I want to talk to you. Its a desire that perhaps my heart shall long forever. I want to sit beside you and talk to you, about anything, whatever it may be. May it be the most hurtful things or things that don’t interest me, it shall not matter. I want to make conversation to you since I can’t make love. I just want to listen to your voice, see your lips move, look at you exist. Imagining you to be around me, talking to me is enough to tame me. To rescue me from the depths of my madness. My wild demeanor shall wear off the moment you pat my head with love and compassion. I have no respect or love for myself, because of all the things I have lost in life, I have lost you too. I don’t know how or why. Loss cannot be explained but just repented. I try to understand you but you sound just as hollow as I used to sound once. You are like an echo of my past now. May it be an echo, but still talk to me. I am exhausted and hopeless. Come redeem me, talk to me if you may. I will wait inside a cacoon made of evil thoughts and hatered. Only you may come and retrieve my goodness. I have lived a meaningless life without virtue. I feel as if everything shall just be fine, if only i may talk to you. I hate language, I always have. But, what can I do but talk? What can I do but hope for words of reassurance. In some world I shall exist again; A world without language and with hope. Until then I shall burn this world down with my painful wails of desperation.

Its the 30th day, today. These 30 days in retrospect shall be the most beautiful days of my petty life. It starts with anger; with blaming others for your sins and frustration, that you have inflicted upon yourself. Eventually, I learned that sadness is the daughter of anger. Anger sweeps through your consciousness in rebellion to your hopeless attempts at containing an un-containable sadness. But, anger is a form of expression you cannot control, unlike sadness. It ignites your hormones and brings warmth to your blood. And unleashes his son; rage. It makes you invincible; it makes you impenetrable to embarrassment or humiliation. It makes you fire; a fire that can only burn and damage you. My advice? Drench yourself in rain, the only way to smother fire is water, my friend. Go find rain and shallow lakes and wild streams. Be naked and cry out loud like a child. Don’t weep; cry. Wail and slap your forehead. If you feel alone; close your eyes and touch the barks of timeless trees. Be kind to the poor and mean to the rich. Now comes guilt; The endless repentance. You will revisit your past and desperately think about the things you could have done differently. You blame yourself and you regret. I learned that regret is a feeling stronger than love itself. Regret is an emotion that truly defines our humane nature; not hunger, lust, love, greed or grief. The tiger feels all of that too but not regret, otherwise oh how sleepless his nights would have been after killing its prey. My advice? Curse yourself. Condense the hate that you have for yourself into physical punishment. Run. As long as your lungs don’t give up. Keep running; Keep running until you fall on your knees and start vomiting blood, cough and undigested food. Sleep by the footpath and look at people walk past you, make sure the smell around you is pungent and there is garbage laying around. Now gather some life in your numb feet and walk yourself back home. Look at yourself in the mirror. Its your reincarnation. Celebrate with shaving your hair off. The uglier you look, the easier it will be for you to love yourself. Now, the solution to all problems? Acceptance; the most beautiful word in human history. Amidst age and helplessness, it shall catch up with you. And when it does, only then can you retire. Acceptance is the only fruit one truly reaps out of suffering. The only true gift of mortal life. The soul of all spirituality. Acceptance is the synonym for life itself. Acceptance is the mother of peace. 30 days of struggle, a guide to humanity. This guide needs a context but you already have one. It's upon you to decide your actions since this is but a prose and not a sermon. (Inspired by the works of Arthur Schopenhauer, a German Philosopher, 1788-1860)

There was once a place where men of different shapes and races romanced with the wild. Within sacred woods and divine mist; they found home. Amidst the melancholic rains and laziness; they found harmony. By the Brahmaputra, they sang songs of love and the gods. By the Patkai Hills, was the end of their world. Attires smeared in colours of tropical birds and a heart beating to the rhythm of the Dhol. They were the natives of nature and of the lush greenery, scattered all around. They were an amalgamation of tribes with diversity. Their culture’s so rich that history breathed in their veins. Originating from different clans and rituals yet they all lived in one spirit : the spirit of brotherhood. The creatures; be the animals, the birds or the life under water; all lived a life of freedom and of abundance. Thus, the kingdom of the indigenous men and women merrily celebrated nature; the harbinger of man's future. (Co-written by Shaheen Akhtar)

