The Accustomed Life

Reading Albert Camus at home before hitting the road to get to my office was an exercise that stalled the mind and a dizzying fixation of thought pervaded. Camus cantered on about the ‘lofty’ life he lived with aplomb and inebriated candidness. The entire novel is like a soliloquy that an intoxicated person can’t help but recite. I couldn’t precisely pull out what it was that he was drinking as he failed to mention (maybe because of the strength of the beverage). He was probably three sheets to the wind. The entire novel is reminiscence over his fulfilling life which he lived exactly as he wanted it to be (rather, how anyone pictures the ideal). His explanation- ‘living aloft is after all the only way to be seen and hailed by the largest number of the masses.’ The novel is titled- ‘Fall’. Just when you get accustomed to the vertex, he reveals the inevitable. The entire way enroute to my work place I sifted through layers and layers of what the man really wanted to say. Of course I paid attention to the regular display of confab and phatic conversation that invariably reared in the pooled car.
I let things percolate until I got to my destination. I heaved a despairing sigh and tried to put on some mirth on my face. We took the elevator, frisked along through the door, nodded tacitly and amiably to a few, engaged in unrestrained badinage, until I had the pleasure to slump on my semi-reclining chair. I hadn’t yet recovered from the assault on the general state of my mind. I awakened my desktop in a rehearsed manner and got to work. I sit by a large panel of thick glass that is adorned with drapes. I prefer to keep the drapes apart and keep the view from the fifth floor of the office.
A while after lackadaisical work I noticed a construction labour spreading around a mound of cement. After leveling the mound he began beating it with the flip-side of his shovel with thee intention of leveling it. I watched and watched and found that plain work to be very intriguing. I was consumed by a relentless longing to do something physical and simple. What a bliss, it occurred to me, it was to be able to flex all those muscles and be active for a change. He enjoyed the paling rays of the evening sun and the freshness of the air. I in comparison, have been sitting on this upholstered chair and staring at vapid computer screens, breathing in cold conditioned air. The thought rained heavily on my mind. Could I muster the courage and the urgency to stand up at that very moment and walk away? Couldn’t I just leave the security of a job, the wood-paneled cubicle, the business like attitude, the coffee machine and dare to walk away? What is holding me back ? I could start anew as a travel writer, a real estate developer, an interior designer, a rural entrepreneur, a…….
A colleague nudged me on the shoulder and said the food we ordered had arrived. If I was a little late we would probably be left with crumbs and blazing hunger. We laughed and I forgot.

The Laughing Elevator

I arrived just in time,
To hear them snicker, giggle and whine.
Enclosed in a hung box
Were two timeless souls- intoxicated.
I pressed my ears to the door.
The voices drowned and fell
Till I could not hear anymore.
The talk was amorous,
Unsophisticated, innocuous; banter of love.
The innocence I thought was passe
Came back in a chorus.
I followed suit in the silent cubicle
And caught them at the gate.
My lover’s arms linked like a chain
To a man I wasn’t acquainted.
Am I to blame?
Was I late?

BEGGAR IN HIS DAY

The sun wasn’t a fireball still,
A lighter tone, it showed above the hill.
The night has shed its black cloak,
To let in the day for trees to soak.
Crows and wood pigeons have made the first noise,
Yet a fellow is unmindful of his poise.

So, a new day is born,
The beggar is oblivious of the morn,
He slumbers still, his outlook unmade,
At noon he’ll be up looking for shade.
The haggard never lived a halcyon day,
His serenity of mind, intemperate hunger took away.
A derelict ungulate licks his face,
The derelict beggar scrambles out of his phase.
He arches his back and sits up dazed,
His everyday life had begun chequered and mazed.
He mutters some expletive curses at the goat,
Rummaging in his pockets for yesterdays oats.
Every passerby to him seems zany,
They swagger along every minute so they count to many.
His measly meal was over; empty hands for tomorrow,
The day after brought less of grain and more of sorrow.

Twilight ushered in at nobody’s call,
He counted his receiving; the day was to fall,
A stroll to the beggars stall near the temple,
Then back to his slot for the next day’s jumble.
He knew no friend, fiend or foe,
Cared not for the almighty to swipe his woe.
The night was insinuated into the sky,
In his insouciant sleep he would happily die