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I can in every way have power over what I say and what I act upon. But it is the thought process that I can’t control. My brain tends to act like a hot-air-filled balloon with an inertia of moving away from my consciousness, and unlike the reality in inertia, I can seldom control it’s motion with external forces – the forces of my consciousness. Some people call it as ‘imagination let run wild’. I prefer it known as abstractions from abstractions which are interconnected again by abstractions and finally lead to only one end – the basic premise of my interests or obsessions or objects or people that mean life to me – in a colloquial sense.

On July 13th, that happened to be a Tuesday, I ran into a train of abstractions that lasted for almost 12 hours. It was not exactly a train – it was a line of marbles rolling, sticking together, but creating no friction and no voice, just newer marbles, more and more, until they joined with a colloquial premise, finally – painfully, to make it complete. A unique geometry of innumerable abstractions was created and even the unseen gaps between successive marbles had abstractions in them. There were no concretes.

After a good number of pages of a novel, I felt like dissolving myself into the present world and decided to read the day’s newspaper. The one I receive at home, The Indian Express’ is merely a brick – it can’t absorb like a sponge nor can it give out like a fresh spring. So I dropped some coins in my pocket, locked the main door, and started on the street to buy myself another newspaper.

When I was out, I looked at the place where my car is usually parked. It wasn’t there. With no thought or analysis of the empty space I had just seen, I looked the other side. The vehicle was there. It was not a sight of relief to me – it was nothing. I was more with myself than my possessions. I saw the vehicle under a thin layer of dust which was visible only from a close distance. I recalled my father who had asked me to wash it the last Sunday. I looked at the vegetable shop in front of me.

The owner, popular in the locality as ‘anna’, was sitting on a stool in a corner with the owner of a shop beside his. Anna has been here for the past several years I have no idea. He hasn’t changed a bit is what I thought when I saw him. He has had many workers at his shop – right from a boy I hated to see, to the present boy who is too mild and soft toward me. Anna, when he started this shop, would also rent bicycles. Then he stopped it. Now he sells milk and vegetables. He might be having a family, I thought – his children whom I have never seen. I continued with: didn’t he ever try to make any progress? how much does he make per month? I thought it can’t be enough for him. Or he might be having some other endeavors too. He is a good man – soft spoken and honest.

His neighbor makes pillows and mattresses that are filled with cotton, not foam. He always has his shop filled with pillows, but never did I see any customers there. I didn’t think about his family.

On the opposite line of the shop, the other side of the street, is a manhole that serves as the drain for rainwater. Involuntarily my eyes paused at it. Anna and his neighbor were no more on my mind. I saw the drain. I lifted my eyes. I was walking. I usually never see beyond 6 inches from my feet while walking – I have been misunderstood with this but it is just my way of walking. I don’t care for what comes and goes from my sides and beyond the 6 inches. But at that instance I lifted my gaze to more than 10 inches.

Two burqa clad girls were heading towards me. Not exactly towards me but towards the street behind me. I kept my eyes to the line I was walking on, parallel to the curves the street was taking, straight to the path I was going to walk on in the next seconds. I didn’t look toward the two ladies. As they came nearer to me they started changing their tracks – they moved left, right, again towards me, confused. I wanted to learn about the absurd behavior of their feet and their tracks. I felt they looked at me – more than the road – obvious little things flashing in their minds – trembling tracks – obviously! Of course.