May it be a beautiful day; the day your mother dies. May the sun shine a golden glow while in dew each tree cries. May her soul know of the things you couldn’t say and may in shame you donot hide. May her stomach be full of the things she likes to eat and may in her death she smiles. Of all the things you couldn’t give her; At least give her your reflection in her eyes. While she dies, whiles she dies. May you forgive her for her flaws and also apologise. May all the hurt you have caused her becomes all the love she couldn’t give you. May she be proud of you and may you caress her sweet face as she passes to the other side. May on the other side she waits for you. Since in the warmth of her strong arms your innocence lives. May you feel secured even after she leaves. May her warmth touch your soul even if she may never be able to touch your skin again. May it be a beautiful day, the day your mother dies. May you bury her and not her love. May it rain that night so you can drink and cry. You have lost your mother, the womb that gave you life. So; I wish may it be a beautiful day, the day your mother dies. May the sun shine a golden glow while in dew each tree cries. May the grass be moist and may the earth smell of petrichor. May wild flowers from unknown trees blow along with sweet smelling pleasant gusts of the eastern winds. May the sky be the bluest of blues. May it be a beautiful day, a day like no other. Well; after all… Its a day as beautiful as your mother.

The beauty in the worst of men is the dogma that they accept that they are the worst. In this world however, only the worst of men make history. Only the worst of men desire to be great; Kindness and love are for the weak. Ceasar was not kind; Hemingway wasn’t in love. Men who hate themselves and the world; change themselves and the world. Men who seek power, get power. Some men are not satisfied with money, not with sex, but with absolute control over other’s lives. They are ugly, arrogant and carry a smirk in place of a smile. But, oh; They are desirable. They will own your mind and soul, they will penetrate your heart and body. Their ghost shall come back to haunt you all your life. So, learn to recognise these worst of men and pary that they forget your name. Because Alexander tortured and killed Bessus just because he couldn’t kill Darius with his own two hands. Because Gandhi’s Satyagraha was inspired by his wife, whom he would tirelessly beat to consolidate obedient behaviour. These great men are fueled by the relentless need to exercise their intelligence, their authority, the world becomes a small place and wishes are but ambitions for them. These men are fueled by vengeance, ego and fear. These men are studying history and politics while your consciousness is being devoured by a football match. While you laugh and enjoy the simple pleasures of life; These men device routines and plans, these men acquire skills, these men learn the banking system and make the economy their bitch. They are pathetic and only hence can they be great. The story of each great man; is the story of trading pain. They sow the seed of pain in themselves and sprout as a tree that bear fruits of greed, manipulation and lies; oh look how ripe they are! They make money to not be rich but buy things they don’t want others to own, to buy things they don’t need only to make you feel unworth, to sell you greed. These men need motivation though; motivation to grow, to be better at being worse. They find subjects who incite purpose in them; To stoke the fire in their soul. As all conquests need a reason, a twisted justification. For that, they constantly need to be reminded of the things they can never have, they need to be reminded of how unfortunate they are, they need to lie to themselves that they have been wronged. And you; Can you make him feel that way? Shall you be the purpose of his conquest? Great men are built with blood, tears and piss. Blood for their struggle, tears for the pain they cause others, and piss? Piss because they are disgusting. Great men are born each day of each generation; but only a few are motivated enough to take over the world. Now the question that remains is; Are you a good enough motivation

