ennui

  A man in plainclothes asked to see my ID. I complied without making any effort to ascertain his credentials. He looked it over, gave it back, and ran off. I did not think much of it. Maybe he was looking for someone. Maybe he thought I had overstayed my welcome. Several years and thousands of kilometres later a government employee asked for my ID. He examined it with careful attention. I had an inkling why. Convinced he could not raise objections to this one, he asked for a second ID. I was prepared. He knew he had to let me through. I pressed the little hammer-sickle, watched for the little light, and moved on. Not long after that, I was asleep on the train. A ticket master woke me up, I mumbled a name, he wrote something on his list and moved on. Uncharacteristically smooth, the ticket was not in my name. On another train in the same parts, I said my name again. This time the ID had to follow, of course the ID had to follow. Then the azaan went off on my phone. My heart dropped...

  An insect crawled across a wooden desk. Our friend looked at it with disinterest. It was a termite, but he could not bring himself to care about the damage this meant. He had got rid of all the conventional distractions. His phone was off and on the other side of the room. His books were out of reach. There was nothing even moderately entertaining on his computer. The termite was unaccounted for. It was also uninteresting. But it was enough to occupy a brain that was crying out for distraction. It was midday. Our friend realized he had not spoken a word since waking up. He had not seen another face. Only an insect could attest to his well-being today. He felt the question ‘if I died in my room how long would it take for someone to notice?’ acquire a more difficult character. There was little to do at the end of the workday. He ran through the motions of his usual routine. Outside went from grey to dark. Conscious of the fact from midday, he was actively aware of going the who...

  “Everything happens to other people” “What?” “Things happen to other people, nothing happens to people like us” “What’s people like us?” “I don’t know” Nihal was not sure he knew what he was saying. But he was sure things only happened to other people. “We don’t do anything.” “We go to school” “Everyone goes to school” He could not get his point across. An astronaut had visited his school last month. He was North American. He talked about how as a child, he would gaze at the marvellous night sky, and how he spent his whole life to be one of the few people who would ever leave the earth. “That would never happen to people like us.” “Maybe not.” Nihal also wanted to be an astronaut. His parents also had big dreams for him. They thought he might become a civil servant. “Even their dreams know things don’t happen to people like us” “Oh” Nihal thought of the time he wanted to be a politician. “Do you know a politician?” “No” “Why not?” “Oh” Mayb...

  How long does it take a child to articulate his suffering? Our boy was sitting down. He was intensely aware of his surroundings. No attention was paid to the textbook in front of him. He could hear the TV in the hall, but it was difficult to tell how much it captured their attentions. He listened for signs of movement; they were definitely seated. He considered a water trip to the kitchen. If he saw where they were seated he would know exactly how long they would take to get to his room. I don’t think it’s worth it, he thought. With silent movements he had perfected over a long period of practice, he retrieved his phone from the back of the cupboard and turned it on with his thumb on the speaker. That was ten years ago. Today his phone was on the table, boldly announcing the receipt of several messages. Someone was coming upstairs, the footsteps told him who. He was intensely aware of his surroundings. What was in those surroundings? He felt the tension of everything that was u...