I kept straight, took no concern, saw a middle aged man on a 2-wheeler. He wore an off-white safari suit. His physique was bulky with a second chin above his neck, dark complexion and the eyes of a careful rider. He had a big dark mark on his forehead caused by the prostrations he might have made in his prayers. Instinctively I remembered an Islamic scholar saying that that mark happens when the pressure on the nose and the forehead while prostration is not properly balanced – improper posture while praying. But of course this man must have prayed a lot – the mark was too dark – full of pride and sereneness. I thought if it as unnecessary that it must be written on our face we pray to our God religiously. I recollected an e-mail I had received from a cousin. At the end it had asked me to forward it to all people I know if I were to love my God. The mail had come to me for that reason my cousin had read. When I met my cousin next I had made a request to him. I had asked him to write back to the person who sent him that mail asking that person to ask himself if it is necessary that love for God is shown in the forwarding of an e-mail. My cousin had told me that the mail was from my other cousin sister. She had forwarded it to the existence of the last sentence – ‘forward this too all your friends if you love God’.

I recollected that I had not forwarded that letter - I know God knows my love for Him better than my own knowledge of it; I can’t show it to anybody – including myself.

I saw some tyres lying I front of me. There was a puncture-repair shop. There were many men standing there. When I took a turn from the largest tyre lying, I found the newspaper shop. There were many papers hanging from a desk. I wondered if I could read all of them in a day and if there was someone who really could do that. I gave the money, took the paper, and turned for home. I was thinking about the contents of the newspaper when I found myself back on the diwaan in my living room.

I wondered why I had chosen that particular paper and not the one that is more famous. The comparison was between ‘The Hindu’ and ‘The Deccan Chronicle’. I went on to elaborate myself on 3 major differences in these 2 papers.

The same day I had read ‘The Deccan Chronicle’. There was a news article on the lower half of the front page that said about the non-coalition working of the Congress Party and the CPI (M) in the forth coming Panchayat Raj polls. The article was titled as ‘End of Road for Congress – CPI (M) relationship’ or something like that. The first sentence in the article was ‘Now it’s official!’ The same news in ‘The Hindu’ was facts and plain. There were no exclamation marks in ‘The Hindu’. The editors of ‘The Deccan Chronicle’ have never kept a distance between facts and opinions. ‘The Hindu’ is clear with its news and the stance it has taken. The news in ‘The Deccan Chronicle’ is opinionated and more factoid. The ownership of ‘The Deccan Chronicle’ is by a congressman. ‘The Hindu’ is inclined towards the BJP. But it apparently seems as if ‘The Hindu’ never makes it’s inclination as obvious as ‘The Deccan Chronicle’.

The second difference I found then was in the feeding of the public tastes. ‘The Deccan Chronicle’ is full of energy and dynamism with the tastes it has developed in it’s readers and also in the way it feeds it. This newspaper has matter which people like to read – good or bad. The news items are more of commentaries and the commentaries are written in such a manner that they are liked by the readers – good or bad. The content on the first page of it additional supplement always deals with obscenity which people deject in the open but like to read in seclusion. It is so obvious. People like it. They want to read such matter. It is full of spice. It gives them excitement. The newspaper makes money. I never found such content with such a ridiculous intention in ‘The Hindu’. ‘The Deccan Chronicle’ has crossed the boundaries of morality and ethics in the quest to gain more circulation and in the greed for more green-backs.

The final difference was in the visuals the newspaper can be defined with. I recognize the semi-nude pictures with the character of ‘The Deccan Chronicle’. ‘The Hindu’ has news and then the pictures related to that news. It is vise versa in ‘The Deccan Chronicle’. ‘The Deccan Chronicle’ has pictures of no importance to the readers but they are projected in such a way that the readers can’t keep their eyes off the obscenity. How disgusting! ‘The Hindu’ is pure and devoid of such third-gradedness.

After going through the paper I took a pen on the Sudoku puzzle on the last page. I got 2 correct digits in the next few seconds and my mind traveled to the computer resting on my desk. I was at my desk immediately.

Later in the evening I had to go to my Grandparent’s house. I was crossing a busy street when I had to wait for a few seconds at a divider in the middle of it. I felt a sudden thud. I saw a man sitting beside me, close to my feet. I didn’t know how that noise had traveled to me – through the vibrations in my tympanum or through the vibrations at the palm of my feet. That man had slipped and landed on the divider as if he were sitting there – but I had not seen it happen. Before I could think of what has actually happened, I was on the other side of the road. I saw a woman staring at me contemptible eyes. I was expected to help that fallen man. He was more than 60 I suppose.