Fhagun had a secret. A secret that she must keep safe. She enjoys the company of her beautiful mother and the protection of her strong father. She knows her life is not perfect but she has her moments. Some days her father would take her out on drives and talk about his youth; she knows that she is the last girl her father truly wants to impress. Some nights she would sleep in the embrace of her mother; she would touch her soft skin, she would feel the warmth of her love. She would realise that nowhere shall she find the affection that her mother effortlessly resonants. She would slowly close her eyes and feel so calm. She finds her long lost innocence and a pleasant, carefree sleep. She hides behind brightly painted walls to take pictures of her father taking pictures of her mother. For now, for her happiness is this. Oh! how long she has waited for things to be all right, to have a family like those families she has heard of and has only watched in movies. So, these small moments of pleasure where she sees a glimpse of how things would have looked like if things were all right; astounds her. But, she is hopefull and she is proud. Fhagun is a girl learning to be a woman. Perhaps, one day none of this shall matter to her, maybe one day she will only live for herself. But, for now it doesn’t matter. And this is why, Fhagun has a secret. Fhagun will drain it down her stomach with alcohol if she must. But, Fhagun shall keep this secret, a secret. She shall tell no one, she shall shut her thoughts up. Since she understands now that happiness in not given but achieved. Fhagun knows that some truths are worst than lies. Fhagun believes that secrets are good.

Today is a blue day, My mind, my thoughts, all so blue. A day my character I conceal and contain. A day my personality I wear and maintain. I act nice, I smile, I lie. I kill my demented thoughts; I silence my loud mind. So blue, So blue all around. Is it just me or the world that isn’t sound. The species that got away, that evolved to stay. Those who betrayed nature, those who broke the food chain. They call me a human, a species born for gain. With no one to challenge with no one to blame. We needed ‘things’ to own, we needed ‘things’ to claim; of our own predator we became. To divide ourselves we never abstain. Inflicting on each other hunger & pain. I know, I know; I should be quite. A blue day, so blue it’s right. But my conscience suffocates and decays. The need to please others consumes my days. I dream of lawlessness now and my oppressed anger spews out; no longer can I be a rat racing round & round. So blue, So blue, it is; Is it just me or the world that isn’t sound.

The azaan was playing somewhere at a distance; a faint but distinct sound. Riyaz is listening to it; it doesn’t pleasure his ears but it brings solace to his dead spirit. When he siezes to believe that he ever existed; the sound of the azaan reaches his ears and validates that he did exist. When he used to be alive; he was quite pre-occupied to even pay attention to the azaan. He was young when he moved alone to the city! Oh! What a life it was when he lived. He saw people as objects of entertainment. He would conduct social experiments to understand human nature. Riyaz would lie about his identity, even his name. It was exciting for him; afterall he was so far away from home in a city where no one really knows that he exists. He could have been anyone. No one was a witness to his identity. This city was where he could appease his vivid imagination with a taste of reality. Why does he have to be his boring, usual self? Why not innovate his identity if he could! He could lie about everything; but is it even a lie? He thought. Not if no one can ever say its not the truth. Nothing is a lie until someone validates the truth. Lies exists as a counter to truth. If he has no truth then how can he lie? He convinced himself that it shall be intriguing. He saw beautiful naked bodies and wine pouring over his mouth. He saw riches and made elite friends. He danced and laughed and lived with his lies. But… Slowly he couldn’t discern his life from his lie. As if, the only difference it really had was the ‘f’! Riyaz was unaware yet that one can never really evade destiny. Destiny is the ultimate faith of one and all. And the destiny of every lie is its truth; just like the destiny of each life is death. The truth shall be redeemed; no matter how intricate the lie is. Neither even time shall be able to subjugate destiny then how could the petty will of Riyaz make any change. If there is a life then eventually it must die. If it doesn’t die, it was never alive. Its likewise for lies. Every lie shall eventually unfold to its truth. When each lie is born; it is destined to demise at its truth. Riyaz is listening to the azaan; it doesn’t pleasure his ears but it brings solace to his dead spirit. He thinks of allah and begs for him to accommodate his soul even if in hell, if he must. His body is now his only validation of existence and it haunts him; afterall his body is keeping him from reaching his due destiny. Nobody knows Riyaz, because he never existed. He perhaps exists only in his mind. Raghu, Jhon, Iqbal, Tenzing, Srinivas or many other names that he used to play perhaps exists too, in the memories of random people but not Riyaz. Riyaz had made his lies his life but all his lies did reach their demise but not his life. He listens to the Azaan and closes his eyes. The Azaan shall keep him company, until he reaches his destiny.

