11th November, 2015.
A Very Happy Diwali.
Ajay reached for his secret stash of cigarettes as soon as his family left for the Kali Pujo. The plan for this had been conceived right at the moment when Mrs. Sen, Ajay’s mother said that this Diwali, they will follow their ancestral tradition of Kali pujo, something they lost after settling in Delhi 20 years ago. Ajay was just a year old then.
Even after numerous request by his mother, Ajay declined the offer to accompany them to the pujo. He had a presentation to deliver two days later and he has been working on it for the last two weeks and much of his career was depending on this. Mr. Sen finally intervened and saved Ajay from his mother’s ‘loop talk’, something that Ajay called when Mrs. Sen gets stuck and keep on repeating same thing over and over. She sometimes could be overbearing, yet, she was his mother, couldn’t be helped. Only his brother Arnav said nothing.
Nobody in his family knew that Ajay was exceptionally good in carpentry, something he learnt from his father as a hobby. And nobody had any idea that in his room, especially in his wardrobe, he had installed a secret chamber, where he kept his stash of cigarettes, marijuana and other things which shall not be spoken in front of his parents. That chamber had saved his life numerous nights of sleeplessness and tedious, monotonous life in general when he had to make a long PowerPoint presentation or proof read articles before sending it out to the editor in chief for finalizations.
He opened up the wardrobe and took out the small leather pouch, the cigarette case and the lighter. His parents and brother had left for the pujo 10 minutes ago, he saw their car leaving.
The view out of his 6th floor apartment window was as same as it was and would be every year during the Diwali night. He exhaled the smoke out his lungs, feeling light headed. The marijuana in the cigarette was strong stuff. His laptop was on his study table, with numerous tabs running on the browser. The music system was playing Caprice number 8 of 24 by Paganini, instead of blaring out Avenged Sevenfold or Lambs of God. Quite deliberately he had turned off the lights; only the fairy lights were twinkling in green, red and blue colors. Butting out the fourth joint of the night, he came back to his laptop. It was 11.40 on his wall clock and he hadn’t typed a single thing for his presentation. It was never about the presentations actually. Like many times before, he lied to his parents.
He looked at his phone; ’57 messages from 4 chats’, the notification said. Tossing it back on the table he lit the fifth cigarette of the night. Moments ago Mrs. Sen called him, reminding him to eat his dinner and take his meds on time. He knew she’d do it. His mother would forget salt in dinner butt not reminding him to eat.
He started typing again. It would have been the 5th time he was typing the last 4 were deleted by him. He knew it happens, not always one can write nonstop and expect it to be satisfactory. Either that or it was his head, stuffed with marijuana. “Fuck this shit!” he mumbled. In the other tabs, he was reading his old mails. Almost a year old now, which he had archived for no good reason at all. So much so, before this, he didn’t even bother to give them a second look. There was always something, either his business which he so skillfully made his priorities now, or his general sense of dejected nonchalance. He read them many times initially, but the need, the urgency, the longing for one closure was now at the bottom of everything, although he never deleted them, he never knew why not.
Still 10 notifications on his Facebook page, each of them pertaining to his birthday which collided with Diwali this year, for which he had no interest at all. His birthdays had been ever so boring for him. Although he never said it, such days never held any interest for him, unless his friends came around to visit him. They weren’t coming this year for various reasons or none at all.
He returned to his blog page, something which he kept inactive for a few weeks now. Exhaling another weed smeared breath, he rubbed his temples, he finally wrote –
“Happy Diwali to all, and thanks for the wishes!”
He knew he might not have meant it wholly, but he hoped that the message went for whom it was intended for!
But how would it matter anyways?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx END xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
A Very Happy Diwali.
Ajay reached for his secret stash of cigarettes as soon as his family left for the Kali Pujo. The plan for this had been conceived right at the moment when Mrs. Sen, Ajay’s mother said that this Diwali, they will follow their ancestral tradition of Kali pujo, something they lost after settling in Delhi 20 years ago. Ajay was just a year old then.
Even after numerous request by his mother, Ajay declined the offer to accompany them to the pujo. He had a presentation to deliver two days later and he has been working on it for the last two weeks and much of his career was depending on this. Mr. Sen finally intervened and saved Ajay from his mother’s ‘loop talk’, something that Ajay called when Mrs. Sen gets stuck and keep on repeating same thing over and over. She sometimes could be overbearing, yet, she was his mother, couldn’t be helped. Only his brother Arnav said nothing.
Nobody in his family knew that Ajay was exceptionally good in carpentry, something he learnt from his father as a hobby. And nobody had any idea that in his room, especially in his wardrobe, he had installed a secret chamber, where he kept his stash of cigarettes, marijuana and other things which shall not be spoken in front of his parents. That chamber had saved his life numerous nights of sleeplessness and tedious, monotonous life in general when he had to make a long PowerPoint presentation or proof read articles before sending it out to the editor in chief for finalizations.
He opened up the wardrobe and took out the small leather pouch, the cigarette case and the lighter. His parents and brother had left for the pujo 10 minutes ago, he saw their car leaving.
The view out of his 6th floor apartment window was as same as it was and would be every year during the Diwali night. He exhaled the smoke out his lungs, feeling light headed. The marijuana in the cigarette was strong stuff. His laptop was on his study table, with numerous tabs running on the browser. The music system was playing Caprice number 8 of 24 by Paganini, instead of blaring out Avenged Sevenfold or Lambs of God. Quite deliberately he had turned off the lights; only the fairy lights were twinkling in green, red and blue colors. Butting out the fourth joint of the night, he came back to his laptop. It was 11.40 on his wall clock and he hadn’t typed a single thing for his presentation. It was never about the presentations actually. Like many times before, he lied to his parents.
He looked at his phone; ’57 messages from 4 chats’, the notification said. Tossing it back on the table he lit the fifth cigarette of the night. Moments ago Mrs. Sen called him, reminding him to eat his dinner and take his meds on time. He knew she’d do it. His mother would forget salt in dinner butt not reminding him to eat.
He started typing again. It would have been the 5th time he was typing the last 4 were deleted by him. He knew it happens, not always one can write nonstop and expect it to be satisfactory. Either that or it was his head, stuffed with marijuana. “Fuck this shit!” he mumbled. In the other tabs, he was reading his old mails. Almost a year old now, which he had archived for no good reason at all. So much so, before this, he didn’t even bother to give them a second look. There was always something, either his business which he so skillfully made his priorities now, or his general sense of dejected nonchalance. He read them many times initially, but the need, the urgency, the longing for one closure was now at the bottom of everything, although he never deleted them, he never knew why not.
Still 10 notifications on his Facebook page, each of them pertaining to his birthday which collided with Diwali this year, for which he had no interest at all. His birthdays had been ever so boring for him. Although he never said it, such days never held any interest for him, unless his friends came around to visit him. They weren’t coming this year for various reasons or none at all.
He returned to his blog page, something which he kept inactive for a few weeks now. Exhaling another weed smeared breath, he rubbed his temples, he finally wrote –
“Happy Diwali to all, and thanks for the wishes!”
He knew he might not have meant it wholly, but he hoped that the message went for whom it was intended for!
But how would it matter anyways?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx END xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
So what was he smoking?
ReplyDelete