The Imperfect Soul

Perfect blend of dark it was. The bluntness of the situation was way too emotionally depressing. Standing amidst many sleep deprived people made the situation even worse. The bus was said to arrive at eleven thirty as portrayed by the timing boards put up in the Tiruchy bus stand. Little mention was given about the tolerance level of the timings. Government buses should prefer giving a tolerance of plus five hours, preferably at night hours. The negative could of no chance be a concern. Prostitutes at work were finding their soul mates for that night. My crackerjack figure I guess kept those women away from me.

The busy city was withdrawing its vigor as time progressed fast. People in the bus stand casually started dissolving. My bus was yet to barge in. Coffee always injected a deep sense of gusto within me, for a reason unknown. I moved towards the coffee shop which had sexy posters of heroines put up at the bottom of the walls. For a moment or two, enjoying the curves and gossips in those posters I embossed my voice for a cup of coffee.

“Fourteen rupees” said the guy who stood inside

I gave the change he asked for. There was no one around to intrude the silence of the atmosphere. I took the cup in my hand and shifted towards the place where I sat before. I felt a strange connect behind me; it felt like some air at first that was hitting my neck. The void ambiance was the reason I thought and moved. Looking down I observed there was a shadow behind that was trying to seize my body. I recognized the innocence of its walk. I was afraid to look back. It was pressing towards me. I turned back with a sensation that could have killed my senses.

What I heard stopped my mental plight for a minute. “Do you want an AC bus to Chennai? Just four fifty” the voice said before I could turn back.

In a bid to respond to his unearthly query “No. I have booked my ticket to Vellore. The bus is yet to arrive” I said with frustration and relief, both racing into my blood with force.

As he moved, I took my seat in the bus stand that carried the sweat of my butt for the past three hours. The watch showed five past two. The conference went smooth and my company should be proud of my effort I thought. I was the sole person who managed to get through the process to attend the seminar that could add a very great applaud to my profile. Bizarre thoughts began to dwell, as my eyes started to feel its vagueness. Half through the sleep process that occupied my domain, a strong light flashed in front of my face. The horn sound woke the tired part that was losing its way into peace. I re-fluxed my muscles to get up.

Finally the much anticipated property of the government agreed to find its place three hours later than its prevalent time. Picking my small luggage, I moved towards the bus that looked very strange at that point of time. It looked like some force was deliberately withholding its structure.

I went towards the door. As I neared, the door slung open towards me in an abrupt manner. It could have hurt, but my reflex was quick enough to engage my hands into motion.

“I guess the bus has reached earlier than its timing” I winked at the conductor.

As he reviewed my ticket, “Show me you’re ID card. It’s late already because of a gang war near Madurai. Caste and religion turn people into unimaginable morons.” he said and checked my ID as it was booked online.

I did the required. When do we learn to be broad-minded? I thought about the gang fight near Madurai; as I placed my baggage at the top I found my seat near the window. It was 13, the seat number. An old man wheezing hard was near me. He was fast asleep like most of the others. He looked like he had been deprived of proper care for the past ten years. His wallet which looked as old as he was fell from his pocket to the side of his seat. I left the wallet in its place and got accustomed to the seat to drive its position to get a sound sleep. I saw the passengers at my back, one or two tuning songs in their smart phones the rest were all hovering between sleep and messages from their dear ones.

I switched my mind to lodge in peace and slowly my eyes contracted firmly. The bus moved roughly on the Indian roads that suffered from rain and improper maintenance. Once in a while the lights of the toll booths illuminated over my face. Half an hour and sleep preoccupied my senses madly.

When the subconscious mind was attaining its pleasure, soft hands touched my shoulder later during that night. I mechanized my eyes to open up, to find out what the old man wanted. I looked at the watch to see that it was nearing four. The bus was halting in the midst of a road shielded on either side with dark. I turned left towards him to ask of how he could be helped.

The sight of what I saw pierced my heart in horror. He was not there; his purse was lying in the same place. I looked back. No one was around. Again when I looked near, I froze.

She was piercing her own tattoo on her hand with a sharp metal, which I couldn't guess what it was. The deadly sight plucked my soul within. I was afraid to look. Who was she?

“Why did you do that?” she questioned me. Blood was per-fusing on her thighs. Half-dead, I picked my courage to initiate a conversation.

As she constantly kept asking the same question, she slashed the metal deep into her nerves. She made it a loop.

“Who are you? Where is the old man near me? What happened to the co-passengers?”I lined up my questions randomly that came to my mind. The purse soaked itself in blood.

“Is that very much of your concern?”

“It is and it should” I said.

