearly. She enjoyed music too. And this was something different, yet musical and amazingly beautiful. There was a smile on her face all the time she listened to him.

The countdown was still twenty more seconds, and people had already started inching past the yellow line. Only he waited till it actually turned zero before starting his bike. He ignored the people around him, punching their horns at him, giving him angry looks. He started moving and looked to his left in surprise, someone was staring at him. He gestured her to move and went on with his way. But in his mind he thought about her all day.

The next day, the scene was repeated. But this time, he saw her while whistling and had stopped instantly. The girl gestured him to continue whistling and he had continued. He loved whistling and she loved him doing it. They met every day at that same signal at the very same hour of the day, where for one-two whole minutes they would share a musical moment.

From watching the countdown, waiting to race away from the traffic signal, he started counting the timer in his head, wanting it to run slower, wanting the time to stop. He wanted to just whitle and watch that girl give him the most amazing smile he has ever seen in this world. There were people who loved his whistle, but he had never felt the way he felt for her and her love for him whistling.

As the timer in his head reached the last few seconds, he would gracefully end his song and bade goodbye with his eyes, to which the girl would reply similarly with her eyes. They spoke nothing, yet it felt to both of them that they had an amazing conversation with each other. They went on with their opposite paths from that signal, with a smile on their faces, a rare sight for that crossing.

From loathing the signals on that road, he started loving the red-light and the traffic. He wanted the rush to stay. He wanted it to be like this forever. And the day when they didn’t meet, he felt very bad that he didn’t whistle at all that day. Those two minutes at the red-light made or broke his day, all depending on if he meets her or not.

And a similar day came once when he couldn’t see her. He was late, and would surely miss her if he didn’t drive fast. So, he went past several shortcuts, didn’t wait for pedestrians and dodged his way past confused newbie drivers to reach there on time. He was just a crossroad away from that signal. But there was a lot of traffic at that signal. People were gathered on the middle of the road and there was total chaos of vehicles.

He took a detour, and reached his signal, ditching that jam-packed crossroad. He checked on his clock, for a hundredth time now, and sighed a breath of relief that he had reached on time. But she wasn’t there yet. So, he waited for another red-light, probably she was late too. But she didn’t come, probably had taken a day off. He left for his routine, restless to meet her tomorrow. He was finally gonna ask her out, tomorrow for sure.

The next day, it was raining. He reached the spot on time. The traffic was less, and signals were empty, but she was not there. Probably she would’ve gone early today due to the rains, he thought.

The day after that, he reached the signal again on time. But he couldn’t meet her. And it was the same news the next day, and the day after that too. He felt sad and wanted to find her. But he didn’t even know her name or contact number. His days went sore and in distress, as he was helpless, unable to find the mystery girl whom he wanted to share his life with.

One such time, he was restlessly looking around at the red-light for a sign of her. He didn’t even count the timer in his mind this time. All he wanted was to see her again. An old man came riding a bike and stood right where she used to. He was bothered that now even if she comes, she won’t be able to stand right next to him. He looked at the old man in anger. He saw that the old man had a sad face and probably, tears out of his eyes. Or may be it was just due to the wind while driving.

He looked at his bike. And for a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was hers. May be he was mistaken. But that same rusty chocolate color, that lightning sticker on the side, that broken leg-guard and a golden cloth tied up at the mirror clamp. There was a newly formed dent on the front body and the side-light was broken, mirrors skewed. But it was definitely the same bike. He wished he could remember the license plate number.

He looked at the old man and couldn’t resist asking “Umm… Sir? Morning sir. If you don’t mind, may I ask if this is your bike or borrowed? A friend of mine owns a similar colored one and I am a little confused about it…” He couldn’t complete his sentence. The old man broke down and started crying right there at the signal.

The red-light had turned green and there were several horns blowing around them, telling them to move, but he was more interested in something else. He asked the old man “What happened, sir? Are you alright?” and slowly patted the old man’s shoulders.

The signal turned red again. And there were several curse-words being thrown at the pair from surrounding drivers.

“The… The bike is… was of my d… my daughter…” the old man uttered with great difficulty.