Its the 30th day, today. These 30 days in retrospect shall be my the most beautiful days of my petty life. It starts with anger; with blaming others for your sins and fustration you have inflicted upon yourself. Eventually, I learnt that sadness is the daughter of anger. Anger sweeps through your consciousness in rebellion to your hopeless attempts at containing an uncontainable sadness. But, its a form of expression you cannot control unlike sadness. It ignites your hormones and bring warmth in your blood. And unleashes his son; rage. It makes you invincible; it makes you impenetrable to embarrassment or humiliation. It makes you fire; a fire that can only burn and damage. My advice? Drench yourself in rain, the only way to smother fire in water my friend. Go find rain and shallow lakes and wild streams. Be naked and cry out loud like a child. Don’t weep; cry. Wail and slap your forehead. If you feel alone; close your eyes and touch the barks of timeless trees. Be kind to the poor and mean to the rich. Now comes guilt; The endless repentance. You will revisit your past and desperately think about the things you could have done differently. You blame yourself and you regret. I learnt regret is a feeling stronger than love itself. Regret is an emotion that turly defines our humane nature; not hunger, lust, love, greed or grieve. The tiger feels all of that too but not regret, otherwise oh how sleepless his nights would have been. My advice? Curse yourself. Condense the hate that you have for yourself into physical punishment. Run. As long as your lungs don’t give up. Keep running; Keep running until you fall on your knees and start vomiting blood, cough and undigested food. Sleep by the footpath and look at people walk past you, make sure the smell around you is pungent and there is garbage laying around. Now gather some life in your numb feet and walk yourself back home. Look at yourself in the mirror. Its your reincarnation. Celebrate with shaving your hair off. The uglier you look, the easier it will be for you to love yourself. Now, the solution to all problems? Acceptance; the most beautiful word in human history. Amidst age and helplessness, it shall catch up with you. And when it does, only then can you retire. Acceptance is the only fruit one truly reaps out of suffering. The only true gift of mortal life. The soul of all spirituality. Acceptance is the synonym of life itself; Acceptance is the mother of peace. 30 days of struggle, a guide to humanity. This guide needs a context but you already have one. Its upon you to decide your actions since this is but a poem and not a sermon.

He is coming back; His name lingers in the minds of even the mindless; his stories are reminded even by those who cannot remember. His ugly face finds itself in the dreams of those who loved and hated him; those he made and destroyed. His identity is now his past and his existence a mere idea. But, now… He is coming back. Strength and consciousness collides; the stars in the sky burn brighter. Hell and heaven brusts into festivities. Music from a thousand years ago echo in the air. Dust and rain blows as all beautiful becomes ugly and all ugly becomes beautiful. The God and the devil make gay love tonight as… He is coming back. Races, species, organisms devolve into a single entity of life. Space and time cannot contain him anymore. Asteroids and planets pause; rivers lay stagnant; clouds won’t move; all noise is in silence. Is he here already? He is not an individual but a collective being. He lives amidst and within the phenomenon of life itself; He has no gender but many names. His behaviour is chaos; his appetite change. His predecessor was himself and his successor only history. He shall be the architect of the mind and he shall touch each soul. His mere words shall not just be a collection of syllables but the thunder that shall shred past differences. He shall be the killer of your perceptions, of your beliefs. Since how can the new prevail if someone doesn’t kill the old atleast. The day has come for him to be the mother. The new world is kicking inside his womb, so let him breed it. He shall be the storm before your calm. Give him your voice and attention. As, he shall come back. Like always.

You often disregard the past as meaningless but it shall come to haunt. Past is what makes you and what you make along the way. Past is where you shall find the circumstances of your presence. Past is like your ethnicity, like your colour. You may never escape it. It has been entwined to your existence. The past is your witness. You shall carry the burden of your father’s sins and your forefathers disgrace. Your past is your present and your present is your past; if you think of time as an abstract concept. Consider time to be a measurement of the life you have lived. Now, measure your past. The moment you read this line and arrive to the next, you shall take a step from your past to your presence. Now, you are in present. Now, your present is past again. Though sometimes we get stuck in the past and stay there, safe and happy. Time just exists on a clock not in consciousness. The man who lost his son often visits the day he was born. The girl who got raped often reminds herself of the time she looked at her face in the mirror and actually found herself beautiful. The boy who is in prison roams around his neighbourhood each day. Past is present and so are you. But, the present shall pass and so shall you too.