She limped down and laughed wildly. Her name was perceptible on her hands on which she was piercing the metal. The blood covered the tattoo, but the name was evident. I wanted it to be a dream, realizing that it wasn't.

“Sins are meant to be rewritten positively” She shouted. I dint get what she said. Her voice was dominating.

“Sin? Shit.” She was in her sixties, had a perfect structure and looked younger for her age. The swell in her skin and color tone of her body seemed paranormal.

“So you’re the perfect men. Is that what you mean?”

She wiped the blood that dropped down her eyes. Her look was intimidating my nervousness.

“That tattoo, is that your name?”

“It is and it should”

I was angry. Suddenly she held my hands with impact. I couldn't refuse. She dragged me down the bus. I was in no mood to appear in tomorrow’s papers as a death victim to a ghostly activity. So I followed her, with thoughts profusely fighting within my mind.

All the people have disappeared. The conductor laid there dead.

“What is happening to me?” I asked myself with resentment.

“Let’s go. You need to know who you are.”

Even souls hinder the daily livelihood of people, I thought. The irony of life always throws surprises at us. This time the surprise was huge enough to kill me. I was the last one to be killed.

“Death is deadly. You should understand this. Every life has a value and I am going to take yours to balance the living cycle” her resonance in voice vibrated inside me.

We came down the bus. The bus was standing near a bridge. The flowing waters sounded loudly and the silence was giving a deadly synchronization to the situation. She caught my hand; the blood from her hands flowed over mine. It was ugly.

She made me ascend on the walls of the bridge facing the waters. My guess was absolutely wrong. She too climbed the walls.

“Things are going to be alright” she said. Contrary to what her lips uttered, she withheld my hands and jumped. Death was in its way.

As the waters took us inside, I began to lose my consciousness. The last few seconds that I managed to hold, portrayed many visuals that seemed delicate and impractical. The line of demarcation that stood between what I visualized and the outside world seemed of no connect and my mind cataloged the happenings of the last few seconds.

Gradually the colorless nature of the water initiated to change and I was swimming to death in a pool of blood. There was blood everywhere. I was searching for the women, who brought me here. Everything seemed to be an abstract of everyday living. As it pulled me inside, my legs touched against soft skin. I swiftly turned against the force of the water and pushed my head forward. I saw animals that were jeering in pain. I saw people mourning for their beloved. Caste prone people were fighting among-st themselves.

Guys were molesting girls. Different things appeared as I progressed through the last second. My last conscious second was felt. Before my eyes could close, the sight of something locked my breath. There were little dolls around. I realized that they were infants. It was becoming tedious to count the number of babies. None of their eyes were open. They dint see me. I saw one such child close to my sight, when I closed my eyes forever. The cells of my body were settling down. They were merging with death. As I was literally losing myself, a mammoth sound of a tap against metal was felt at the side. The vibration through which I was going made me agitated. My hands felt some leather. It was the purse of the old man.  Fighting with faith, I opened my eyes with heaps of difficulty. I saw the old man sleeping. It was a dream. I looked around if I could find the old woman who preoccupied my senses. She was nowhere. I came back to life.

In a quick reflex, unknowingly I pushed the wallet to the bottom. Picking it up, I opened the purse to keep the change that spilled. What I saw gave me the second dreadful surprise for that day.

Shakhty, the woman with the tattoo was smiling at me. She was his wife. Possibly she should have died before years I presumed.

I took my mobile. It showed four thirty. I unlocked the keypad and dialed the number. The ring was heard so loud in my heart.

“Hello” I said.

“Aren't u asleep Akshay?” my wives voice came to my savior. She was sad.

“Let’s have the child Aiysha”

“Uhh? What? My wife was shocked. I wanted to get established before having the child. My wife considered having the child instead of killing it.

“You mean so much to me. Let’s not abort our first child. Our world would also include our child’s presence. ” I said. Her voice resonated in unimaginable happiness. 

Not only religion and caste make people narrow minded; sometimes education too does sarcastically.

Her smile was enough to interpret how happy she was.

“Love you” she said.

As I imagined about my little, I cut her call and slept.