It was the old man crying, but he felt a choke in his throat. He couldn’t speak anything. He understood what had happened. He was stupid enough to not realize this earlier. The dents, the broken side light and the new scratches told him the story and reminded him of the day it happened. He knew what had happened, but he wished it hadn’t.

“It was my daughter’s. She recently met with an accident and she… she died. I am taking it to the broker… Brings too many painful memories. You knew her?” The old man asked him.

With some resistance at first, he shook his head, unable to speak anything.

The signal turned green and the old man slowly rode away. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He stood there, waiting for the red-light to turn back on, counting the timer in his head, and tears from his eyes…

Now he goes past the same traffic signal everyday, waits at the red-light, sees fellow riders around him, but doesn’t count the timer in his head anymore… Doesn’t whistle anymore.

That Time of the Night

The clock is alleged to move swiftly at night. But at that peculiar hour, at that time of the night, it stopped..

… …

Warning: This post contains sickening and vomitous material. This post should be read only if you are 18+ and have an appetite for vile horror stories.

In the peaceful bliss of the winter night, when the breeze fleeted sneakily in the dark chilled air, his snores were the only disturbance in the otherwise solemn environment.

Jack had fallen asleep as soon as he lied on his favorite bed after a long, tiring week. He had been out roaming different cities and places since a month now, adverting his new idea, and seeking investors. But he hadn’t been in luck so far. His last visit to a desolated area outside the big city of Gregstone was … eerie.

The place was nothing like he had seen before. There were old, dirt-filled houses with broken windows and extended yards in the front, all houses in one single row. And opposite to the lane of these houses, across the road, were three stores for necessary items, two of which were degraded and closed. And that was it. That was all of the town. (Can’t even call it a town, can we?)

But one of those houses was in perfectly good condition. The lawn was evenly mowed, windows were clean and curtains stretched, and the gate had a big, steel name-plate, reading “Raecherr House”. The owner had personally invited Jack to come present him his idea. And so Jack had been there for this whole week, trying to convince the man about his idea. The deal didn’t go so well he thought, as the man hadn’t given a final answer. So, Jack was holding on to that last bit of hope.

He couldn’t remember much from his visit to that place, but only glimpses and pieces. But he could never forget that man, and his scarred face. The scar went down from his left eye all the way to his neck. Jack had been too frightened about his project that he never brought this topic to discussion about how the man got the scar.

Jack was watching a nightmare. It was about the man, his scar, the man hitting Jack hard on his head, then tying him up to the doctor’s table and putting various scars on Jack’s naked body, scars similar to that the man had on his face, and then finally pushing the sharp knife down on his heart with both his hands’ might… He woke up with a big cry and he felt a staggering, but slowly disappearing, pain in his chest. He held his heart with his hand and felt the racing heartbeats, pounding against his ribs.

He got up and moved towards the Kitchen to drink some water. He washed his face and moved back to his bedroom. His body ached and he felt a dire need to fall asleep again, but there on his bed… in the same clothes that he was wearing, looking just like him, it was him… He saw himself sleeping on the bed at that time. He rubbed his eyes, as if wanting that image to be erased from his mind and in reality also, but it didn’t. As soon as he opened his eyes, there it was… Himself right in front of him.

He looked around the house. It was normal. It wasn’t a dream, that was for sure. But then, what was it? How can he see himself sleeping in front of him?

At the bedside table, the clock had stopped exactly at 3:07 AM with the second’s hand quivering and juddering, back and forth. He felt lightheaded and weak, and his legs seemed to give away. He fell, the room spinning in his eyes, his vision turned blurry and he passed out.

His head was throbbing. He felt a sharp pain on the front of his head. He had fallen on his forehead last night. He woke up to see the bright sunlight, filtering inside from the tinged blue window glasses. He immediately got up and saw the bed. It was empty. He exhaled a big breath of relief. All that he saw in the night was probably just a bad dream.

He turned to go to the bathroom, when the door to the bathroom opened and he came out of the bathroom in towel, all cheered up and excited.

Jack immediately moved out of the way of the other Jack. The other Jack couldn’t see him probably, as he just went past him without giving out any bewildered expressions as he was giving out that time.

