#26 Cricket Match in Abode Valley— part 1

Aadi, the captain of our team, brought a red color ball from the marwadi’s shop for the sum of thirty rupees and practiced bowling rigorously on the street of Photeri. He took a challenge from the hostel boys, previous day. He didn’t sleep and made strategies whole night. He hated losing the match. His mind was as quick as his fingers in reversing the ball and game at last minute. Where as his roommate, Rohit, who was a Rajput, and a buddhu, as all his friends call him, failed to learn any skill from Aadi. Rohit was the twelfth player of our team and always sat behind the boundary line to receive and throw the ball back in the match.

            They both called the team in morning one hour before the match. Coming from different places, half-awaked, we all assembled outside an apartment called Abode Valley. We ordered about ten cups of tea from a near by shop and sat outside on the stools. Where Aadi was busy telling game plan to us, a few were engaged in puffing out the clouds of smoke from cigarettes and the rest in gazing the two beautiful girls eating steam kachoris on a rickety stall at a distance.

            It was difficult to say who was prettier. The girl clad in a sky top with long sleeves and floral Pyjama had a cute smile, and the other girl draped in bird printed top and short was much lovely. All I know is that they were beautiful enough to carry out hearts from our mouths.

Everyone felt some special love for the giggling girls. Raghib Khan, who was my friend and a classmate, couldn’t help showing his paan-striking mouth. Rohit, the buddhu boy suddenly brushed his finger on his head. No sooner the girls paid the bill and left the place, small face Rajnish and the buddhu boy tottered behind them. No one stopped them. Everyone knew they will be back as soon as the girls shoo them away. From the last three years, not even the akas and maids found anything cute in them.

The Abode Valley was a planned palatial apartment consisted of three swimming pools, each one divided by blocks, a line of flats. The gardens were embodied by flowers and small play grounds with swings. The sound of loud music could be heard from a few flats. The air suffused with lust and love indicated that most of the flats were acquired by college students. It was difficult to count how many beautiful flowers were deflowered in the passion of love and sex. A few youngsters feel guilt, but for most this passion grows sweeter with the passing time. After a long time, when the grown up youth would recollect the memories of their college days then they would savour only the reminiscences of old but still fresh and sweet love. No one wants to forget the lips touching the smooth texture of the skin, the coolness of the feet, the fragrance of the warm bodies, the sharp tingles of fingertips, the gentle mourns, the love searching eyes. These sweet memories only depart from one’s life with the freedom by itself, with the death.

When we reached the field, we saw the opposite team already practicing their. We arranged the bricks to sit near a small tree. Lifting a box full of cold drinks and chips, Rajnish and Rohit arrived.

Part 2 (writing.. )

#25 The Lonely Song

 My dear readers told me that my writings make them feel lonely and advised me to write something on love and romance.’ Love stories are what making writers to earn fame and money,’ said one of my friends. ‘Change your style. You look like a depress writer,’ opined another friend. The only compliment I got from a lovely girl a few days ago: ‘I know you are not professional, but your writing is good. I love reading your stories.’

            Truly, I do not know what makes my readers happy or lonely. I write what I experienced and learnt from my life. My experiences helped me to write a book too. A lot of people are confused that how can I debut as a Self-help writer in India. There is no market for a Self-help writer. But I am happier being a writer who doesn’t know anything, and writing his autobiography in small pieces. I know, it is my weakness. But I can’t help. 

            Whenever I sit for writing, two things come before me: the longings for dreams and hopes, and the memories of beautiful girls. I write about them, sometimes truth and sometimes imaginary. Now, I think I’ve left all the delightful girls and my youth in search of something better. Where boys are busy in making love with their girls, I am talking with trees and leaves. When I get tired talking with them, I remain silent. I forbid my mind thinking anything and feel the sweetness of breeze. The cool winds coming from a large tree always tries to tell me something. I don’t know further, but I could say there is something around us which is watching our every deed.

I don’t enjoy watching movies and television so I spend my day either in wandering the streets around my house or sleeping with my old books in my small room. I love collecting books, but I don’t feel like reading them— a big weakness as a writer. I remember the time when I used to read two or three books a week. It was hard work. And I hate hard work.

            I recall somewhere reading, ‘Solitude is bliss.’ But no one ever told that sometimes solitude becomes loneliness. When loneliness assails me, I try my best to keep myself busy. Sometimes I play old songs on my mouth organ and sometimes I just lie down and stare at the rotating fan. Once, I got out of my room and took a local train, but the crowd streaming in and out on every station annoyed me and I never thought about travelling again.

Email: grovernakul142@gmail.com

 Read Superhuman In You:      

#24 Story of Me and My small room

In search of peace I left the rented palatial apartment in the beginning of my third year of graduation and moved to this small room. I sold all my old belongings except my red printed curtains before coming here. I’ve no idea what made me to bring these curtains here but I feel good to see it absorbing water droplets leaking from the aged air-conditioner hung above it. My air-conditioner is different from all other air-conditioners manufactured on this earth. It seldom works and often disappoints me with long electricity bills.  

            Kitchen is as small as an ATM machine room— one at a time— and always lit by a small light. If you examine my kitchen, you would find a few steel glasses and plates, a gas-chulha and a cylinder. The only rusted window of my room looked the walls of the neighbouring buildings, so there is no showering of sunrays.  I always keep the window shut to impede mosquitos entering the room. I sleep on floor over a matrix surrounded by books of old authors and saints. The old fan is quiet good in this cool weather, as it remains off whole day. My study table, chair, bag, and suitcases are acquired by my books. How amazing it is that you could even talk to dead people through their books.

    I sleep around 12 at night and wake up around 6 in the morning. But in holidays, I continue to sleep till eight or nine. After breakfast, I read books and when my mind refuses to concentrate, I waste my time staring at the fan or table. Nowadays, I am wasting my time on my cell phone. Cell phone has always made my mood sulky. I hate cell phones.

            My cook is on leave. It has been more than ten days since I ate my meals properly and on time. I’m having tea and samosa in lunch and breakfast, and at night I ask any of my friends to make a few chapatis for me. Samosa and Kachoris have ruined my digestive system. To amuse myself I laugh and shout before farting, ‘Puud Maaro’ (Kill the fart).

            I love collecting books, but I am too lazy to read it. I don’t have patience to read novels. Moreover, I don’t like modern authors who always talks about love birds. I love reading short stories. I enjoy reading stories about kids on bicycles, a little girl climbing up the mountain with her favourite colourful umbrella, a father with his son roaming around the green valleys, bhoots in old house, and childhood days.

            Apart from reading and writing, I play mouth organ in evening. On the top of my lungs I sing a song of Bob Dylan which left a deep impression on me:

‘How many roads must a man walk down… before you call him a man…?

The answer is blowing in the wind.’

Email: grovernakul142@gmail.com

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