A silent afternoon is often underestimated. Activity drops and life gradually slows down, leaving you soft and vulnerable. A frame of time that permits you to do nothing, be nothing. That’s all most of us need. What are we going to do after the chase ends? Here, the room is streaked with orange lights. The kind of light they set up in almost all Bangalore pubs to elevate your high. She lay on the carpet, calm, and content, waiting for the bowl she ordered from California Buritto. Time and again, it’s her obvious choice because somehow she’s convinced that the veggies in it contribute to what she calls “Project Health”. A sip of moonshine destroys the last traces of what can make this afternoon less beautiful – The heat.
“Hypocrite, know? Beer and health”, one would say. But aren’t we all? On some level or the other. Like all of us, she does certain things under pressure and certain for pleasure. Cut her some slack. It’s the way of life. Talking of pleasure, she had been reading a book called In the Dream House recently. She slid a word in a casual conversation because someone told her that the more you use new words in your vocabulary, the more it becomes a part of it. “You’re a hedonist”, she said. Her friend had asked if this was like sexist/casteist that feminists like you had come up with that we aren’t able to catch up with. She had laughed. It just means a person who believes that pursuing pleasure is the most substantial thing in life, she replied.
The friend had walked out screaming. “I don’t get writers, man. They come up with new words when simpler words already exist. Why complicate?”, his voice faded away. She thought of him fondly. The afternoon was supposed to be spent with him. He had to leave to town for an emergency, and she was somehow glad nobody was around. Solitude breeds on you. “Why complicate? It’s a great afternoon.” she continued sipping on the moonshine. A minute later, the order had arrived. She took the first bite and found a message from her “Kinda-seeing-casual-sorta-situation” person.
The message read, “I think we should stop seeing each other. We’re developing expectations.” Were we? she wondered. “Fine. It’ll be whatever you want”, she replied and meant it. Was she sad? A little bit, the amount that needed a walk because the hurt was inevitable at the pit of her stomach, even if avoided. Her footsteps traced the path to the room to find her headphones. She wore them and headed out. Raja. Raja was her comfort. She played “Ilaya Nila” and walked to nowhere really.
She just walked and walked and walked. Do you think of what the stories of other people are when you look at them on streets? Why are their eyebrows curled, or where did that stain on their T-shirt come from? Who gave them those flowers? Are they married, or do they just fancy rings? Is life keeping them happy? Anyway, neither can I nor she ever know. You can only hope. She continued walking. Her phone notified New memory for you. Dear readers, is it just me, or does new memory feel like an oxymoron? Memory is old, and new is, I don’t know, just new. Either way, this rabbit hole that Google excitedly offers on your screen – best to avoid. Especially for her.
I’m the narrator, so I guess she ignored it and continued to walk. Meanwhile, what she couldn’t ignore was a bird that flew right above her head. Why are birds crawling on the ground and flying right on our faces when they should be up in the sky, considerably high? Maybe this was the expectations the world set on her as well. She’ll rise up, considerably high. As depression was to humans, climate change was to birds.
Who knows?
She continued walking.
In seconds, another bird flew right across her head again. Now, it was a test of her patience. Where are the birds headed? Infuriated, she picked up a stone to throw at the bird. When she turned around, she realized the garbage was dumped alongside the road, and the birds were digging in. Now, she was conflicted about whether she was angry at the birds or, that people dump garbage at random places, or that something nice about her situationship had hit a dead end. She thought of birds. She thought of conflicts. It reminded her of a story that goes like this.
The hunter is set out in a dense forest to fetch his best hunt. He camouflages amidst the forest’s lush green in search of a bird he desires to offer his guests. Armoured with years of experience, he’s aware that the game changer is the wait. Learn to wait. Learn to wait with grace, patience, and the same amount of hunger burning in your heart when you started out, to the end. The insatiable quest for anything is achieved when you master the art of waiting. The time had come for him to take the shot. The bird was seated in a position so convenient for the hunter as though it knew he was waiting down there to pull the trigger. The hunter’s impeccable aim had killed the bird in one shot. He grabbed it from the floor and went home with an immense sense of satisfaction.
His guests were brimming with joy.
The next day, he sat down to read Poornachandra Tejaswi. It came to his realisation that he had uttered a brutal mistake.The thing about this bird species was that when the female bird got pregnant, it would hide inside the tree and cover itself along with its family as a means of protection. It would leave only a tiny gap for the male bird to fly around and transfer food. If the male bird didn’t show up, an entire family would die of starvation. The hunter shot this male bird with great zeal and zest, which his guests relished upon.
The hunter felt a great deal of despair. Why didn’t the birds break open? Maybe they didn’t know any better? Or maybe they never tried? Should the hunter now keep in mind the desires of his guests because of Athithi Devo Bhava and all that, or should he consider a family of birds because he knows what it is to be the sole provider of his family?
Conflicts after conflicts with one core conflict if you break all conflicts down.
Anyway, this story is not about the hunter. I’m the narrator, so she continues walking, wondering about where were we exactly. Birds and conflicts. Conflicts were a part of not only the hunter’s life, even hers. It’s an inane experience that any human must face and go through. Do you want to know her conflicts? I could explore that. But, my exploration would lead to making this entire piece sad. My friends have deliberately told me to write happy stories. I told them I’m not happy enough to shape happy narratives, but I’m not sad either. It’s just that life is mundane and stagnant, and there is no drama. Maybe this is what peace feels like, I ask?
Who cares? We just need happy stories, they said.
So I guess she continues walking and walking and walking. The heat is scorching, one more reason to add to the pile of things that have annoyed her today. She finds a juice shop on her way to really nowhere. She picks up avocado juice with ice and sugar because “Project Health” can sometimes take a back seat.
And, in that moment, as her mouth was covered with her favourite juice, she felt nothing.
A silent afternoon is often underestimated.