Another face in the opaque crowd searching for some translucence to diffuse and project his myriad thoughts through this utterly abhorrent state of lame rigidity.

Friday, October 29, 2010


A sequel to Lives.

Sean did not visit Andy at the hospital.

Sweat beads decorated Sean’s forehead. The sweat infiltrated his eyes and irritated him. He scratched his eyes. His eyes, a little moist, a little tired and incoherently calm delineated a coldness that belied all comprehensions about and all complaints against the hot weather. His eyes carried a tinge of orange, formed by the redness of the scratch and the yellow left as a mark by an execrable and agonizing jaundice.

Sean entered the metro station. The cold air from the air conditioning hit his face, and fell back, as if accepting defeat to a greater force, to a higher degree of coldness. Sean stood at the queue to purchase his ticket. Tokens flashed before his eyes, reviving the memory of a city where tokens were given instead of tickets in the metro. The uninvited vision could not bother him. With the ticket in his hand Sean waited for the train to arrive. The train arrived. The doors opened. The doors closed. The train left. Sean stood at the same place. When the sound of the train moving on the rails ceased to reach his ears, he started walking towards the exit. He wanted to walk.

Sean was walking by a playground. The green-ness of the grass hurt his eyes. He stood there for a moment. A few kids were playing football. The swift movements of the white and black skinned sphere sent him in a tizzy.  He saw his brother score a goal. ‘No. Not real’, he said to himself and resumed walking. He walked past a house where a lady was singing Hindustani classical music. The voice of his mother singing Raga Desh, an evening raga filled his ears. It filled him with a peculiar sense of excruciating ecstasy. ‘No. Not real’, he said to himself and increased his pace.

Sean entered the coffee house. He wasn’t hungry, nor thirsty, probably tired. He rested on the chair and ordered for a cup of coffee. Two middle-aged men were sitting at the next table. They were discussing something very animatedly. Sean didn’t bother to listen, until he heard one of those men reciting a poem. The poem didn’t just sound familiar, he knew it by heart. He saw his father sitting across his table and reciting ‘Nirjhorer Sopnobhongo’, a poem by Rabindranath Tagore. ‘No, not real’, he said to himself and got up without finishing his coffee. He paid the bill and left.

He crossed streets adjoining which stood buildings with picturesque architecture. The white pillars, at a place, a thousand miles away got projected before him, as if through his eyes, exploring some hidden chambers of his mind. He saw a couple walking hand in hand, talking and smiling. Who was the boy, was it him? Who was the girl, was it…? ‘No’. A kit of pigeons rose from the ground and assumed flight. It startled him. No. ‘Were they pigeons or a murder of crows?’ They sounded like crows, but he thought that he saw pigeons.

He was exhausted, hallucinating.

He plugged in his earphones.

He needed some respite.

The hospital was five minutes away.

Andy had been unconscious for two days. The doctors did not say that there was much hope that he would make it. Andy had made it, apparently.

The first thing that Andy did after gaining consciousness was to call up Sean.
‘... Sean, my whole body is covered up with bandages and plaster. I look like, rather I feel like an Egyptian Mummy…’
‘Okay Andy, I will see you in the evening’

Sean pushed the glass door at the hospital’s entrance. His facial muscles yawned and stretched as if they have been woken from a long slumber. He was smiling. All the hallucinations and their misgivings were swept aside. A strange energy flowed through him. ‘Is this, what they call happiness?’ He thought to himself. ‘Adventures of the Egyptian Mummy and Frankenstein’s Monster. Now, that’s a vision, a good one’, he shared a joke with himself, the smile still painted on his face. Maybe it was Andy. Yes, Andy was his priority now. He felt that.

The last but one stanza of his favourite song stimulated his eardrums.

I took a heavenly ride through our silence,
I knew the moment had arrived,
For killing the past and coming back to life.
– Pink Floyd

Sean walked towards the reception.

Andy’s father was filling in a form. It was for Andy’s death certificate.

Andy had made it, apparently.

The End.
The Beginning.

Sequel - Fits.


  1. I like it. Forgiving all the not-obvious-but-direct personal references, I like it, maybe, because of the sting in the tail.
    I like Sean. But I don't like his destiny. Maybe, I'll write a sequel to Visions. ;D Maybe.

  2. Haha. It's the beginning, not the end. :P

  3. See you on the other side!

    There is a beauty in the way you conceal things, and then so beautifully reveal them.
    The whole write up, I can understand what's up with Sean, and I have no sympathy. He's alive and he'll live.

    A beautiful story, a good end. Can't say anything about Andy, he was having a good life I think.

    Beautifully crafted, wonderfully portrayed. Loved it, only one complaint. You make us wait too long. Sometimes, I might just forget.

  4. This comment has been removed by the author.

  5. The pour's but a trickle,
    This post of your's did tickle...

    i am getting tired of rhyming :P

    The descriptions of the complexities of individuals, situations, and mannerisms are good...
    Just a thought, maybe you could make the sentences longer, one-sentence-a-paragraph and leave them hanging.
    But then its your style and your choice, nice work though, collect your stories under a Sean/Andy folder and i could take them next time to peruse at my leisure

  6. I couldn't help it. Every time I read your piece you leave me dumb. Yet, every time I become dumb. Bravo, to you. It's a rarity that I become dumb.

    I wish I could meet Sean.

  7. strane. spiteful. strong. blunt. the way i like mine. well done. kudos.

  8. For a moment, when Sean opened the door and was happy, I almost believed and hoped that Andy had really made it, more so for Sean's sake... you took my hope away and made my fears come true...but that's me...and even then it pierced through my "so-called" heart...
    Dear... you are my steady and stable source of strange amazement....

  9. i thought andy made it, but it was other way round ...and sure its not the end its the beginning may be of a new story..a new journey..

  10. That was a beautiful write-up Shayak. You write amazingly well. Loved reading it! :)

  11. Thank you Anshul. Yes. Don't sympathize with Sean. I don't want him to be sympathized with. You hit the bulls eye. And yes I'll try to be less irregular. :)

    Thanks Pratanu. I already have them stacked in a folder.

    Agnimita, that's a great compliment I've got from you. And you'll meet Sean someday, probably; a fictional character amidst an ocean of facts, an outcast in the hallucinated reality.

    Raj, thanks.

    Megha, it could not have been an end for Sean. It had to be a beginning.

    Romeo, thank you.

  12. Thank you Rain, for believing in my inane instability. :)

  13. wow, enjoyed reading this. and glad that the end is actually a beginning. perhaps every end is a beginning too!

  14. You are so thoughtful with your comments Sayak. They always make me smile. :)

    As per your story-telling, I love the fact that you really think it out and better yet, your language - thats the cherry on top!


  15. Thank you Mehak. Yes, every end is a new beginning, probably.

    Cindrella, thank you. And I am glad that my comments make you smile. :)

  16. That's a great end.. I mean the beginning.. Not everyone could make it that easy as Andy.. ;)

    Great work, Shayy.. God Bless.. :)

  17. Wow. I've just been sort of staring at my computer screen for about five minutes contemplating this. I'm now feeling meditative. Excellent writing.

  18. This left me dumbstruck. Great way to project the life before Andy's eyes before he woke up. The visions were vivid and exceptionally real. It was like I was int Andy's head when I was reading the post.
    Loved the concept.

  19. Liked it. Loved it. The reference to pigeons to a pack of murder crows says it all. Keep writing.

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