Turnaround

The neighbourbood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you.

Rain patters, intently carving a corner of an all-too familiar street, known by a name, unknown in general, a corner so common, it will not draw as much as a second glance.

The corners will twist into each other and form a kaleidoscope revealing different hues. Every corner will have a story to tell. The stories, based on a premise. A bird will form a nest, a dog will be run over, a man will get stabbed.

The neighbourhood will slowly gain shape. A reputation. You, being a part of it, will be branded. A bunch of actions will be deemed acceptable, a pattern will emerge. When viewed through the kaleidoscope, the picture will be complete. 

All the stories you read over a cup of tea on those quaint mornings are a byproduct of the neighbourhood. If you ask the corner, it will volunteer to scream. It will be eager to shed the reputation. But alas! the rain pours again and extinguishes the fire. 

The neighbourhood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you. 

The kids will kick the ball in the streets, oblivious to the stories. They will keep an eye out, distracted. They will grow up to become alert citizens, the concern limited to the corner. They will huddle together and discuss stories, the very ones that unsettle the elders. A generation of the god-fearing, law abiding will be reared. And the universe will fold within itself and park in the corner.

Clusters of flowers sit next to a hash of cigarette stubs. The flowers will blossom, turning a blind eye to the smoke. They are rooted and they are proud of the roots.

The neighbourhood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you.

So tell me about your street. Does it bustle with a cacaphony of sounds, chirping birds, bantering kids, approving elders? Does it take more than a pothole or a gunshot to bring it to a standstill? Does it weep at night when nobody's looking? Does it reveal all it has seen?

A street will have to take it all without question. We don't have to. You can change the signboard if it gets rusted, sweep the dirt away, eliminate the scum, keep the city clean.

The neighbourhood defines you. The neighbourhood confines you. Unless you ask the street. She will tell.

Better man

Loitering is not a sin. Grumbling, neither.

To further hone my skills as the famed agony aunt, I manage to stumble across trouble in the form of broken hearts.A distaste towards the general state of affairs should dissuade one from counselling, but somehow, it boomerangs!

Cut back to a casual coffee, a demure girl, etc. An oft heard tale of anticipated love, unexpected skeletons, heartbreak, revival.I had my brains plastered with 'Heaven on Earth', the Preity Zinta starrer; couldn't help but feel that the movie was an accurate depiction of how life works for those who are isolated from their natural habitat. It's instinct, an animal would yearn to head back home, weary, abused, ill-at-ease when forced to adapt to alien settings and I am not talking about the weather conditions here. Animals rebel, sadly, we have an analytical brain which is supposed to aid the thought process, that hisses, time and again, warns you of fatal consequences, fear of the unknown. The fear is enough to tie you down, paralyze you, yet keep you alive in the hope of better days, the quest to find a better man.
Come to think of it, there is none. We exist in a patriarchal heirarchy, so well structured that it stinks. A man can get away with just about anything and flaunt it with a smirk, because he was just 'being a man'. The woman should be a shadow, trail the provider without question, languish at his feet, clean the puke, make his bed, cooperate in it, allow him to grab and then discard thanklessly. Hell, I found the perfect woman!

I might draw a lot of flak for typecasting, but I'd like to claim that civilization has failed to reform the most inherent of traits. It's the story of all those who are killed, by spirit and soul, at home or away. Abide, bear, withstand, bun, disappear. A battered face glowing with pride holds more hope than a flawless complexion shadowed by a constant horror, ever so pleasant on the surface but scarred deep within, beyond recognition.

A real man needn't necessarily subscribe to all the possible vices, a man can cry. A man must have the balls to decimate and be decimated. And a man must not let his woman feel violated. Providence will prevail through mutual belief. Balls merely hang unless you know how to use them.

Half of what she had said failed to register. More than half of what I said was a blur. I was thankful it ended that way!