Intense Reflexes

Seventy minutes of intense play defines the game of legacy that carries the pride of India forward. Being the brutal force once, Hockey has turned out to be a huge set back in the present days. The stunning emergence of cricket turning out to be the money maker with loads of adulterates like IPL has managed to push the national game to a corner thus poisoning the minds of sports lovers. The fact that our national game is not even screened in our channels is a shame to the game of reflexes. There is a very narrow line of demarcation between the emotion of winning and losing, and a perfect sportsman stays unmoved when tormented by the opposition. The opposition to our hockey team is not the countries who play against them, but our media who has failed to support the game.Sweat till you succeed, if not stand up and praise the opponent has always been our intact ideology. We play to learn and when accoutered with a thunderous chance we grab and fight. We have had our share of players in all extremities.
Sardara Singh,a player who could integrate mindsets when attacking and deliberately grab the ball single handedly is an asset to our hockey team and his stamina is unmatched and applauded by many. V.R Raghunath,being our fittest penalty corner specialists has enthralled the spectators with his flabbergasting strikes leaving the opponents in disguise and has been one of the clever operators of the game. Gubraj Singh and Gurwindar Singh Chandi’s tackling ability excels and questions many professionals in the sport that desires intense reflexes and creative gameplays. Defending is an intelligent fortress in Hockey and Vickram Kanth, is a defender whose stick spins through the game plan of the opponent and wrecks the technique and uniqueness of the opposition striker.Hockey is a spectator’s sport and our supremacy in the game of crowd years before remained a disappointment to the strongest of oppositions. Our team has managed to instill fear in the opponent’s heart and have been an obvious limelight in the history of our game for the unity they cynosure. The missing factor as of now is the support and the amount of money that is being spent in the game. If we provide the hockey team with proper sponsors and good amount of support through media, once again our national game would earn the pride that it possessed before. The reflexes that the government takes in order to intensify the changes is a vital factor in bringing forward the lost interest towards the game, Hockey.

Vyashti

It was twelve approximately. Hesitation was grudging within me but without much further thought I split my lips to pitch my first word to him. He was about twelve, much diminutive than he looked but way too canny than I imagined. His legs cut the air fast and the sun managed to vividly glaze on his flickering eyes. I was sustaining my speed and believably I was beginning to admire him. It had been just a five minute jaunt but still felt so much of connect between us. I wished we had a conversation.

In a whack to kindle his mouth, I towered my voice “Am I casting myself like a bastard?” my tone vibrating with a heavy resonance. Withholding his movement, he bumped against air to stop and he turned.

“Do you have a doubt?” he opened up in a way that I wished he hadn't. He was dissecting my composure but I held my nerves as I was on the faulty side. Things seemed really bumbling. He crossed me just five minutes back. Now I was anticipating that he would forgive me. If someone could be so screwed then I was at the zenith of being so. Accoutering all the courage to get back to him, I started to mumble.

Before I could even start convincing he forced his tough voice, “I wish there was someone here. I was also obliged to what had happened”. He twirled his face back and looked at things in the background. He settled down.

“Where do you reside?” I inquired with the sole reason of knowing him further.

“Anywhere”

It seemed less surprising as I could spot that from the way he carried himself. His shorts had a big hovel at the back. His shirt was over-sized to make anyone guess that it was not his. I pitied his being. He looked like he hadn't ingested for months.

“We have a lot in common” I added.

“Do you beg?” he was puzzled at my allegation.

Confused if I could reveal my way of living, I retaliated to his question “No. I don’t precisely” 

“Nothing could bring us an inch closer. I beg for my routine food. I wear dresses that I find in the bin and doze in a place that I find when my eyes dwell into the state of unconsciousness. I am a vague being who god forgot to reconsider. I neither know who my parents are nor do I know what starvation is. I have always been in it”

I laughed meekly with a slight sarcasm. I understood the line of demarcation between us was narrow.

“Am I not making sense? Life has only two straightforward rules. One to live filthy rich and enjoy; the other to live moral myself and struggle”, he said; his words reflecting some foresight.

“Maybe” I said.

Much of philosophy overshadowed the part of our conversation. I was a person who believed that blood is the ultimate, and I procured money swirling knives on people’s neck. I was a hooligan whose ideologies were completely relied on payments. I knew no other work than to be a gangster. I kill, I rape, and I sin. How could I tell him that?

“Do you mind telling your name?” I asked.

“I would not have minded if I had known”

I adored his innocence. His ability to contemplate at things in a humorous yet veracious manner redefined a lot of things inside me. I was feeling fresh. I was beginning to cherish things. Before enlightenment crawled its way inside me, he jerked suddenly.

“Why did you pause?” 

“I find it very awkward to be walking with you. But I conceive you as my very own”

“I should have the pleasure” I said this as both of us tuned our heads to turn back and look at the road that we have been walking all through. It was straight. It looked like a long walk but the point where we initiated the walk was still in sight.

“Do you stab people for money?” his mouth reflexed quickly. I didn't reckon this now. He is being a genius. Some can impress in a minutes time I thought. Contradictory but fizzling to the words of my heart this time, I said yes.

He wasn’t offended. He tittered mildly and said “Now I trust the tremor in your eyes that I have been seeing right from the site where we met.”