The other Jack went on to get ready. He pulled out a bag from below the bed and started loading it with different pairs. He was packing as if he had to go somewhere, probably for more than a few days.

Jack was totally lost. He didn’t know how to react, what to do or whether to do anything at all in the first place. He shouted to see if the other Jack could here him out. He couldn’t. The other Jack was busy packing and seemed excited. He then brought out a file and put that in the bag too. On this side, Jack knew exactly what that file was. It was the file he had prepared for presenting his idea to that man in that odd town. But he had already been there. Now he remembered, this all had already happened. And he was watching the whole episode again!

He hesitated a little, and then gathered all his might, and went on to see if he could touch him. But as soon as he touched him, he felt a sharp pain in his head and he fell on the ground. Darkness started to spread before his vision, slowly it all disappeared.

When he woke up, he was in the basement of a house he didn’t know. He walked around the basement. There was no blub or any source of man-made light. Only a tiny crevice on the outer wall brought some daylight into the basement. His leg hit a large table in the almost darkness. He strained his eyes to see what it was. It was a body of a man lying before him.

He gasped and fell back, while tripping on some equipments scattered on the floor. He fell on his behind and got himself hurt a little. But that didn’t matter to him. What took all his interest, or all his fright, was the man lying on the table.

The door to the basement hurled open. A shadow of the man was visible, and it grew into a more humanly form as the man climbed down the stairs and let the light spread evenly in the basement. Jack saw him and instantly felt a sense of danger. It was that Raecherr man again. He moved towards the table while Jack sat on the floor, stunned, watching the man. The man lifted the damp cloth covering the body and Jack saw to his bewilderment that it was his body, all tied up in tapes and plastic. The man opened the tape covering Jack’s body’s face and Jack screamed loudly that his scream continued to ring in that basement even after he had stopped, or was stopped by the man’s knife against his cheek.

The man forced a piece of white cloth into the mouth of Jack and started removing skin from his face. It left several, dirty scars on his face. On the other side, Jack got up to see his full body and saw that some parts of his body – a part of his hand, a portion on his left thigh and some flesh from his shoulder were removed. The wounds were all cleaned clumsily, he could see, but were not bandaged. He felt disgusted! Who keeps the wounds open like that. But he knew what was happening to him on that table. He was gonna die. The man was gonna cut him into pieces for his dark experiments and he could do nothing.

When the man finally popped out the right eye of Jack on the table, it slipped from his hand and rolled, bouncing like a tomato, spitting some liquid on to the floor and came wheeling towards Jack’s feet on the other side. The man turned from the table and looked at the eye at the feet of Jack. He came towards it, took it from the ground and pierced his sharp knife into the eye, popping it open directly from the cornea. Pulpy stuff came out of the eye and some of it splattered on the face of Jack. The man couldn’t see him and he felt like vomiting. His head began to spin and he fell on the ground, his mouth on the splattered pulp of his eye on the floor.

He woke up again but didn’t open his eyes. He knew what was happening to him now. He understood why these images were visible to him. The man had killed him. And now, somehow, he went back in time when he was leaving from his house for his trip to the house of that man. He couldn’t stop him at that time. He understood that the dream he saw on the first time, where the man had thrust a knife in his heart. It wasn’t a dream, but a memory from his visit.

His incision and images of him being operated by the man, his eye, they weren’t all bad dreams. They were his memories from the time he was alive. Those images just came to him to remind him how he died. And that was why he saw himself in third person.

He thought of opening his eyes, but then feared what he might see next. He wasn’t strong enough to see any of his butchery. And yet, he knew he was being slaughter, slowly, painfully. He repelled at the idea of it. All the images of that massacre in the basement started filling up his mind. He could see the limbs scattered on the floor in blood, his parts cut and forged into something loathsome. And his mutilated, dismembered body on that table, lying in the open. Flies and insects having a feast at his flesh. That rotting smell and the yucky, disgusting pulpy substance spread everywhere on the floor.

