A broken tooth

Where do all the unfinished stories go? Do they pile up in a secret hole in the space, undisclosed to all its habitants. Could they evaporate into the atmosphere along with dust and sit somewhere in the infinite ozone. What if they are not as remote and unreachable as one would perceive them to be. What If they are used to exact revenge on people by being made to surface at inappropriate time, through inappropriate ways. Everybody loves a good scandal. In the age of digital township, the instances of information misuse have been reported to be alarmingly high. It would be incredibly foolish to go blind to their growing presence in our human world. Look around, unfinished stories, are born every day, mostly out of sheer negligence like babies born out of incompetent condoms. At the writer’s desk, jostling with literary bigwigs for space and recognition; in a director’s mind, playing themselves out in a loop until they lose steam and are shown the exit doors; In the lover’s eye, germing in the hollow silences of their distant conversation till the voice in their head intervenes and declares temporary truce.

Words once uttered cannot be discarded. They have lived their life, accomplished their purpose by fulfilling all mandates of successful communication and deserve to wear off from the cognition. But what about the unease inflicted upon oneself when one loses one’s thoughts tragically to another realm of time and space. These thoughts whirl around to form clusters of unfinished stories like packs of migrants forced to flee from their respective colonies inside our brains. They may not reach anywhere but what are the odds they wouldn’t reappear like pirates from a long lost ship. If proper stories, of proper length and proper breadth have the power to rankle with our brains, imagine what wreckage they are capable to cause us through the power of their deformity. Unfinished stories, uninterrupted by colons and periods, can become an unmanned river on a distant island preparing itself to flood havoc on civilisation.

What birthed them in the first place? Lack of concentration, self-censorship, procrastination. Some of the most illuminating words fall prey to the said factors. Several stories offer themselves as martyrs in pursuit of a better one. Others just lose sight of the writers because they were unimportant from the start, or so they it was believed. It’s a pity that their fate rests on a powerful and heart wrenching ending, in the absence of which they become victims of collective indifference. It is irrelevant who they feature as subjects or how intensely were they conceived. Their identity loses out of to their deficiency. Like a popular tape stuck inside the player, forced to leave the gathering full of enchanted listeners. On other occasions, they are forced to leap into nothingness because the situation demands so. Like death. Stories disappear mysteriously like its owners but are to re-emerge as memories with their obfuscated intentions. The lingering ache that our brain fails to recognise as memory is perhaps the distressing come back of unfinished stories- written in another realm of consciousness. Should the writer fear them as vestiges from his past or should he hunt them till they provide him a closure. The choice happens to be a privilege not enjoyed by everybody.

Mirabus woke up with a menacing headache. Her eyes were droopy from a disturbed sleep. Her mind was drained, writing an article about unfinished stories in her study last night. She watched the sun rays beaming on the lilac walls of her room with her half opened eyes. What a terrible terrible start. She reached out to the pockets of her nightgown as she desperately tried to recollect the dream in which she lost her back tooth. 

Hare ram, hare krishna!

Sturgeon moves into a cheap lodge at the backpackers colony in Old Delhi. With a 500 rupee note in his pocket, he couldn’t have done any better. He pays 300 in advance for a tiny room with no windows and a broken mirror. The balcony of the room overlooks Hi hi! , a garish looking gaybar which lured customers by an equally garish board offering masseur services and free cutting chai

Sturgeon is not unfamiliar with Delhi’s underbelly. If anything, he has had a whiff of its dark and seedy life early on his life. Had it not been for his mangy looks and a jaw that looks as if its about to fall, he would’ve not passed as a harmless man to the guesthouse owner. His decision to move into defaced, debauched colony of Old delhi was fated not upon chance but survival. He was wanted by the Delhi police of three branches for a crime- too mischievous to be talked about (in the fear being caught upon by the reckless youth of today), and too immoderate to be forgiven.

However he was as safe as he could possibly be in the notoriously busy 6 tooti chowk, (translated as six times broken junction), serving home to foul-mouthed drug peddlers and rambling tramps not very far from the Old Delhi railway station. “Hare ram hare Krishna” being the usual, perennial exchanges between the two.

Hunger consumes his immediate worries of safety and income. Sturgeon had moved in with a pair of ragged khakhi shorts and a fake Nike tee-shirt. He takes a quick shower, slips into khakhi shorts and his old white shirt and leaves the room. Old Delhi is a difficult locality, difficult even for its outlaws. One would find every local’s face suspicious and devilish. The houses here bear the uncanny air of a slaughter house. All women look haggard as if lashed by the men in their house at some point of time in life. The dingy lanes can barely accommodate a vehicle, but the sounds of a honking rickshaw pervade the streets and subsequently wrecks upon mental peace. Yet the menacing faces and their subversive acts is what lends this place its own unique charm, and wholesome popularity among low-budget back-packers.

Sturgeon finds himself besotted by the bright, bohemian cafes offering luscious discounts on liquor and International cuisines. He begins to salivate. However, the prices are way out of his reach. The freshly fried samosas and sweets available at the street evaporate in thin air as soon as they are brought in the open. One fucking billion population! Sturgeon groans in agony of an unattended stomach.

Tired of walking on a merciless May afternoon, Sturgeon rushes into the nearby state library. He had seen the dusty, dilapidated board of the library plenty of times from the metro station that stood right above it. The walls of this desolated room instantly placate his nerves. He feels an enormous sense of calm, as he grabs one the termite-infested wooden chairs, close to an archaic table likely to be from Nehru’s office. He looks around inhaling smells of the bygone years. A woman in her mid forties occupies sits at one end of the room. She has seen men like Sturgeon before, they usually come to the library to answer to texts or sip a soda or two, waiting for their company to arrive.

She pretends to ignore his presence and carries on muttering old hindi chants from a thin book chipped from all corners. “Hare krishna hare ram, hare Krishna hare ram.. ram” God resides in library these days!, Sturgeon smiles to himself. He picks up a book from the closest shelf in order to remain inconspicuous. He forgets all about his hunger. Half an hour later, he loads up half a dozen books on the table. It’s 3.clock, the librarian has three hours before calling it a day. She calls her husband Munshad lal to see if the lunch was delivered to him on time. She hangs up in 3 minutes, she calls Pinky to see if she’s doing her homework. She yells on the phone and hangs up in 8 minutes. She calls Mrs. Sharma to bitch about her husband’s indifference towards her these days, and difficulty in raising children. She hangs up after 42 minutes.

She sees Sturgeon intently reading a hardbound. She yawns. Receding afternoons make up for best naps. She dozes off, Sturgeon dozes off. Sturgeon wakes up and sees librarian in the same spot as she was before with her mouth wide open, wet from blood and phlegm. Sturgeon grins, looks around, picks up a tattered cream colour ladies bag and walks away feeling satiated.