Kalpurush

He's walking He thinks of a poem while he walks He wants to write it when he goes home But will he be able to? Will he remember it with the intensity and flow it has in his mind right now? He doesn't ponder upon the thought though That's not what he wants to do.

He's in a lecture, a seminar And he drifts off He wants to be present He wants to show an expression of relatability on his face to the speaker in front of him The author, of a book he didn't care to remember Or ask, Was so vulnerable. (He could never do that) Instead he's thinking about that poem The room is cold It makes him want to sleep There is a bag on the table And the handle is hanging off the edge It's disturbing He wants to fix it It's not his bag Intrusive thoughts are winning

He's always been asked the right questions But given the wrong options to choose from They never give him the correct ones, only check instead if he has courage enough to choose the common one. He always wants to add a secret third correct option to the question paper Which he wants to tick with black ink Before submitting But that is never the case He regrets it He regrets the futility of it

His life is a mess of plugs and sockets In and out and off and on He runs the risk of getting electrocuted But he doesn't care enough to dwell upon that thought If the world wants to take him, he will let it Why anticipate?

Loud rock music blasts in his ears No one around him can hear The person sitting beside him can't hear the loud screams beyond the rock music His loud screams, that muffle the rock music His ears ring with so much noise With so much loudness It's unbearably calm

The bus keeps turning He clutches onto the bar on the seat in front of him He doesn't want to fall, doesn't want to lose balance Doesn't want to let his body be defeated by the momentum He's trying his best His monthly Midas touch, rapidly rusting away, screams at the top of its voice Much like the music He's trying his best His father begs His mother is dissapointed But he's trying his best

There is a beast on the footpath Running alongside the bus It wants to outrun the bus Seems as though it is giving the run all it's got It's giving the chase it's best shot He feels like a prey But in a competition with the predator much smaller than him He's not to be eaten But to be challenged He feels like he's going to lose. The bus wins, obviously It's a manade thing But does he?

His life is filled with accidents Drivers at fault Passengers at risk Never the other way round For once he's lucky that he's not to blame His life is in the hands of those who know less but act like they know more He doesn't care He can't bring himself to care If he does, it will drive him mad And he can't afford to do that He has to stay sane For the world's sake He has to stay sane

He walks with a limp in his leg He thinks about how The things you do to die are far easier than the things you do to survive And he limps He bumps into a friend who pulls him into an orchestra Or perhaps a circus There's someone dancing at the center of the stage “Look,” he's friend says, pointing towards the dancer. “What is he doing?” He asks. “Composing his next Best Seller.” His friend answers. “A novel?” He asks once again “Are you serious?” His friend nudges, “A play!” And he watches the composer in action

The playwrite with half lidded eyes dances to an unsteady rhythm that somehow he knows He recognises A foreign tune he heard somewhere Maybe in a forest, maybe in the gym It's a tune he knows too well but can't quite place He limps forward and there's no one to stop him He doesn't want to be seen by the dancer, Just wants to observe his effortless movements It's almost as if he's floating Somewhere along the way he thinks he himself becomes the dancer With an audience to watch him He makes them happy, he feels happy doing so

Somewhere along the way the lines blur His head tilts To survive becomes to die and to die becomes to perish and to perish becomes the reason to be reborn He doesn't want to be reborn Oh but he must For that's the rule of existance He wants to dance in this endless loop of existance instead And pretend if only for a second That he is alive, for nothing but himself. Alive and free.