He stood up shouting on his bed. He had wetted his bed and was soaked in his sudor. He wiped his face off the sweat and took several deep breaths, and could only lower his dread by a negligible bit. He saw around the room. It was a shabby bedroom, which had not been used since a long time. The curtains were dusty, and were withdrawn out. The fan was noisy and the furniture was the only good thing in the whole room. It might have been recently replaced. There were traces of hauling on the floor. And the wall were painted with a cheap brand. He saw the bedside table. His phone and wallet were there. He saw his luggage stacked in the far corner of the room near the cupboard. And the wall clock ticked loudly, showing current time as 3:06, oh 3:07.

Just when he wondered whether all he saw was a disgusting dream or what, a shadow appeared outside his door. It moved back and forth, and then stopped right outside his door. There was a sound of something being dragged, some metal, something heavy. The door knob turned and clicked, and the door opened slowly. It was the Raecherr man. He was holding a heavy wrench. He came into the light of the moon and Jack could see the horror on his scarred face…

The Perfect Fall

A man was admiring the beauty of nature while standing in the balcony of his house, thinking about his life, the world and the end of everything. Just when he is fully enliven, kinda, by various topics, he gets ready to do something, this time perfectly.

… …

He was in his balcony, watching the rain make spiral shapes on the water flowing on the ground, and the rain water again breaking them with more drops. He watched the water move, glide over the concrete floor, washing the impurities which there were lying since ages. At least this time, there would be a clean spot around him, he thought.

He saw some people gathered near the gate, talking in a peculiar loud tone, but unclear. He had never liked them. And after how they had handled him the last time, it made him hate them more. They weren’t even careful with the spatter that had spoiled his shirt.

He thought about the world and about the life and all that heavy stuff. He always would think about all this before trying on another attempt. He thought about how people are different in every way and how he could never understand them! In all of his interactions with other people, he always had behaved how they had expected him to behave. And when he thought about it, he always wanted to behave in the opposite manner. That explained it to him that he was totally unlike anyone else. Humanly feelings and care for others were a bit different in him. He would care for people but would never let them know. He would feel for others but would never express it to them. He thought that was the pure way of doing that. Because telling it to others what he feels or cares just corrodes the whole point of it.

How that turned out for you? He smiled a smirk. And then started laughing. He admired his minds sarcasm. He himself had to think a bit before he could get it. And his life probably loved it too. It gave him all the reasons that he didn’t have any second thoughts before doing it, even when he did it the first time. And since then, he had been doing this every year on the same date, and sometimes randomly just when he felt like doing it. And each time, he tried to do it better, more towards perfection.

He was obsessed with perfection. So much that he chose this life, attempting his imperfection, over a perfect rest. He stood there analyzing the wind direction, the altitude and the law of gravity, combining with other physics laws and the biological facts. It all made sense and his calculations were perfect, but then why could he never achieve a perfect fall so far!?

But this time, he was so confident that this time his fall will be perfect. He will fall exactly how he had anticipated, exactly where he envisions, within that white border of foam forming in the polluted rain.

The main door opened and the owner to the house entered. The new owner. He watched the new owner throw his things on the sofa and loosen up like a child returning from school that never enjoyed going to the school. The owner turned on the TV and kept it loud. He hated the loud noise. But the new owner kept it and he couldn’t impose his wants on him, yet. It was only for sound. It made the new owner think that he wasn’t alone after-all. But he didn’t care. It was still time to get into his mind. He wasn’t miserable enough to influence. And till that time, he could just wait. And attempt his grand free-fall.

The last one was much much weaker and entertaining than this one. This one is just bored of his life. The last one loathed his life. He never cared for his life and felt miserable for everything that happened in his life. It was easy to get into his head. It was easy to play with him.

He reverted to his calculations and speculations about the jump. It was his 17th try at jumping off from his balcony, and 5th after he did it with the previous owner. He got himself ready, took some deep breaths and got on to the fence. But he slipped and fell off in the balcony itself.

The new owner heard a thud behind him. He got up to check what it was. He slid open the french door and went outside. The balcony was empty. But there was something peculiar about it. There was a different feeling in the balcony altogether, a saddening kind of feeling. The new owner never liked to go in the balcony. He avoided as much as he could. One more reason was that the previous owner had jumped off the same balcony a few years ago. And the new owner had also heard some weird stories about this house that many of its previous owners died in some strange way. But he stayed nevertheless. Better a weird home than none, he had thought.