The sun was extracting all my synergy surging the heat of the talk to a peak. Our interpretation depends on what we believe. His belief was right. Fear of being killed has always engaged my life. Death is not something I failed to believe, but the enforcement of death to me did always bring in a shake within.

“Tediously bending to all the questions you flip is now becoming a task uphill.” I said letting go of my ego. He effortlessly managed to bring the stony part of myself out. Till the moment he questioned my fear, I was verging towards hiding my identity but his coherent ability to face read, wrecked all the thoughts of my stupid neurons in brain that was in a state of puzzlement.

Befitting to the conversation that was through, things around began to clinch down. No vehicles were moving and it was dead silent. I began speaking my heart and things that occurred prior to the meeting.

His eyes looked into mine. He froze and listened to what my mouth said. Though our heights made a difference, the situation was extremely pleasing. I started.

“People generally refer to me as hooligan for the avocation I do. If not, I would have been a beggar literally sleeping on roads and eating garbage. All things that happen in our lives are not necessarily explainable but experience-able and that’s how I was called to work under a very famous law maker. Though I have slashed a lot of heads, eyed tones of blood for him I have literally not seen him once. I work under my boss who assigns my work. I was a payable prostitute”. 

“Do you prefer driving your bike fast?” he asked something that wasn't relevant to what I had been saying.

“Why do you ask that?” I questioned.

“You must know” he said.

“Yes I do. I betrayed my boss”

“Now is that a reason”

“I killed him”

“I guessed. Your eyes said that way before. Your lips did that just now”

“I believe now you must have the entire picture. Greediness when contemplated closely is not explainable.”

“So you say it’s experience-able?”

“Unless you fear death, it is”

“Death? There is no death. It’s an interpretation”

I failed to understand his point. Walking slowly I was missing eye contact. I was looking around. An ambulance crossed me very fast. The sound irritated my senses.

“Death does not happen. It has never happened.” He said further.

“So you say that god doesn’t exist. Isn’t it?”

There was a wait. He told me to change the direction of our walk. We started to walk back to the place where we began. My senses obeyed his words without further quest.

“Our consciousness is different from our body. Our body is not ours. Our consciousness is. Death happens when we dwell into the identification of our body and not our senses. When we feel separated from our body, we feel death. When we identify our consciousness to body, death is a fools game-play.” He finished.

“Complicate” I said.

Divine intervention is not experienced by all. Those who do become saints and those who don’t become atheists, I thought. The seven positive and the seven negative planes of existence have some meaning and that is the reason we have been living in the world where love and compassion among individuals is a rarity. Melodramatic, yet I was amazed to see the change in myself.

“Do you mind telling your name?” he asked.

I could see that the ambulance that crossed us before few minutes stopped ahead of us. The few meters in between was evident. Being a voracious observer of women, I noticed a woman near the ambulance. She was in her thirties. She was beautiful and ethnic. She must have called the ambulance, I guessed.

Noticing her acts I forgot to answer him. “Everything in this world has a reason. Once a person starts to think beyond his individual level, there would be no poverty, no ego, no hunger and no religious wars.” he said.

“Everything has a reason.” I repeated.

I saw the girl once again. She bent and touched.

“Eh? What?” he asked as if he dint listen to what I said.

“I was named as Vyashti I remember.” I answered his question.

All of a sudden he stamped my legs while walking. The laces were misplaced. It felt strenuous to walk. Wind was blowing laboriously. Things eventuate when we least expect it. It’s a universal fact common to all the endeavours in this domain.

“You were right. If you had held on to the brakes of your bike at the right time and if you hadn't hit me hard, things would have been extremely difficult for me ahead” he said.

 I saw the girl touching the boy lying there. The phrase “Everything has a reason” was ringing again and again, inside me.

“You don’t belong here” I said to him. I bent down to tie my laces. “Why were you rushing and running hurriedly before I bumped on you. I too saw the fear. I knew that you were terrified to lose your life. Your eyes sketched what your heart wished. Isn’t it?”

 There was absolute silence.

I got up. He was not there. He has whooshed into the air. I heard a voice ahead. It was the girl’s.

“The boy is breathing. He has life” she shouted to the men in the ambulance.

The situation there became strained. “What must be his name?” I thought.

“Samashti” maybe I interpreted.

All things that we experience are not necessarily explainable. When we don’t know ourselves and we are identified with our body death matters. Consciousness is what we should identify and the soul remains eternal. I understood that there is no death.

And so I moved.

