The boy who got tired

I realise I should write something where people won’t confuse me with the main character of the story. I keep thinking for the whole week. And then I get a topic. I search and get the situation. I get the feelings involved in the story. All I don’t get is the character involved. And I leave that into the hands of the readers to decide who the main character is. So this is how the story starts…


“It was a warm, Sunny day. The boy on the road looked pretty happy. He adjusted his backpack, and started walking once again. Just similar to all the inhabitants of the city the boy loved to walk. He walked merrily, sometimes hopping over the pool of mud, sometime staring to the wayside windows curiously. He had this distinctive style of walking, whenever he was on the road, people would look at him; could be for no reason. Nevertheless, he was different from the rest of the people on the road. And that made him special. He would not lower his face, hide hands in the pockets, or mutter while walking on the road. He lived his life to the fullest, hanging out with friends, taking pictures with friends, making small trips to exotic places. He was a boy of twenty, good-looking, and well-build. That’s the reason girls used to like him a lot.


But this story is not about this boy.

What? Are you amazed?

See, the major portion among us do not have girlfriends like he does, right? So we have to come down to somewhat a general level.

Let’s take that boy, for an example, the boy crossing the street. Can you see any difference between him and the rest of the crowd? May be no, because he is and may be will be as ugly as the rest of the crowd for the rest of his life. See how he moans over the fact that the bus which usually takes him to the college is late as usual. Ugly people do have a tendency to shout at everything, you see. I hate these guys, telling the truth. But what can I do else? Got to finish the story first, right?

The bus comes, as he gets into it. In the bus, he stares at outside through the windows, as the old vehicle drags him to his destination.

Now as he gazes outside, let’s gauge him from a distance.

He is a boy of twenty-one, but looks much older. His eye-brows are sharp, and are coupled just above his nose. His nose is sharp, and steeper than any person you will see around you. His face is dark brown, but those who have seen his body, doubts the color of wheat. He looks vaguely into people’s eyes and pass bye. Few were in the world that made or seen him laugh. There were men who would bet upon a smile of him. Seldom did he smile, and when he did, the sadness in his eyes turned into a pale sheet of happiness. He was an unhappy person, to conclude. There were problems in his life as people generally have. And he was alone in his life as people generally are.
And yes, the boy walked slowly on the streets. Head down, hands in his pocket. He dreamed that someday he would be to the hills, where his heart used to lie. But it seemed just a dream, as living in a big city had taught a precious thing among others that you can love you dreams, you can follow your dreams, but you can never reach your dreams. That will not be a dream then. And he believed it. He was a believer of everything. He was just a simple boy.

The bus took him to a place fifteen kilometers away, to his college. And when the college ended, he became hungry. But he was a person who could withstand a few things, even the primitive needs too. He had an institution to visit for some reference studies. He headed for that. And these visits took long enough to call the September evening. It was 8.00 in the evening as he headed back to his home. He walked across colonies thinking about the vegetables his mother was going to cook for him. He walked thinking how tiring day it was. And then he uttered those words…’I am tired tonight.’

He was hungry. He was thirsty. The place he used to live, they would call this wind a strange one that blew from the southern part of the city, which started blowing now. It made him look tough, and then it made him tough. In the midst of a dark evening, the boy became one of the fewest wanderers in the streets. But the boy hurried. He was hungry. He was thirsty.


He reached home. And then he realised it was warm. Whenever there were arguments in the house, it would become silent. No one asked for him. No one gave him a glass of water. No one talked with him. He became deserted. He silently started to put off his shoes. And then he heard the argument starting again.

Not many people I have ever seen to control tears in public. But this boy, on the other hand, had a rare gift of that. He looked at his parents vacantly, who were fighting over the case once again. He looked at his feet, on which he believed, he put on the shoes, and got out once again, as he entered a few minutes ago, silently, getting merely noticed.

The boy headed towards the same road he traveled on the morning while going to catch the bus. It was the same road he traveled while he returned home. And it was the same road he was walking now.

He walked towards the lake place for no reason. The wind from the southern part drenched him thoroughly, awaking his hunger. He looked tougher. His eyes narrowed. He shivered, and it came from his hunger. He looked at the still water of the lake. He looked at the chhatim tree. He looked at the large flats and other buildings. He reached the avenue which was at the southernmost part of the city. He took a turn, and started walking towards the well known bridge. He kept walking until he felt the color. He saw red at his hands; he saw red at his face, at his nose. He tasted the color, and found salted. He tasted blood.

His nose bled. He searched his pocket thoroughly but didn’t find a piece of cloth. It was clumsy. People were starting to notice him on the road, with the bloody nose. So he went to a shade, stood there, as the blood kept oozing out and he kept dropping those blood drops in the mud…until it stopped oozing altogether. His clothes were full of blood stains. But he started walking once again.

He found the tube well at the end of the Southern Avenues, and left the deep sigh from his heart. He washed his face thoroughly. He watered the upper part of his body. He kept on drinking the water until he didn’t feel hunger anymore. It wasn’t the source of drinking water, but he didn’t care. He was a boy from the hills. He could eat, drink or live on anything in the world. Little were his needs. And he knew how to fulfill those. He gulped down another mouthful of water. And then he felt satisfied. He saw this tube well building, couple of years ago. Just as this evening, he was on his way here that day. As he saw those workers digging deep, he knew what was happening. He stood, waited there for a long time to see. He admired those workers that day for building up something like that which helped him today profusely. And then he started walking again. He thought of going back home, but it could’ve been that the dispute wasn’t over yet, he thought in his mind, so he continued walking.

And it was then he saw Athena.

The Moon was up above the head. The branches of the trees in southern avenues mysteriously blocked the Moonlight to drop down to earth. There were lampposts, however, which lighted the paths and the turns for the favor of those who walked. These lampposts were tall, reached at a height from where even if they were lit, the atmosphere would be blurring. And in the murky light of the old lampposts, he saw Athena.

Athena was, however, a white owl. She used to sit on the branches of the trees nearby, and at evening, she would come down, and hover around the Southern Avenue in search of rats or any kind of food. The boy named her Athena. He found a strange attraction to the bird. It would come down and fly around him every time he was on Southern Avenues. He felt something extraordinary. He smiled every time he saw her. And the bird would answer a sharp, shrill cry that would drift across the high-rise buildings and colonies.

Athena went away in search of her food, as he headed to the Chetla bridge.

His head dropped down in exhaustion. He continued his walk across the fish markets and the cremation ground. He continued his walk until the bridge ended, and then he decided to come back.

He was tired of walking now. It was the same road that he travelled half an hour ago. And what was worse, he was going home.

In the stillness of night, the boy lost himself in the crowd. The faces became one. The lights, the shadows, the dreams, all the happiness and sadness of the world unified to create lives in the big cities, where you, me, the boy, everyone just goes round and round the lamp. The feelings blend, and create the oil, the lives end, to create the fire. But they go round and round. They dance around the light, they fall upon each other, they dance like drunk, and they dance like drugged. And then they drop. They drop down in the light, and turn into fire. But they do not stop.


Misty night experienced two girls thinking about a boy from the windows of their respective rooms. And strangely enough, not for the boy who looked happy on the road, walked merrily, took pictures or used to hang out with friends in exotic places…but for a lonely person, who was on the way back to his house on that night, hiding his tears in the dark.

-Nov '09