The Flyover

Every day I woke up with just one purpose. To see it. To relish every bit of it. To enjoy the mystery that surrounded it. To imagine the truth behind it.
I enjoyed my mornings. They were bliss in my opinion, lunacy in others’. I spent every second of my morning staring at it, as the winds gushed past me.
You see, I just had mornings for this sacred job.
Afternoons, I spent doing something I hated doing, but had to.
Evenings, playing; which was a job in itself now, took my time. I had to do it, else I’d be proclaimed a loser. And I just couldn’t stand it. Especially, in front of it.
And nights, I just couldn’t afford to look at such a beauty in darkness. Never. Never ever.

I was a street urchin, in the common man’s language. I lived, well, in the common man’s language, on the roads. When the day came to its close, I returned back to what many wouldn’t like to call a home. Because there wasn't any. It was a mere roof.
A roof like no other. A roof so plane and rugged. A roof no ‘house’ can have. A roof no person would ever want. A roof, like the flyover.

Afternoons were dreaded. More for the humiliation they got along with them. Who would like people shouting at them, refusing to buy something as cheap as flowers? But I had to succumb, as there was no other way. I had to fill my belly, in addition to my mother and father’s as well. I had to live, I had to survive. I couldn’t stand the thought of living without looking at it – the flyover.

The flyover was perhaps the only memory I had of what is called childhood, in the common man’s language. Well, if you omit out memories of a bickering mother, and a seemingly non-existent father. And I loved it more than anything else in the world. It was vast, expansive, and majestic in all its views. What, in the world could be more beautiful than this? With cars driving, zooming around. With a never ending blue sky above it. This is what I could call salvation. I wished I was a flyover, at times.
My mother said it led to some huge city. When I had asked what a city meant, she had shouted at me for asking too many questions. I knew why she was angry. Not because I asked too many questions, but because I asked too many questions about the flyover.
You see, no one liked the flyover. Infact, they detested it, and cursed it.
I had often heard my mother whispering to my father about how this wretched thing should be broken down, as they weren’t able to see stars. Whispering, as they couldn’t say it aloud, when I was around.
I was very defensive about it. I didn't have any particular reason for it, though. I did, actually, but not in the common man’s language.

I spent my mornings staring at the huge structure. It gave me peace, it made me feel serene. It was so much better than kicking around a tattered football. So much better than selling flowers. So much better than hearing nonsense from nonsensical people. So much better than, well, life.
I often wondered what life was, beyond the flyover, in what they call the ‘city’, in the common man’s language. What was a city? A place better than this? A place that gave joy? Joy, greater than staring at this wonder? Or just another word for problems, tensions, and trouble? I wished someone from those speeding cars would stop by, look at my innocent eight-year old face, in the common man’s language, and take me to the city.
I wanted to go there. You see, the flyover taught me to be positive. Maybe, the city was all about joys and happiness.
Life under the flyover, however was mine. Well, at least mornings were. So what if I couldn’t see the sky at night? At least there was place to lie down. So what if it was just a few inches, and it smelled gross? At least I had a bed sheet to cover my nose with. So what if it was a tattered, torn one, that was hardly of any use? At least it gave me hope that there was something better in the world.
You see, the flyover taught me to be positive.
At least I had food to eat. So what if it was partly stale, leftover food that I hated to gobble down? At least someone, anyone made a point to offer it to me.
You see, the flyover taught me to believe there was someone, up there. God, in the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
In the common man’s language.
I wasn't a commoner. No.
No commoner thinks of a flyover as his life.
No commoner thinks of a filthy, dirty and wretched life, as a good one.
No commoner has a flyover to teach them stuff, when they need to learn.

No commoner has such an unusual, mute, and lifeless sibling as a flyover.


But then, who wants to be common?

The Other Woman

As I sat in one remote corner of my school, munching and relishing my ice cream, my mind thought…
Carmel feast.
She was downstairs, I could see her. I couldn’t exactly decide whether she had seen me or not. But my heart said she had. She stood there with her clan of friends, an ice cream in each hand. She seemed happy. Or maybe she was faking it. She perhaps just wanted me to feel jealous of her happiness.
I sighed.
No one noticed. I was alone in the corridors. Or maybe I was alone anyhow, just alone…

I could recall, remember. Or perhaps I hadn't forgotten it at all. It was difficult to forget, anyway.
She had shouted with anger, “If you think that you can take him away, just forget about it!”
I had stared at her, open mouthed. Maybe she was right, I had thought about it.
But surely, I hadn't thought about making it work.
Bitter as it was, it hurt. I shouted back at her, weakly though. I had no strength left. She had left me shattered. He had left me shattered.
As if coping with the fact that he didn't love me, and had chosen her over me wasn't enough.

It seemed as if she was laughing at me, as she ate her ice cream. I very well knew the reason behind that glint in her eye. She seemed evil.

I threw my ice cream and walked away.

Time for self

I love being the centre of repulsion. I love to spend time with myself. I love the silence of an eerie night. I love to remember disasters. I love to experience things out of the way. I love the wind blowing past me. The sound of silence. The music of loneliness. The happiness of failure. I love to innovate. Think, at times. I love doing nothing. I love dressing up for no reason at all. I love to refuse invites to parties. I love to be the maniac that I am. Sleeping. Dreaming. Feeling lost.
I love to feel weird about doing a particular job. It tells me I’m different. I love being different. I love hot food, minus the onions. I love to play scrabble endlessly. I love to dream of a time when I’ll have time. I love to watch television, more because it makes me forget. I love to forget things, faces, names, people…
I love sad endings, in books, stories, films. I love to be someone else. I love to analyze myself. I love myself. I love those stereotypical soaps on TV. I love to correlate. I love the feeling of being protected. I love to be cared for. I love to talk, sometimes. I love to just laugh off life till tears squeeze out. I love the irony in my laugh. I love the word – depressed. I love words. I love to write. I love the computer. I love to sit and stare out into the night. I love to talk to the moon. I love to feel the presence of God.
Miracles. Black magic. Life after death. Sun signs. Horoscopes. Future.
I love the thought of running away. I love to bicker, fight and shout, when I’m angry. I love to fantasize. I love to live in a dream world. I love to not admit, and face reality. I love the idea of schizophrenia. I love to understand emotions, intricately. I love the feeling of love. I love that thumping heart beat. I love the red in my cheeks. I love to think about stuff of MY choice. I love life, MY way. Lazing around. Sleeping for eternity. The air conditioner. My bed. My house. The coziness. The food. Momos.
Pizzas. Simple rice. Those dinner conversations. The feeling of being required.

I love looking at the dark side of things. I love to have few people around me. I love to think of old jokes, and still find them funny. I love to preserve what I write. I love to see photographs, observe. I love to think of people. I love to judge. I love being partial. I love crying at night. I love to wake up late. I love postponing. I love to never do some things. I love the feeling of carrying an empty bag to school. I love to go to school for a particular reason a particular day. I love to show people who care, I care. I love to spend time lavishly. I love being pampered. I love the luxury of a day all for myself. I love being online. I love to compete with my own messaging speed. I love games. I love to read HT City over a cup of brewing, hot, self made coffee. I love to taste food. I love to stand in my balcony. I love to doze off in my car.
I love to feel incomplete, as it helps me live on.
I love to live life MY way – THIS way.

P.S. : People, I don't have much to say, really. But I'm SO glad that I'm finally posting!! I mean, I've been breaking my head over this computer for the past two days, so you know...
Relief!