Fear of Dogs

It’s 4 in the morning and I am brushing my teeth. Not because morning has arrived but my insomnia has ended.

A normal sleepless night had gone by. A Eddie Vedder song, Society played through the silent musings the night offered. My light was on though. A mere cheap bulb cannot contain the darkness that lies outside my comfortable room. The song ended; the cravings spurred. When the habit kicks, you stop enjoying things without the chemical stick. It becomes your crutch. The only hazard I have faced. They say there is more to follow. I have to go out now. The only trouble is the big hybrid dogs that guard the society of the residency. The happy people are asleep. My cyno-phobic heart struggles. I dared outside concurrently strolling aside a brave guy who wore an ID to work. He is allowed to walk this time because he is an unskilled labour and a cab awaits for him. The tea stall is nearby the road. I bought the sweet hot tea and the cheap stick. My fag reached the highway and vanished. The life changing moment I had wanted has not arrived as of yet. All I needed was to reach my lowest potential and strive towards resurgence. I don’t know how lower I need to go. I guess I have to make more holes in my belt. I am buying the cheapest stick these days.

Capitalism allows you to have the cheapest and the best. There is no lowest. It allowed me to enjoy the poison and the sweet tea.  The only commodity it fails to enjoy is Love, an optimism to end this tiredness. The greatest ambition. Once it takeovers love, it will be launched in series, Love 7 Love 8s and differently same versions would follow. At this moment, we are safe. We can pursue. We can wait.

My smoke is about to end and the dirty part of tea gulped. I have to go back to my room. There is sadness when things end even if it is happy loneliness or a cup of tea. I think this useless morning contemplation won’t change anything. I will still be the same hypocrite with a low moral code for other people. I will still fail to pursue my greatest ambition. I will still walk with my head low.

But I don’t fear the night dogs like before.



A Fat Life, A Thin Death 

I used my eyebrows to greet him. That was the proximity of our relationship. The guy, who weighed a lot. He was not that important to analyze even. He sat in the pharmacy and went back home. This to and fro motion defined his life. He was alone and he ate. We all stereotyped him. Maybe he deserved it for his lack of attempts to get fit and be valid to the world. I was fascinated with him always. Does his kind get true love? Does his kind feel? We had a professional relation of conduct. I used to buy medicine from his shop whenever I visited my paternal home. My grandmother was a patient of stretched urban existence and hence needed drugs.

Stretched Urban Existence The average age of mortality increase, coupled with the lack of any valid purpose fostered with Dementia and other ailments. Delaying your property investments.

I had currency and a scribbled page by an educated human (prescription) on my hands every time I met him. The currency wasted on an exiguous tablet which won’t matter after it is diluted in the stomach. The eye brow courtesy stood because this guy was related to us. Their family shared the same neighborhood with my paternal side for ages and he was the guy I connected the least. He was unimportant, unfunny and unexplored. He was like the tablet inundated. The guy died. Strangely at a faraway place from our paternal home. The epicenter of the country. The adults with bad handwriting could not save him. They could not play god with weight I guess. In short the guy had died from fat disease.

Why is this slob important enough to be featured in a story? Probably he isn’t. No one ever will be. Not even the great doctors or the popular kid on the block. Not even Neil Armstrong. Not even her. On a cosmic level you don’t matter, someone had told me. I had visited his cremation place and the first visuals I saw was a dead meat wrapped under a white sheet. (I went because I thought an empty funeral would have been devastating. My self-pity turned into guilt eventually.) Until then and always I valued him as mere flesh. Mere fat to be precise. I saw the wife and she was in a ventilation of mere existence without the monetary ICU expense. Just plain breathing and pain. She struggled though she carried the ritual; presumably done by the son. In his case there was lack of. The sad doctor, evidently the fat guy’s sister wept. Probably after the failed operation the sister looked into the mirror and said, “Sorry we couldn’t save him” to herself. She had been smitten by Karma for this poor last line every doctor with an unsuccessful attempt says. They have no value in a cremation ground, I have learnt.

The wife changed my perspective. He mattered to her. He mattered to a lot of people. A strange irony of life is some people matter only in cremation ground. That day a pharmacy salesman mattered over a doctor, history had been witnessed. The atmosphere of popular empathy was unexpected. This mediocre guy too had what many people never get. He had a family; love and was loved. He mattered. He had everything. The pre requisites for a happy death? Probably he even sang in the bathroom shower. In the last rites he had to be carried in the raft and there was a short of hand; he required about 10 people to carry.

I offered my malnourished hand to carry him. For the first time apart from currency and eyebrows I had offered my hand and had the greatest of guilt.

He didn’t weigh much…