As per my previous post, it's now evident that an ordinary man is my hero. It has not been 2 days I wrote that piece & I came across an epitome of the ordinary man. This is his tale, unheard hitherto, unseen & overlooked.
With the doldrums caused due to the slippage of a certain happening into uncertainty on my personal front, I need a boost to uplift my spirits. For years, there has been only one way to do that & it has been the combination of smoke and tea.
With some newly discovered music that safely settled in my ears, I walked to the tuck shop. With one string out of my ears, I asked for a smoke stick & a cup of tea; grabbed them & slowly trudged towards a bench made of cement slabs for people to leisurely sit on and smoke.
I occupied one which was safely inclined against the tuck shop's wall & he occupied a wide slab which is obtusely inclined towards mine.
Some nice fusion piece was playing in my ears while smoke slipped through the hollow conduit of my throat. Initially the fine combination of post-lunch smoke, hot tea on an early winter afternoon and nice music added to the beauty of the scene.
He was unaware of my presence. He had his head peeked down into the cup formed as a result of crossing his hands around his pulled-up legs.
Sheer melancholy rose between us, still silent. The music slowly got fainter as it its player seamlessly shifted onto a hollow bamboo stick from the saxophone which I deliciously heard till I found him. My left hand involuntarily raised itself to my lips to affix the stick & removed it within half a second & my throat did rest of the task. My right hand helped me slurp the tea who's taste or heat I stopped relishing till I found him.
He slowly lifted his head from the cup of his hands to turn away from both of us. He dabbed his pair of slippers with two thumbs of his feet. Those slippers were a poor imitation of a big brand in Indian circuit. It was evident that the fact didn't bother to find merely the last place in his thought list.
He moved his right hand along his belly with a disturbing grimace in his face. His shirt ruffled with his touch & settled with greater folds.
The initial picturesque & its comely contents turned into callous presences with one such grimace on his face. It spoke of many things with no words. It spoke of foregoing; it spoke of endless compromises. It spoke of surly lampoons he had been through. Yet his face bore eyes with hope in them. It had temples with sweat droplets trickling down on his ruffled shirt. They shone with a strange faith in better future.
He walked away when the muffled music was returning to its vigor in my ears. I stroked my hair & dusted my trousers when I was on my feet & saw him getting onto his moped.
He placed his right leg on his bike's kick rod, stopped for a while in patience to transfer any energy left in him to his right leg to kick the rod and ignite his bike.
He eventually did & rode away.
He was an ordinary man. My hero.
With the doldrums caused due to the slippage of a certain happening into uncertainty on my personal front, I need a boost to uplift my spirits. For years, there has been only one way to do that & it has been the combination of smoke and tea.
With some newly discovered music that safely settled in my ears, I walked to the tuck shop. With one string out of my ears, I asked for a smoke stick & a cup of tea; grabbed them & slowly trudged towards a bench made of cement slabs for people to leisurely sit on and smoke.
I occupied one which was safely inclined against the tuck shop's wall & he occupied a wide slab which is obtusely inclined towards mine.
Some nice fusion piece was playing in my ears while smoke slipped through the hollow conduit of my throat. Initially the fine combination of post-lunch smoke, hot tea on an early winter afternoon and nice music added to the beauty of the scene.
He was unaware of my presence. He had his head peeked down into the cup formed as a result of crossing his hands around his pulled-up legs.
Sheer melancholy rose between us, still silent. The music slowly got fainter as it its player seamlessly shifted onto a hollow bamboo stick from the saxophone which I deliciously heard till I found him. My left hand involuntarily raised itself to my lips to affix the stick & removed it within half a second & my throat did rest of the task. My right hand helped me slurp the tea who's taste or heat I stopped relishing till I found him.
He slowly lifted his head from the cup of his hands to turn away from both of us. He dabbed his pair of slippers with two thumbs of his feet. Those slippers were a poor imitation of a big brand in Indian circuit. It was evident that the fact didn't bother to find merely the last place in his thought list.
He moved his right hand along his belly with a disturbing grimace in his face. His shirt ruffled with his touch & settled with greater folds.
The initial picturesque & its comely contents turned into callous presences with one such grimace on his face. It spoke of many things with no words. It spoke of foregoing; it spoke of endless compromises. It spoke of surly lampoons he had been through. Yet his face bore eyes with hope in them. It had temples with sweat droplets trickling down on his ruffled shirt. They shone with a strange faith in better future.
He walked away when the muffled music was returning to its vigor in my ears. I stroked my hair & dusted my trousers when I was on my feet & saw him getting onto his moped.
He placed his right leg on his bike's kick rod, stopped for a while in patience to transfer any energy left in him to his right leg to kick the rod and ignite his bike.
He eventually did & rode away.
He was an ordinary man. My hero.
