They say not belonging anywhere is a good and creative place.
The proclamation document of the State of Delirium adopted such a principle in word and spirit.
The island is situated not on a map but in the points of agreement that its citizens agree upon in their sub conscience.
A great surge in the population was expected since its formation hundreds of centuries ago, but lack of written archaeological proof has left its legitimacy in tatters.
Besides, the inhabitants are too static to venture on a validation trip.
People just belong, without signatures and anthems.
The politics are numerous, none superior to the other, hence rendering it all absent.
Religion was rejected sometime in its turbulent history, again lack of documentation has led to mere resignation amongst the populace.
The geography is complex, with constant transformations, eruptions and extinction.
Each generation re defines the topography, from empty forests, to boiling oceans.
However, the creative extinction of the rest of the world, points to mass emigration, causes of which can't be investigated due to lack of will and widespread delirium of affected parties.
Visitors are hence forth discouraged from seeking the El Dorado of the insane.
And this is where this story begins and ends, at one point, one period, one breath, the end of one circle.
If there is the need to spell out people then she is her and he was him. She was standing, her wet, soft skin numbly plastered against the cream tiles with sunflower watermarks sprinkled judiciously.
The shower of cold, merciless water struck her face with the force of life taking with it her transparent tears down the pit of her neck, her navel, etching fine black hair in downward streaks trickling down her thighs and calves like first springs on green mountain slopes, swirling around her feet to end as a whirlpool around the sieve of a drain hole, down the rusty pipes to ancient sewers, pouring into the river Bega flowing to join multiple rivers of tears at the Danube, only to lift up as vapours on a sunny afternoon caught by ice cold winds carried over a city red with soot, and history, to fall playfully as pure globules of water running up clean, steely pipes that trickles into a glass touched by his thirsty lips that sip her while he walks above the ancient sewers on grey concrete drenched with the rain stinging his eyes for the moment he looks up to the dirty white sky.
And this story began and ended, at one point, one period, one breath, the end of one circle.
Gauri sat on a wooden crate, peeling the dead skin from between her toes. Not the greatest of ways to begin her Saturday morning, but the heat was too much for the scaling skin on her feet, while it promised greater returns.
The machines below the ice shed were happily buzzing away, churning perfect little hollow fingers of ice, laced in the mist of maybe cold mountains. But Gauri didn’t care for her brother’s enterprise, for she was the one feeding the pipes with water from a tap deep inside the municipal lane, and pacing in and out to stop adventurous thieves from getting away with the freezing crystals on their bikes and red blue cars. She had often woken up late in the night to the sound of metal lids clanging and hushed giggles followed by the rev of engines.
She failed to understand why the young boys wearing expensive clothes with their expensive girls in the front seat, bother to steal something so cheap. A couple of stolen kilograms of ice made no difference to her brother’s snores or to the wallets of the midnight thieves either. But her capacity to be surprised had reduced to near indifference, which of course surprised her.
The silent drone of the machines was too loud to lull her to sleep, but soft enough for a tiny mongrel that had appeared two days ago, from the dirty brown soil with a black tail, to curl up under the tin shed, its stomach rising and falling with Gauri’s slow breaths. A red car stops and a tall boy in a blue shirt pulled tightly over his bulging belly steps out. A girl with short hair and red shoes follows him. Gauri walks towards the nearest machine and fishes out several ice fingers into two polybags. While she expertly twists the end of the bags into a knot, the girl peers curiously inside the ice container.
“Oh, it’s so misty in here… look Rohan, they are so perfect in shape,” she says while tugging at the boy’s arm.
He takes out his wallet and pays Gauri, who walks back to her wooden crate, shifts it with her feet, away from the sun patch that had drifted over her comfortable corner. The two of them walk towards the car, and the pup follows them, shaking his tiny black tail vigorously, so that his tiny body inflates and deflates in a rhythm. He stands on his hind legs to reach up to the trickling ice bag in the girl’s hand and starts licking the wet surface. As she turns sideways to get into the now open door of the car, she let’s out a tiny screech and pushes the dog away with her ice bag.
“Oh god… can’t they even give the poor dog some water.”
Gauri ignores the girl’s stare and closes her eyes. A nearby machine rattles and clanks, the hum fades and silence follows.
Flooded with diffused yellow light, the brown mock wood floor, glowed in spaces left empty between shuffling feets of the bookworms, and rows ofbooks themselves. A silence of almost reverence clogged these narrow streets, with the merchandise tempting some of the passer bys with their tales and knowledge of centuries past, eras bygone and possibilities amass. An occasional head would emerge from this sea of knowledge, flipping through the fresh pages, with their hint of fragrance undefined and raw cut feel, to the bar code in the back and shake itself with regret or joy.