The sharp summer heat fades; The loo feels like an exotic ocean breeze. His aching muscles and her painful traumas slowly wane away through the exchange of timid smiles. He stares at her with much more fascination than he stares from a distance at a television screen. She pushes strands of her dry vermillion, unwashed hair away from her eyes as he gawks and wonders how true and beautiful she looks unlike those women with silky hair whom he serves food and tea; who wear less clothes and throw more than they eat. She cannot see well and today he is at a distance. She still tries to catch a glimpse of his face howsoever without getting caught. Maybe she needs a pair of spectacles but not to see him, after all he is her spectacle. Maybe she can’t afford those spectacles for now but she can afford to fall in love. He asked his educated friend to write him a love letter; his friend was still looking for a job so he agreed to do it for a minimal fee. He dictated his feelings and his friend complimented it with whatever little vocabulary he had! Amidst nervousness and fear he gave her the letter and like a coward he ran away. She was just as uneducated as him apparently but not her younger brother. Her family made a choice, men do need education in today’s world so yes today’s world is at fault. Her younger brother was as nice to her as his parents were to him. So, he read it out to her in a whisper and the entire night she couldn’t sleep. He waited impatiently staring at the street over and over again the next day. When he would catch her sight; a rush of elation through his mind would always ignite. And there she was walking with a subtle smile; today she was sure to talk to him since expressions and stares had went on for too ling; she was up in rile! He felt this instinct too; he knew today was the day, so he walked straight towards her whatever happen may! They faced each other but couldn’t talk; not a word would spill out, only their eyes would lock. He wasn’t sure of what to say as mostly his conversation starts with asking “What’s your order today?” and for her; she was always trained to shut up so her voice is weak enough for anyone to ignore her away. But; eventually they smiled in rebellion. He asked her if she would want to meet him at the temple the next day; as for free, together below the oak they could lay, and maybe even pray! She promised to come and wait for him in the evening. They then had to part away since for him customers await as they have orders to make and she too have buckets of water to fill and take. He felt an unpredictable joy and she too couldn’t hold her grin. But alas! Reality is a ghost; so grim. He received a letter that night which turned his aspirations of love into void. His father had passed away; so he caught the first bus in the dawn to become the farmer his father was. He would weep as silently as the rustle of the leaves in the night. When his mother would ask; he would say he cries for his dead father but of course he cries for her. Eventually her face he shall forget and a fond memory of something eternally beautiful for him she shall become. For her; well she would cry too but she has a lot to cry about anyway. Often his thoughts would haunt her, often she looks for his face in places full of crowd. Maybe he would send his son somewhere someday to take orders and serve tea. Maybe he would meet a girl and in love he too shall be. It lasts for a time so brief yet for the rest of their life they romanticize grief. Love has its definitions and for the poor; “The sharp summer heat fades; The loo feels like an exotic ocean breeze. His aching muscles and her painful traumas slowly wane away through the exchange of timid smiles;”

A bee lurks in the depths of an unknown desert; looking for a flower as only he knows that its spring. By his side; a man walks in search of a woman, only he knows that he is lonely. The hills look after them from a distance; the rivers await their arrival. But, they must cross this arid, loveless dessert. They must cross across to the forest of the naked and drenched. Perseverance shall keep them alive not hope. They have to accept how helpless & lost they are; that is when god shall find them. God doesn’t listen to prayers but wails. There are too many lives and too many wishes so to know who really needs him; he listens for cries. But this man needs no help and this bee believes in no god. So, they go on; these godless creatures as god follows them by, waiting for them to cry. Sad but arrogant is their lore. A flower and a woman is all they look for.