The new owner went back inside and he took a great deep breath. He didn’t want them to meet that way, when he was lying there on the floor like a dead pigeon. He stood up and looked down from the balcony. The foam was gone. The rain had stopped. And the time for his jump had passed. He will have to wait for the next time now. Probably, by that time the new owner will be miserable enough to give him company in his suicide, he thought.

He climbed up on the ceiling of the balcony and slept there on the ceiling wall, upside down. He thought why he had failed at falling every time at the perfect spot. May be because he always wanted to go back while he was falling. May be because he did have second thoughts, but not quick enough before jumping off. Or may be he needed it done one more time. Probably this time, it will be better. This time it will be perfect.

The new owner went to his bed and thought about his life. How much more of it was still left? He immediately opened his eyes and shook off that thought from his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about such things! It was just a phase. It will go. Things will turn better for him. Definitely. This was no reason for taking such extreme steps! He shouldn’t be thinking about this…

In the balcony, he smiled in his sleep. It has finally started. Soon…. A few more months now.

After a long time since the new owner came in, he had a peaceful sleep that night. He dreamt of a perfect fall, finally he did it.

The Bird – Finding a nest

A series of stories of a bird who leaves his parents’ nest and moves on to live his life in his own way.


While finding a dwelling place, he missed his home and remembered how it was on the day he left that place, forever.


… …

The wind was gushing past his dark brown feathers while he had his strong, young wings fully spread in the sky. He was flying since several suns now. And he hadn’t been able to find a place to crash so far. He flew from forests to abandoned buildings to rural campsites to urban localities. But all the places were either occupied or weren’t free from human breech. At all the places, he was either shooed off by other birds or by mankind.

He was in constant upheaval since the time he moved out of his parents nest. He clearly remembered that day when his mother had told him that now he had grown into an adult bird and had to go on his own path, while Dad had looked at him from his usual watch-spot, doing his duty of precautionary lookout.

Dad had taught him all the survival and combat measures. And mother had taught him to fly, to stay full and everything else. He had looked into their faces for the one last time, a long moment before leaving that old house-top, forever.

He had flown up into the sky with his newly trained, strong, young wings. He had pictured mother and father watching him fly away from the ground below, but had not turned his head to look back. It was difficult to move on. It would be impossible to go if he looked back. A tear had escaped his eyes and had flown in the gushing wind past his feathers in the sky, then had started to descend down towards the ground.

On the old house-top, mother had been strong so far. She was watching his son fly high in the sky, not looking back, his strong boy. But then she felt it. She felt a pain in her heart, she knew her son was sad somehow. She flew in a blink, the father was too slow to stop her. He was in his own dilemma. Dad watched his son fly, tearing the wind. He wanted to say something to him before he left. He wanted to bite him over his head and cuddle him before he left for his long journey. He wanted to fly a few miles with him, making sure he remembers his lessons. But he couldn’t. He was Dad after-all. He has to maintain his strong composure. May be next time he sees him, he will say things, he will let himself break emotionally.

The mother flew, but not towards her son. She flew on the ground in the same direction as he did. He shouldn’t know how she felt. That would only make it more difficult for him. But she wanted to see the most of him before his son was gone out of her reach. She flew right below him, giving quick glances towards him in the sky, while dodging all the obstacles on the ground. She took a sudden bent in her path to duck a street light and did a barrel roll. While she was half-way through the barrel roll, with her wings open towards the sky, a drop of water had fallen on her chest. And she had stopped right there after completing the barrel roll. Her heart could make out what the drop of water was – the same make as the one that rushed out of her eyes at the moment.

They would be proud, but scared as well till the time he proves himself worthy by living out in the open world without their protection, he thought. And so he moved swiftly, but without watching the path. His mind wasn’t in the flying, his wings were doing it for him. He will move from one place to another, till the time he found a safe shelter. May be some day, he will have a place where he could invite them to stay with him, if he sees them again.

