Silence

My silence, Her anger
Her silence, My agony

Barber's advice

A small kid awaiting his turn at the barber shop, started laughing when I enquired for directions to the loo. The usual hairdresser is a boy in his twenties who is fond of experimenting his skills on my diminishing hairline. He warns me to hold my pressure valves, doubting the tolerance of other customers. The queue was long and I had already waited for my turn.

         But its hard to control when you have had three glasses of water in a tiny room equipped with a powerful air conditioner. Taking a deep breathe, I enthusiastically picked up a beauty magazine, flipping over the pages here and there, only to look at models with slim figures, while ensuring that my little endeavour went unnoticed by a bald man sitting beside me. And perhaps, the joy of reading beauty magazines indeed lies not in the text but quality pictures, just as the bald man portrayed. He seemed ecstatic to find an almost nude picture of a supermodel advertising for a luxury bath decor.

I did not hesitate to steal a peek, however, little signals from my brain taking a hint from the bath décor re-enforced me to relieve my body from the heaviness.

         My hairdresser friend advised me to visit the open field near the Patel building.

‘Sir. Very near Sir. Just opposite,’ he explained in an algorithmic seven steps procedure, pointing me towards the only place in the vicinity.

‘You walk down.’

‘You see the truck there.’

‘You go behind.’

‘You locate the patel building.’

‘You see the open area beside it.’

‘You stand.’

‘You pee.’

‘You come back.’

(I never imagined it to be a such 7 stop long process.)

“I will save your seat right here.” He ensured satisfactorily. 

I did not mind using the open field, so, following the step-by-step guidelines of my stylist, I reached the landmark (patel building) and saw a pile of dump placed in the corner. It took me no to time to recognize the site and there I was doing my thing.

But just after a quick moment of pleasure.

I heard a roaring sound in a crowning pitch from somewhere behind.

"Oyyyyy, ki karto" (please pardon my marathi)

I instantaneously realized my mistake. It was the dutiful watchman of the patel building.

“Sorry Watchmen Sahib! Sorry! Sorry!” I exclaimed hurryingly in my most embarrassing tone, and, soon before the tired bones of the watchman could hang me by my collar, I finished my business and ran towards the barber shop.

The stylist awaiting my turn was happy to see me back. The kid was about to leave (looking even younger after the haircut) with his uncle (apparently - the bald man), who seemed quite disappointed to leave the magazine behind.

In between our casual conversation, the barber regretfully pointed how sanitation was a big problem in the area.

“We have no option but to use the open field,” he added. “People here needs to pee, don’t they?”

“The government should address this issue urgently.”

I nodded in agreement.

“But Sir, beware of the street dogs when you use the open field.” he finished.

I took a long pause and replied in an upset voice, “Well, the dogs are okay, but beware of that cruel watchman of the patel building.” 

The man on the footpath

A man on the footpath re-arranges his merchandise kept on the floor, while SK and I walk down the road. I have enjoyed these thought provoking discussions (in my mind), rather small chats (in reality) with SK who in-spite of complaining about not having an ideal career growth is always optimistic about the future. His eagerness and desire to do something worthy in life has always motivated me, and so, my thoughts handed me over the key to a small but bizarre fantasy drawer in my mind-space. I think about that something worthy for me. I know being a published writer someday is one of them.

The man on the footpath now looks at me with sheer desperateness and his eyes tell me that business has not been good for him. His torn clothes re-affirms the fact. But I pay no attention to his sorrow, as I am in no urgent need of a notebook or a calendar.

Having reached home we both get back to our lives; SK indulges himself with his favorite soap, where as, I turn back to the leftover page of the book which is kept upside down on the study.

‘I need to write more frequently’, I tell myself with the same desperateness as the man.

I indeed need his notebook and calendar as much as he wanted me to have them.  The universe has its way of silently warning you.