                                                                                                            

All Red light areas do not have a Red light

Simple it may seem writing about an issue in question is not a cakewalk. Procuring the reputation of being a good analytic writer has been immensely demanding and I wish not to deviate from the job of uprooting the essence of habitual issues that we don’t pause and breathe to bother about. Time plays tough and makes you inoperative when you devote all your vigour seeking work. Incidentally it happened to be lethal, plunging me out of the globe into mind wrecking work, hampering me from experiencing a subject worth of putting my butt for straight two hours on the chair to pen about. Ironically the video which I saw also contributed to the urge of spinning this issue to focus of attention. The title may seem sarcastic at the start of the read but the requisite to intentionally use such a caption would be justified towards the end, for which I apologize.

Thirty five kilometres was all that it took to reach the adjoining state. Chithoor, a place notorious for trafficking of women and children was our ultimate destination. When we accelerated our bikes, the wind punched adamant and air was chilling tediously on our faces. Drops of tears emerged to be the reaction of over speed and I had no other go than to swirl my tongue around my lips to taste a drop and absurdly turned back to my friend to convey that it tasted salty, just to bug him and make my existence felt in that road of solitude very rarely hit by vehicles. He was swooping into ever blooming Illaiyaraja songs and was shaking mildly; his mannerisms were ample enough to induce any women to give a sound slap on his face. Now, I would like to make my second apology here. These facts mentioned above do not contribute anything to the article and the title.

A sudden jerk, I did not notice a speed breaker ahead. Luckily, juggling out into perfection I avoided a slide and conversely speaking a drive to puthoor, recognized for its fracture dressings. Everything was going fine, until my friend put his hand right in front of my face hiding the road ahead, to point out a blockade very far. I saw boards that warned us to halt. It was jam-packed. I did not stop my vehicle as I retained every single stuff that would avert any Indian from keeping on the road. Most importantly I owned a licence, for which I was very thrilled of. I parked my bike well in between two police men very arrogantly shifting gears to neutral, in a manner that would annoy even the kindest of kinds. Aware of the fact that verification was very casual as it was the border, I hoped that they would finalize their commitments in a short time and would allow us to make our way into the pathetic road. Was I interpreting impossible?

Reflexing his muscles as if I was rushing to punch his balls, he pulled out the keys in a pace twenty four times electrifying than any bowler in the Indian cricket team. Ten minutes later once my sweat initiated its way to the toes through my tummy unwittingly touching most of my parts, I assembled the courage and the force to question the traffic police to give us the reason for withholding our locomotion.

Twelve bikes, two auto rickshaws, five cars and twenty two buffoons (it does not include police men, for they made us so) were standing without any muster of muscles to open our mouth. The tenor of that place was extremely dynamic and restless. Later, one of the men in his forties elevated his tone to command for my license. I showed because I had no other go than to surrender to him blindly. Then many evidences were asked, one being our liquor content which he managed to check through the odour of our mouths literally proving to be void, were asked which I took out in the order of approval of his diligence. What seemed very weird yet very hilarious was he asked me to pay two hundred rupees for providing him with all the confirmations he asked for and when questioned he acquitted that our number plate had a shaded colour and was not formal, which would put a wild laugh even on the fierce and tough professors of my college. Without understanding the wrongdoing for being accused we gave the amount with a discount of twenty rupees to the Government of India, which was sincere in its intention to provide us the bill for the money that tumbled into their pockets. Fake or true, a big salute for that.

Drifting from my familiar routine of questioning the sincerity of the government or investigating the job ethics of the police men which has become ultimately tiresome, let me thrust a question that every common man should look upon; does licence manifest consideration from the police?  Our pride to keep on the roads of India is ruining its sense as it only remains the first question of approval and no traffic police stops with that alone, letting our drive resume after they examine our license. It has become a key to nag, to be harsh enough.

Precisely some fund can unchain you from any form of violation of rules on the road even if you don’t own a license. To all those people who pointlessly pride having one, learn the fact that it’s purposeless. An intense job of putting things right on road when the sun propels the face hard and chill flows through the ears is difficult, we understand. But you get paid for your job. You have the dominance; you have the power to interrogate us; you have the power to halt us. But does it deserve the hard earned money from public. Some even plead for money instead of throwing a fine, which is an ultimate shame to the profession of justice.

Not this time, the mistake should obviously be bestowed upon us. We in an impulse to abscond from the fine have been very pleased to lend our pockets to their grasp, who as a choice to earn hurried money has lingered its labour of rendering futile questions to snatch money withholding dignity. All red light areas do not have a red light to emphasize the portrayal of its profession, but some years from now if this holds on, the craft that warrants selfless sacrifice and flawless authority in public would be a red light warning to people on road to keep away from cops who effortlessly collects money to drive ahead. The choice is ours.