He went like a breeze

An entry from a girl’s personal diary – “While I and dozen others were waiting for the rain to stop, having a different reason, each one of us, a whistle swept me off my feet and I saw him walk past me like a breeze on a calm lake…”
… …

“It was raining constantly since last four hours… First I was enjoying the cool breeze and the occasional spattering of rain drops on my face while I was standing alone in the balcony. But then, it changed to surprise, then shock, then worry and then irritation.

I wanted to get out of here, I wanted to go back to my house and sit on my peaceful sofa, eating that last bowl of ice-cream I had in my fridge. I wanted to sit there looking outside of my window into nothingness, seeing the vast, weird sky out in the open. Birds drenched in water, sitting dead in the corner while rain, like an audacious King, sploshed on each and every part of the land.

From waiting at my desk for the rain to stop, I took a courageous step, packed my stuff and left the office to wait downstairs in the hallway. I extended an arm to let it just reach outside in the open, unprotected by the brave shade. I felt the rain drops wet my hand and I enjoyed it. But I had my laptop with me, other gadgets. I was to travel through my two wheeled bike, no, there’s no shade on it. Pity.

I saw others, waiting in the lobby like me. Probably all had reasons like me to not get soaked today. Some even stood there with umbrella in hand. I wondered what stopped them. While some were waiting with others, that makes a difference. A company makes waiting easy. I missed someone I didn’t know. I too wanted to be with someone. Someone I could stand here in the lobby, wait for the rain to stop and then to heartily depart when we left for our homes, in opposite direction.

I heard a whistle from a distance, not so far away. The whistle was so pure that it made its way from all the noise that was around me. (Yes, all the sounds around me seemed to be noise when I heard that whistle…!) I knew that song… Oh Gosh! He could whistle that song!? I immediately turned around and I saw him.

He was totally ordinary. But yet, something about him made me cringe at all my crushes so far. It wasn’t just his whistle. He moved confidently, without having any second thoughts about anything. He knew what he wanted and how he was gonna get it. He made way past all the crowd who was waiting for the rain to stop. He was rolling the keys (probably of his bike in his fingers), playing with them. He didn’t have an umbrella or a coat. Yet he didn’t wait at the lobby or extended an arm to check the intensity of the rain. He didn’t wait even a second at the gate. He went past me like a breeze, brushing a small part of my arm, but not even looking at me.

His backpack was already covered. It had a cover protruding from the last chain on the bottom of the pack. Probably he had already kept all his gadgets and stuff inside the bag. And now he had nothing to worry about. But he would get drenched. It was already cold. He might get fever. Oh what was I thinking! He must be immune to such silly diseases! After all, his one touch, no matter how light, stirred a fire inside me.

I watched him skip several steps and dance in the air while jumping the stairs outside the building gate. He was enjoying his own whistle. Why wouldn’t he? It was so damn amazing! I saw his clothes get wet slowly. His shirt started to shrink, or so it seemed as his body was slowly visible in all its shape and glory. His hair were tapped now to his forehead. And a tiny gush of water flowed from his temple to his nose and jumped over to his lips. I wish I was that drop…

I had to go too. I had to grab a few more looks before he vanishes in this air. I had to see a few more of him, listen to his song for the last time while he whistles away in his bike, zooming upon the water logged roads, splashing water to the sideways. I had to run. I had to fly.

I took a step outside. The rain instantly flooded my clothes and my body was visible in all its glory too. Just when I increased my pace, started to walk quickly, I remembered I was wearing a non-padded one. In the morning hush-hush, I had accidentally grabbed my night clothes instead of proper ones and now it was all visible. But I was lucky, no one had left the building and stepped out in the open but him, and now me.

I ran towards the direction as he had. My clothes were dragging with me. Mine weren’t rain-friendly like his. I had a lot of difficulty walking over the invisible potholes and small streams of gutter. I jumped and galloped and derailed… I fell right into the pit, but felt relieved it was a pit of fresh rain water, no mud, no dirt in it. He was no where visible. He had probably left by now. And I was in this clumsy, pitiful, miserable situation.