There was a man, old and mad who used to live on the streets. He was drunk each night and used to cry all morning but never did he sleep. He was in a war with time; he would mumble to each man passing by him. His vehicle was his imagination and his destination was to a time when he was happy. There was nothing left in him now, only excuses and distress. But there was a time he was loved and his mistakes were forgiven. He is in a war with time and he demands to travel back. Since in his past he lost his love and so did he lose himself. Her smile is where his restless soul may find its peace so he has to go back. He wants to be in the warmth of her weak arms and that is where he begs for time to stop. But, each morning as he wakes up time brings him back to the same spot. A present with no hope where he feels eternally helpless. She shall never forgive him and nor can he forgive himself; so, why not fight with time? He will travel back in time yes he will and he will see her again. Her will knock on the door of their house and she will open it again. He will make love to her each time it shall rain. He will not lie and perhaps be a better man. But; for now, he is in a war with time and he shall burn down each clock. For him time has stopped; its just a meaningless noise “Tick-tock-tick-tock” He cannot live in now and time has to allow him to go back. Because without her life is nothing but a wait or a waste. So, there was a man, old and mad who used to live on the streets. He was drunk each night and used to cry all morning but never did he sleep.

After committing sins and crimes that made digesting food difficult for him; after making countless mistakes he could never fix; after hurting the people he was supposed to love and protect; he walked away to the mountains to become a saint. He called himself the saint of hopeless people. A hopeless messenger of god who sells hope. He walked across a million trees he couldn’t name and he met a million people whose names he couldn’t know. But, after lossing everything; he learned to give. He would not pluck flowers but sit and look at them for hours. Many called him a madman and many a lazy beggar. But, he knew he was a saint of hopeless people. He would feed stray dogs and randomly beat up men who employed children. He would talk of love and hope to his fellow beggars and madmen with as much passion as a prophet’s prophecy. He would sit below a Palash tree and smile at each passing stranger. If someone asked him where he came from; he would say he was just born a while ago. If someone asked who he was; he would say he was the reminiscents of many unfulfilled hopes. If someone asked what he did; he would say he just wanted to do good things now. Make people laugh and be kind. For whom? for what? who knows! He knew he cannot get back whatever he had lost and he cannot take back the pain he had inflicted on others. He had accepted the truth that no amount of repentance or praying would change anything. So, he changed himself. He didn’t change everything though; he still loves making fart jokes. He knows he is no longer who he was; his past can’t define him. Not a criminal he is now but a saint of the hopeless people. A hopeless messenger of god who sells hope. Do let him know, if you ever do happen to meet him in your life; that there are 14 cases of murder pending against him in the Calcutta court including his mistress and wife.

Letter 1: Crumbled up & forgotten in the bottom of an abandoned post box; was a letter that longed to be read. “Dear Muse; Mostly, I think of you when I am alone and tired of thinking about things that make me sad. I think of you; I think of why I think of you. I do not know you, you clearly never even wanted me to know you. There was no magic, no talking through the eyes. Here we are, two people as staight as parallel lines, obscure of one another’s existence while I try to intersect each time. Perhaps, you are the face to all my un-tamed passion, perhaps the abstract idea of love I made up in my mind. I imagined an unknown face I can never recall as I read poems and tales of love, but lately that face is your’s. Perhaps, you are an illusion; often I think of how you might pass your day, often I think if you think of me and laugh at myself, often I imagine us in situations that are never to occur, in places we shall never be, saying words we will never share. I sometimes want to imagine you all I can, I want to remember your face forever, every expression, every smile, every blink of your eye shall be a flawless construct of my mind. As, forever you shall be the illusion of my life as without you nor the sunlight in winter and neither the rain in spring shall truely make me content.”

