I was new to the city. Like everybody else, employment whom we give metaphors of ambition, dreams or a bright future dragged me to urban hotchpotch. I shifted with two more job seekers who were a kind of “not much caring about the world” but I mingled with them comfortably. Perhaps, I didn’t seek for reason in whom to trust or whom not to. Only aspect which held us common was smoking which transformed our threads into unbreakable bonds.
From dawn to dusk in the cabin with a desktop and a chair, unwanted lunch at the canteen, I am at stress everyday when I come back and sit down on the sofa in my drawing room. I switch on my television not because I want some entertainment or relaxation, because it just looks different than my computer. I don’t live my life, I live for my life. First word to relate with my life will be “why” because I always wonder why I came on this planet. I am one of them who like to go into depressions because they don’t have courage for suicide, whose white hair is not the symbol of wisdom but of repeated dose of stress, who smoke in chain with an expectation from the next cigarette to relieve complexities of head. In short I am a working man.
Three days have passed since his father had passed away. After the boisterous mourning remain only silences. Without an utter, Nirmala kept the dinner plate in front of Abhay. For the first time, the mother didn’t put her playful scold to her drunken son. Alcohol was not trespassing inundated hearts. Abhay tried his best to look at the food but he could only see memories of his father forcibly making him eat. Pushing back the chair, lingering he started to head towards the drawer where he used to hide his cigarettes between the drawers. It was his father’s desk where not even his father could doubt about the secret storage of nicotine.