There was that whistle again. This time a romantic number from a recently released album. Oh I had to just sit there and enjoy…

I turned back and he stood there behind me, looking at me and my embarrassing position. But his face showed no reflection of that embarrassment. Probably my awkwardness was washed out in the rain. Or probably he saw the embarrassment, reacted to it and moved over it way back in time and now he’s only here to mock me more through an encounter. Oh I so wanted to run away now.

He extended me a hand, without stopping to whistle. I didn’t want him to stop. I took his hand. Oh that hard grip he held me with, I wondered how that grip would have felt on my hips, or my back, and on my thighs… Stop it. I had said that out-loud. He stopped whistling. Oh what had I done!

He watched me, seeking an explanation. Now how would I explain him what I was thinking inside my silly little brain! I made up something stupid, now I don’t remember it, but he had laughed. He had laughed so much. Wait… He had laughed at me. or on me?

I didn’t leave his grip either. And he, well, he seemed to enjoy it too. He pulled me out of the pothole with a single pull towards him. I jumped and moved so close to him that I actually felt those pads missing. I think he felt them too. But he didn’t look at any of me. He was decent. He was a gentleman. But he was turning pink too. I loved it…

We went towards the parking lot, while introducing us to the other and talking a few other topics or may be we went all that way without talking anything, just holding hands… I really don’t care. All I remember is that once we reached the parking lot, he removed his shirt and spread it over me, saying I might get cold and that he won’t like that. I had expected a few things but he was wearing shirt, wait! Did I just made all this up in my mind? There was no removing of shirt or spreading it over me. But was I just imagining him shirtless!? Stop it, I said to my mind again, this time inside my head only. I distracted myself with his words and his questions, and his weird face when I didn’t respond to any of his statements, or questions. Man! Was I making a fool of myself? Please say no…

He offered me a ride to my place. I merrily obliged. I left my bike in the parking lot itself. After all, how much more could I keep my mind away from all the silly thoughts it was weaving. I sat behind him, keeping a distance, keeping in mind to not to touch him, to not let anything of me touch him. Last time he had turned pink, although that was fun, but too much of it would mean something else. I grabbed at the pillion backrest and got ready to not to move no matter how much brakes he applied.

Soon my fears faded. He was driving so well, without any sort of roguery. He diligently applied brakes softly and then accelerated it to make the ride as smooth as possible. Once I stopped looking at the road up-ahead, I couldn’t tell if it was a bump or a straight road or a turn, city road, deserted street, back-alley or an off-road ride. I didn’t even know when had I left the backrest and was sitting peacefully behind him, listening to his whistles, yes they were back again. I wanted it to continue for as long as possible. I wished my home wasn’t so near to the office. We reached in just 5 minutes.

I got down and he helped me with my bag while sitting on his bike. This time he looked at my spots of wetness that revealed and then he smiled and said ‘You should go change quickly before this becomes a news headline.’ And then he laughed. He made it look as appropriate as I thought it was inappropriate. It wasn’t a big deal for him. And now it wasn’t for me too.

I invited him for getting himself dry and probably for a cup of coffee. He waited for a few minutes, gazing deep in my eyes, probably trying to find ideas or hints inside them, trying to decipher my intentions, but I hid them so well. He finally gave up and agreed. And I tried looking as normal, unexcited and plain, and sober and humble, and whatever way breezy as I could look, totally opposite of what was roiling inside me…”
To My Dairy, Yours Liz.

14th July, 2017

I’m an Addict

A speech by an addict, admitting his addiction in a self-help group.

… …

*An awkward moment of silence on stage before the speech*

“Hi, I’m … *Thinks of a name* … Bob. And I’m an addict. *Makes a gullible face*

I live upon, have always lived upon my addiction. I’ve never been able to successfully get rid of it. Although I’ve had convinced myself for a long time that I don’t have any addiction and am a perfectly normal human being. Misleading pretense.

The mornings are said to be the best time to start anything. So I’d start with my addiction. I’d wake up and fall for my dark urges, for doing them, for giving up other things against my addiction. It won’t even go away after the shower. Sometimes, its intensity increases after that!

I know what it does to me. I know that it’s doing me bad. That it will… *Thinks for the perfect word, but couldn’t remember any* stain my life, forever haunting me and to all those around me. I know these black urges, these sinister impulses will give me a hard time, but… It’s my addiction.

