Tuesday, November 08, 2011

No Man is an Island

The door is closed to keep the sounds of the world (a sleeping world at this time) out. The windows are shut to keep the bugs and mosquitos (all fully awake at this time) out. The curtains are drawn (to keep ‘them’ eyes from looking (these are looking all the time, despite the time it may be). The walls meet each other at the perfect angles the engineer designed these for. The roof is white compared to the creamish color of the walls. The floor is the shining light-cream ceramic tiles. Shining but silent. Imported but now converted. The tubelight illuminates (despite the thoughts that are flowing) what otherwise will be a dark room. The mirror on the right side of the wall, right as the man sits on the bed with back to the wall which faces the wall with the tubelight, reflects the pyjamas and trousers hanging on the hangers nailed to the door. There is a phone on the night table next to the bed. This phone is his connection. With ‘them’ all. Nothing breathes, except the person who types (and the fan that obeys the switch). Nothing lives except the short lived thoughts. He has been on this island for a long time now. He has been this island for a long time.

And then the phone rings… ‘them’ attachments are calling…

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Sukhdev Singh is milking a buffalo when I call him. We are speaking after a long gap. His voice carries the same cheerful energy I remember....