Naveen thought he was a loser. That’s how he perceived himself; but he often took a weird pleasure in it. He lived by the notion that the universe is fragile and for life to exist balance is requisite. He thought losers were very necessary for winners to inspire themselves to not be losers. He perceived himself as a loser but he knew that the world perceives him as an evident stature for comparison and self-motivation. He was young when teachers and relatives started to mark him as the epitome for comparison of degradation. “Study more Rupa; you don’t want to be like your brother do you? Dumb and useless.” said Naveen’s father to his younger sister. “We already have one Naveen; we don’t want any more in this class. Is it understood!?” said the class teacher. “Son; look at your marks! Its worst than even Naveen probably. What the hell is wrong with you?” said Naveen’s alcoholic uncle contemplating on his son’s results. Naveen witnessed every insult as a inherent compliment and himself beyond comparison since he was the “measure” himself. An intimate identity he enjoyed; a glimpse of reverse superiority he carried. Naveen was a born loser and his dogma was his acceptance. He fell in love a lot too, atleast one woman for a month or two. He would think of her every night before he sleeps, would imagine conversation that never used to happen, would cry to the pillow, would pluck flowers he would never give and would be obsessed over her untill he feels bored or distressed but he always had an intuition that some other time they would meet and then it will work out with utmost passion since unlike others he cannot be forgotten; as he is the loser. Unlike most of the winners; Naveen had the rare skill of being very calm at the oddest of moments. He could walk past a thousand people laughing at him without feeling or hearing anything but his voice in his head. He always appreciated himself on how calm he is compared to others. He didn’t have many friends; maybe he didn’t have any. He used to do a lot of gardening, some people say he is a gardener but he never gardens for anyone eles. He is his own gardener just like he is his own companion. Naveen’s father asked him to leave his house when he was 34 years old. He gave Naveen some money and pleaded him to never return. Naveen as calm as forever left after a long hot shower with all the biscuits and sweets. He took a bus to a village he never heard about but sleept all the way to the last stop some 800 kilometres away from home. But as less as he cared about his life; he cared about his destination so whatever place he was dropped at he decided to live his life there. He build a house that looked like a tent and set a tea stall. There were less people so he made less tea. At first, he was happy and at peace but then with time he got displeased. He lost his pride, his profensity. No longer was he the lone losser as all seemed just like him. But, he knew now and could explain himself of how sad it must be for everyone he knew who was a common man; no wonder they were agitated and disappointed all the time and really needed someone with whom to compare for them to feel better about themselves. Naveen felt like his life was indeed worthwhile and of how important he was for the balance of the universe. So, the next morning he took another bus back to where he was supposed be the loser.

He walks the streets in utter curiosity. He doesn’t understand sign boards and hypocrisy. He is confused mostly but not embarassed easily. He is the uneducated boy who is devoid of chivalry. He wonders how the cars run so fast and how the trees survive. He ponders over his god in hope to find his answers but never questions his god. Though he laughs out in content when confronted by insignificant jokes made by random people. He hangs around boys as desperate and uneducated as him around tea stalls talking about debts and hopes. There he walks in his own skin; not uncomfortable of who he is. An uneducated boy he is; with no past and no future, only in present he lives. As he walks past the road; drooling over huge whitewashed walls built around schools where education is sold that he cannot afford to buy. He sells his labour, his pain and excercise. Uneducated he may be but he thinks he is a clever guy. He acceptes the reality and excuses the rich for their autrocity; he tries to save money and a businessman someday he aspires to be. Not as a exploited pauper he perceives himself but as an embraced aristocrat! Someone; who is not just there yet! While somewhere a daughter of an aristocrat cries over not having enough shoes. Before he sleeps each night, he imagines a faceless bride and dry humps over his quilt until he orgasms in his undies; while the son of the aristocrat masturbates using exported lube watching consumer intended porn movies. He knows very less yet feels a lot so he believes in superstitions and perhaps true love too and what not! He is the uneducated boy; uncivilized and blunt but as forever to be deceived for his simpler self. He knows no manners but he is never disrespectful as he respects himself, he dreams and consoles that life someday will treat him well. Ah, the world is so unkind; for the enducated to exist the uneducated needs to survive. But here he is again; still walking tall. The uneducated boy he is; he has problems to tame, he has riches to claim, his mind is polluted with thoughts of vivid consumption and aspirations of materials owned by educated people that he cannot own yet. Such is the dillema of the uneducated boy; a misapprehented friend of his own nemisis, he who has been taught to dream, who is overruled by capitalism, a doomed dreamer that shall never achieve reality.