A few others wheeled their blue cushioned stools along the maze of books in a slow and deliberate flow, reading, sighing, smiling as they cruised along. The men dressed in blue shirts that have lost their crisp creases as the day has worn on, sometimes emerged from their hiding places between the shelves, to coax the uninspired buyer into carrying a red plastic basket around the bookshop. But often they huddled in there corners, quite helpless in fishing out an edition that had run out in the 80s, and tried to mind their own business. If it weren’t for another man in blue, distinguished only by a black name tag on his shirt pocket, rounding them up for incompetence, distributing the Catalogue of new titles and instructing them to learn them up by the evening, the men in blue could have spent their professional vocation with much ease and boredom.
But it is not the blue men and the multicoloured customers who inhabit the bookshop, that joy belongs to the books, for they lend the immaculate, sterile floor of concrete and steel, serenity, scent and soul.
The streets are marked with their own character, with literature boasting of a history of the past century, each out doing the other, with covers sprinkled with art of a new kind. Nevermind the words, the shelves scream out to you with imaginary appeal and millions of colours.
The Classics enjoy a quaint, yet vast corner, sporting books with bound necks and sweltry yellow pages. Doyle takes charge, and Conrad dispels, Nabakov tempts and Dickens mocks.
But ruling this proud display and a plethora of pulp, not just in terms of the books ancestry with wood, but with every honest intention, a dazzling display of adventure, experience and taste.
As for the growing beauty of Indian fiction, the books catch your eye as well as your imagination. With enthusiastic youngsters and a middle aged bespectacled woman, politely stepping around each other to flip through the many titles.
Right across magazines shine, with fashion magazines dazzling you with gloss andthe Economist contemplating the movement of your hands. The adjacent shelf is oddly marked Feminism where The Second Sex sits comfortably.
A little further Graphic Novels take their rightful place, facing Anthology, the current and the past standing silent. While Cinema, enjoys a tucked away corner, Shahrukh, Scorcese, and Godard giving each other company, religion precedes the aisle, Vedas co-existing with the Quran.
Food and Drink and JAVA fit themselves somewhere in between, with a sprinkling of enthusiasts and experts turning the pages in their high quality print glory.
As they decide on their picks and pass the book display at the end of the stairs, a pyramid of sorts, a non-fiction title screams out to tell you another insignificant story about the triumph of the human will. And Adiga’s White Tiger towers over with its several copies and a medal of honour hidden.
The staircase leads you with a few bestsellers adorning the landing and you ignore Classical & Contemporary music, and film DVDs, which have amassed in your clogged silicon chip laden thingamajigs, to reach the billing counter. Nearly empty aisles marked by metal rods holding a red plastic strip across, lead you to pay for your precious finds or careless gifts. People swipe, people pay, people pack and people walk through sliding glass doors to the cool evening into excited anticipation for the city.
There he was walking, the man of the moment, ready to take his prize, bracing for the attack of that suffocating lump in his throat, the spotlight, always shining on him, without his consent.
Now if he was born blind, or with nothing in his heart, he would be fine, walking in confident strides, but that was not to be.
He hated himself this way, it was just about time for him to be himself again. The team rooted for him, the little ones cheered the way they were taught to for Christmas bonfire. The steps were red today with a fine sheath of velvet below, and his black leather shoes left a slight depression in that cushy walk to terror. He reached his pedestal, he couldn't hear what was said before or what will be said now.
It was just a minute he had to hold together and sufficiently satisfy the baying of the crowd. When did adulation become the complete lack of compassion. If only he was born without legs or limbs, if only he wasn't here, perfect as a being could be. He must have opened his mouth and made a noise, a noise the microphone was not trained to catch but they all heard it. He had screamed. It couldn't be anything else. It was a short, high scream, almost like a tyre's screech at the end of the drive way, with a smouldering of rubber and white plastic fumes. But nobody was testimony to the scream. He was their master, their faith, their envy, he did not scream.
He had walked on with his confident stride down the steps, through the strong sun overhead, smiling past the company and fitting in the empty patch, filing himself beautifully with gleaming gold pressed to his chest, burning through the green fabric, smouldering in the June sun, black fumes clogging his nostrils.
Wandering in a city of dead ends ... a broken chunk of the asteroid ... the bitter taste of discontent ... unknown creatures indebted to a magical imagination ... destined to shine in paradise ... silent words smelling of propaganda ... don't even dare to ponder lest you find this cynical non-conformist mocking you ...
