The Darkest Hour

The fortress is finally asleep. Four hours past midnight, all lies calm and serene, the corridors in a lazy slumber of patterned darkness, a pitch black night beating the floodlights to cast mysterious shadows on the math; the dogs eerily silent and the overhead lamps creating a ghostly halo over the Vagabond. Every step is greeted by groans from the wooden staircase, lit dark by the night filtering in through the overlooking window. Six score years have taken their toll and at this unearthly hour, even the wooden planks cry out begging quiescence. Every corner, every corridor, every court threatens to reek of history, of telling an unnerving tale of individuals past, told out at every turn like so many invisible tale-grannies. And unearthly hours are indeed when such tales come to life, when the thin line between reality and the past dissolves in the myriad shadows that engulf the complex. Then, a trembling climb down unlighted 19th century staircases, a burning matchstick all that adds to the truant play of light and shadow, brings on the inevitable feelings of being watched, of having trespassed into that which belongs to you not, of walking not just down a staircase but down to the stony cold dungeons of the past. And till you creak open the gate and rush out to the morning mist, the walls watch you like so many eyes on an inquest.

On the Boulevard

The night’s orange and there are shadows everywhere. The dog stares into my heart, and the heart is black and the dog a shadow. I stare at the orange streetlamps, and my shadow takes me by surprise. There are assassins at my back, I turn around and no one’s there. Shadows. Everywhere. Billie sings broken songs and he’s a shadow. I’m a shadow. A shadow none but my shadow can see. He’s the only one that walks beside me on the boulevard. But that’s lame. The shadow screams. I sing like a mirror. Read between the lines, he says. The assassins stare as I pass them by, lip-syncing with the shadow. I walk on. And then, it tunnels through me. All crimson orange. I smile. It’s cold. Everything is cold.

A Day’s Worth of Thoughts

I hate see-offs at railway stations. The feeling of standing immovable as the train ambles out. Your friends wave, leaning out of the door. Plastic smiles on everyones’ faces. Then they are far away, ever shrinking. Then you watch the others, the strangers, stare with indistinguishable expressions at you and then the thing next to you. And then they’re gone and someone else is there. Coach after coach of grumbling, creaking, complaining metal and life pass you by. And then, suddenly, it’s gone. And you’re facing the semi-naked man enjoying a bath on the rail lines on the other side. Two puppies crawl in under the leaking pipes meant to replenish trains to have their own share. The man shoos them away. You look around. Life moves on. The train has left. The coolies shift base to another platform where yet another train is to leave. You look behind your back. Your friends are nowhere in sight.

I give my head a shake and try to get used to the idea. I walk. It’s a long way. People push and shove me here and there. I assume my vulture mode, head buried in chest. Long face. Maroon 5 is on today’s menu. I wish I could wear my jacket. I like hiding behind its high neck. Alas! I never thought November could be hot… anywhere.

“How I wish… How I wish, you were here/ we’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl…”

I take a bus. Not the one at the front of the queue. The one behind. It’s empty. I get a window seat of my choice. It takes its time to get filled and then grumbles across the Bridge like a wounded tiger on the Hooghly.

A Walk Back

Empty spaces fill me up with holes/ Distant faces with no place left to go….

 

Unknowingly, this Backstreet number comes up on shuffle on my phone’s music player. I’m unaware. I impatiently push the volume tab higher. Alas! 14 is all that stares back at me. Sealdah can be quite a melee at all sorts of odd hours of the day. The blaring horns of the run-down buses above; the colourful, loud shops below – selling anything from a pin to the most outrageous copy of the latest gizmo. People hollering all round – someone running to catch his train, a tired worker returning home, head buried in his chest, a jewellery-laden, not-so-beautiful boudi tripping on a lethargic street dog. Judging by the screams that emanate, it’s hard to decide who the victim is and who the perpetrator. A chivalrous dada kicks the bewildered dog away. The boudi walks away without a look. The dada looks disappointed.

 

All around, a milieu of people engages in a plethora of such incidents. I walk on. I’m unaware. Damn the headset. Wish the volume would blare louder into my drums…