I used to work at a Beach Resort, was the bartender by their beach-side bar. That was a really good job. I mean the view from the counter, the beautiful ladies in their sensuous swimwear blowing off their steam and drinking to their hearts content, the over drunk men with their senseless glorifying stories of …
I pick up the next bottle of Kingfisher and open it and raise a toast to the company of the Gods and dreams and friends and kith and kin. Cheers to the New Year. Clink!
I start with the desk and there are quite a lot of things lying here and there. There is this bottle of ink from Chelpark that hasn’t been used for ages, accompanied by a few Hero fountain pens competing alongside the only Parker I have. There was a Waterman somewhere there but I cannot find it now. I pull up my drawer and stash them back in it when my gaze fell upon that diary. I paused for a moment and pulled it out form the drawer. It was a year old and was filled with all the scribbles and notes I had taken while experiment with my madness.
I have been watching you for a while and it seems you are in quite a bit of a mess here. Umm. I don’t know. Who are you by the way? Me. Oh I am just somebody. Someone you meet down the lane while you go for your morning walk or when you take a cab to your work or when you play with your friends.
And then they asked me a question. In a booming, crass, rhythmic voice. Now what do you wish for dear?
It’s really intriguing you know, when you are asked to make a wish. It really is. Let’s imagine a leprechaun has suddenly appeared in front of you, or even a genie. Now this was totally unaccounted for and you are taken by surprise. And before you can gather your breath, you are asked to make a wish.
Fear. We are bound by it. Its rules. A domain we have tried to capture over the decades but in vain. I have fear. We all have. We are born with it. We are inherent to it. We are a consequence of it. A culmination of all the fears blended and bottled in this unique, one of a kind mixture. There is the fear of sparks. When we plug in something to a love socket. We sometimes visualize ourselves falling prey to the sparks that fly out occasionally, interacting with our innocent hands, fiddling with it before throwing it onto the nearby wall along with us.