Crap

The children are gathered in the open under the dim sky for their evening play. They are running and chasing, hugging and fighting, crying and making faces irrespective of the world, irrespective of a man who is watching them from the terrace of his home. In the background, the hill fades away but some portion of its surface that is not spilled with the shadow of its own enjoys the warm evening sun. In the courtyard Sarita is trying to show magic to the neighbors but every time she wants to vanish the coin away from her hand, she fails she stomps, folds the skin over her nose but keep trying it. Sane moves from one corner to other as the sun light no longer warms him. He looks at the place understands it isn’t warmer either and just slips inside the room, into the passage where his warm bed awaits him. Women in the neighborhood are picking their clothes from the clothesline, mums yell at their children for not wearing warming clothes while fathers are entering home. My elderly neighbors are talking with each other over a cup of tea, the old woman looks content as she laughs exposing the gap between her teeth. A row of birds are returning home after perching in the day. They maintain strange harmony as they make a perfect arc as they fly as if they were held in a string tied in their beaks. I am instinctively lazy and so I am feeling lazy. Laziness is more a desire not to do work rather than having no work. Work can be sought. My room needs dusting, there are wires snaking through my room, the books are in mess and there are spots in the mirror and the closet, the photos trapped inside the frame looks obscure as thick layer of dust has clung upon them. I have never done these things, I find my room cleaned, dusted, my clothes hung or kept on their places either by Mummy or by Sarita so I have taken these things for granted. Once a relative of mine after seeing the poster of Che Guevara tilted on the wall, said it suggested how careless I am when I should have been a perfectionist. Unfortunately I had hung the picture in such way intentionally I don’t know if the hidden intention was driven by my carelessness.

As I type words making these lines, I have a feeling of mockery for myself. What I am writing? Just writing what it comes, no subject. Yesterday I wanted to write a letter to the finance minister on my way to office and was pretty confident till I came to my cubicle only to find there was no electricity. Tsunami swept away my zeal and no letter was written, my laziness hiding under the excuse ‘Why would a Finance Minister read a letter that come by thousands in his site?’. I recollected my spirit later in the day which was again let down by a call from a colleague who wanted my help. “Destiny“ didn’t want me to write a letter to the minister, spare him from reading a thought of one of his citizens. What would I have written? I would have suggested him to open up the economy don’t be another protectionist, embrace the globalization with proper precaution, identify the impact of ICT and use it to speed development and democracy, get rid of sycophants, get the YCL dissolved and if it cannot be done filter it and enforce strict discipline, remind him China got into the track of prosperity only after it adopted the open market policy and so on. Some day I may write it to him anyway but I am just in the right mood.

Its already dark now. I feel a block inside me and somewhere I acknowledge the current anxiety with this deadlock within myself, not being able to do what I wanted.