All through my walk to my grandparents’ house I had only one bitter thought in my complete body – what made me not help that man? why didn’t I realize that I had to help him? why did I leave him there? I didn’t pity that man. I didn’t curse myself. I wanted to know what had stopped me. I felt sorry for myself for being slow to react or not reacting at all. I tried to justify by telling myself that I didn’t know that man slipped, I didn’t know what was going on, I was preoccupied with the crossing of that street. But I knew I had to help him – not for him, but for myself – for my satisfaction – for the discipline I have to set for myself – for the rules I have to follow. I took the whole as a lesson learnt. But still I knew I could never be so quick and alert while walking on the streets. I find streets more than what exactly they are. They are the most interesting places on the earth.

I reached my grandparents’ house and forgot everything. I had learnt something and only the lesson remained with me – the desire and not the object – the adjective and not the noun.

I decided to go to sleep early. At 10:45 pm I was on bed. The music of the daily soaps, running on the television behind my bad, was helping me think better. I was wondering about the directors and the screenwriters of these dramas. They make the actors and actresses say and do the exact things people like to hear and see – that touch their heart – makes them feel rather than think. The music is so composed that the feelings are made stronger – like nicotine that pulls the smoker back to the pleasure of smoking.

I thought, the next day I have to meet my friend. I recalled I had met him some days back and we were making some purchases at a pharmacy. I had found my friend to be very friendly with the store owner so I had asked my friend to ask the owner if there was a medicine that could help me forget some things of past. He had explained to the owner the medicine – he had said we wanted the opposite of the medicines that help in improving memory. The pharmacist had replied in negative. He had said there was nothing like that with him.

There was another man standing beside us, listening to our talk. I remember he suggested us to take alcohol – beer and whiskey precisely. We had a good laugh after that but we also had realized how correct that man was. We had spoken a lot about that later.

While lying on my ‘7 feet by 5 feet’ bed I was wondering about the effects of alcohol on us. I recollected: some days back I had told about this to my dad who has many friends who drink; my dad told me that alcohol definitely makes us forget out painful past but makes us recall those times which we had long forgotten; he gave me many examples of his friends – a one where his friend had told him about a shirt my dad had, green in color which he had liked a lot 40 years ago - his friend was drunk when he said this.

I recollected a party at a farm-house of this friend of my dad; he was heavily drunk that day. I had met him and greeted him. He had asked me how I was doing. I had replied “I am fine”. I remembered how he had responded to this –

He raised his right hand, pointed his index finger across in some direction, and opened his mouth. “You should be…”. I waited for him to finish. He was continuously shaking his hand and his finger. “You should be…”. I was worried, with no reason, but he was drunk. My dad was standing beside him. He knew everything was alright. He knew this was regular. “You should be…”. My heart started pounding. “You should be … extra fine”. What a relief that was. I had discussed this with my dad later that day and till now it remains to be a joke between us.

It was 1:30 am. Lying on my bed, thinking everything I could – how powerful wine could be – from no where came to my mind – “I wish God had not forbidden it”.

My next reaction was “oh my God. What have I said? I don’t mean it. It was unintentional”.

The abstractions do create a geometry. Every thought links to the premise. Nothing is concrete – just abstract – illusion. Deception of mind. Mind game. The player is me and I am myself the game. Yes, I play mind games.

It was unintentional. I asked God for forgiveness immediately. I was still there, not moving, still. Not waiting for sleep to come but waiting for the topic in my thoughts to be changed. I tried not to think what was going in my mind. I had nothing to do with my past. Nothing of the present, nor of the future. It was nothing. Just about what made me say that. The next sentence cleared everything – “Why do you do this to me ..... ?”