Till now, I couldn’t admit to anyone, not even to myself, of having an addiction. I would just shut up anyone pointing it out for me. This is the first time that I am actually professing this in front of y’all. I suppose it the first step to get over your addiction – accept that you have it.

We all have our addictions. Whatever it is, it takes over us. It comes slowly, urging us to fall into its trap. Then when it has a slight hold on to our minds, we start to lose our nous. We fall prey to the very thing we were fighting so hard to avoid. How many of we here have done this? Slowly giving up on our routine, just one time, just this time, one more time won’t hurt that much, and so on we yield to our addiction.

You know how it feels when our addiction takes over us, when that itch presses on us with its tempting endeavor giving us a cheering caprice. If we do not give in to it, it has various ways to persecute us. First it will strike on our concentration. That’s the base to all our determination and all our efforts. Without our power to concentrate in something, we won’t stand a chance against its malefic calls. It slyly hives off all our attention towards our addiction, by the time we know about it, it snipes on our will power. It makes us weak from inside and plants a false assurance in our minds that giving in to it will somehow make things better. That surrendering to it will burn all our suffering. And finally, when we are at our lowest, it strikes its final, but strongest blow on our body. We are already feeble from the inside. But it won’t stop till it is able to infirm us from the outside also.

*Sees others reaction. God! This is going good!*

But this time I have decided, earnestly, to stand against all my urges. To fight back each time it comes back with another excuse. To decline all of its enticing offers. With the help of this support group and a good sponsor, I think I will be able to achieve a sufficiently long period of sobriety.

I’ve joined this support group with a goal in my mind to averse to my impulses. I promise to all of you that I’ll fight back to my addiction and will not let it get any heavier on me. I will not fall for its trammel, no matter how elaborate its traps are.

But in doing that, I’m secretly inviting my addiction here. See, I’m doing it right now. I’m using it right now, I’m giving in to it while talking about fighting it… You see it?

Yes, I’ve an addiction. And now I admit it. I’m addicted to being in my comfort zone. I’m addicted to procrastination. And I’ll try to be sober from tomorrow…”

A Much Needed Stupor

When I was enjoying my swim in the well of self-admiration and fulfillment, when I was the frog in the well and perceived that the well only was the whole world and I was the prodigy of this world, a fish tortoise came and informed me about my inadvertence.

… …

I am proud and egoistic. No, I haven’t done anything prodigious, yet, but still I was working in a particular confinement for so long that I stopped learning and considered myself to be a boy wonder.

Social media, online soaps, prejudiced observations and casual vagabondage was all that was left in my life. Occasionally I’d wake up from my sleep and try to learn new things, but the life of a corporate marionette had its roots deep inside me.

I had no growth in the foreseeable future and I had no happiness in my current situation. Yet for years, I spent my time prodigally, earning me no real return.

Whenever I encountered this situation of mine, I had always responded to it with a casual procrastination, that things will turn better for me in time, that all is well and as per God’s plans. There must be a reason for my current situation, that I must see the good in my situation and that future beholds a better life for me. But those were all excuses and prevarication combined in a enticing package of doldrums.

I needed a jolt, a heartbreak or an insulting incident to wake me up and show me that I’m no good against my otherwise nobel fabricated self-image. And I received it, like a spear in my stomach.

I met a person in the same profession as I am, accidentally. And a few conversations with him moved me in every way possible. I came to know that I have so much to learn and that I must not let the deceitful distractions take a prey on me.

I came to know about my true worth and that I shouldn’t waste the invaluable time life has given me.

We shan’t ever stop learning. The day we stop learning is the day we start depreciating. And our learning could be stagnant due to various reasons – self-inflicted or thrust upon us by others. But we must fight against it and break the chains of our comforts. We must act and move forward, even when it involves leaving a fully fulfilling work behind. Because we are no rhetorical devices that benefit from repetitive cycles.

When we slowly turn to become the Frog in the well, we all need a Fish / Tortoise to come tell us the truth about the world. If you get that eye-opener blow in time that lets you bring you back on track, you have a good luck…