Index
Chapter 1: Below
Chapter 2: Page 1
Another peg, Mr. Orwell?
Ma'am, you forgot your purse' the shopkeeper shouted, to a girl leaving the shop. The girl turned and slapped her forehead lightly, berating herself for being careless. Thank you so much, sir' she beamed at the shopkeeper. It struck me, her smile. Her entire face seemed to have lit up when she smiled. Genuine smile, a smile one can bestow upon others only out of unadulterated happiness and good will' I mused. Wonder how long that will last, the light inside her. The world will eventually take it away' I muse again, albeit without the serenity that enveloped me a moment ago.
Those who know me say cynicism should have been my middle name and rightly so, but I couldn't care less about what people say. People talk, and they talk as their own situation suits them to talk. My own aunt is very generous in dishing out praises to anyone when she is content with her life, and she could squeeze the life out of you with her tongue when she is upset about her neighbour's daughter hitting on her saintly son. People are slaves to their situations and their prejudices. I don't blame them, really, nor do I pity them. On the contrary I understand to a certain extent why they do, what they do. And I notice things; I see the worry lines and empty faces of people I have lived 25 years of my life with and over time the glow in their faces become just memories of a facade painstakingly built. And you see the world enough to see it for what it is -a facade. That is why I like books better than people; words do not hide behind the mask that glows with happiness. Words are crude, detached and hence trustworthy. People are like the flitting glimpse of understanding when you think you could read between the lines. I look at the book I am holding, as my thoughts drift towards books yet again. The Explorer', the hard bound cover says, in pleasant cursive fonts. W. Somerset Maugham, the writer, my cynicism is comfortable with his story. Maybe because he can make smiles out of hopelessness and sell it as the part and parcel of life. It's funny though how we buy it. Desperate bunch of people holding onto dear life.
My thoughts takes an abrupt halt as the world flips before my eyes and I find myself flat on my stomach hands flailing about in reflex to hold onto something, anything. Holding onto dear life indeed', cynicism kicks in even in most desperate of situations as it seems. I see people running, I hear them screaming. My head aches, what the hell is happening? I try asking people as I gather my bearings and push myself up on my feet. No one answers, everyone running with distorted image of fear painted on their faces. They are panicking. Something terrible has happened. But what? I try to gauge the reason behind sudden flurry of panic. I do not remember hearing a deafening boom'; it can't be a bomb blast then. It is a relatively big city if not metropolitan. We have faced bomb blasts before, but there is no trace of smoke or fire. The city is not bombed, as far as I remember there was no warning of the country being in war either, though it could be at any moment, given the look of things in present scenario- a government on the verge of turning fascist and foreign affairs department going down heel. Before I could ponder more about the situation, someone drags me by my hand, screaming "Run, run. They are coming" to my face.
I would have scratched my head and looked stupid had the person dragging me was not holding my hand. "Wait, why are you running? Where are you taking me? And who the hell is coming?"
The person seems to be a girl with long hair in a green flowing skirt and white top. She doesn't answer and continues running, taking me along. So I patiently repeat my question. I am not used to people pulling me about, I maintain my distance. Even in a crowded country like mine, where you can't buy squat in the market place without getting squeezed between sweaty bodies, I try hard to protect my personal space when others just accept the violation of the same on daily basis. My irritation is mounting as the minutes passed. The confusion in my head and annoyance at being dragged by a faceless girl adding to my discomfort. I want to snatch my hand away, but before I could act on my wish, the girl turns her head, looks at me with reproach as if reading my thoughts. It is the same girl with the smile that looked too real for this world, I note with surprise. She seems to have mistaken my surprise for confusion. "They are coming, the thought police" she answers laced with indifference, very unlike the strong grip of her fingers on my wrist. I wanted to scratch my head again, "Huh? The thought police? Big brother's army from 1984?" I ask her what my own brain asked me, without a second thought.
She looked puzzled. She hasn't read the book. "1984, the novel. George Orwell wrote it" I answer to her confusion, cringing at my stupidity. Of course the thought police from 1984 can't come to India. They aren't real.'
"I don't know what you are talking about, but yes, big brother's army. And what is a novel?" Her question mortifies me. I do not answer her, simply because I didn't have any. I feel a bit deranged. Why would thought police, the imaginary police department of imaginary Oceania come here? The real world. And who on earth doesn't know what is a novel? Wait!! Am I dreaming? Or has reading too many books finally taken my head?' I pinched myself to see if I feel the pain.
f**k' I swore, it did hurt.
"what?" the girl bit out
"Nothing. Where are we going?" I decided to keep the conversation normal without mixing up fiction with reality, for the sake of my sanity.
"We are getting away from them. You know very well what they will do if they catch you." There it was again. The confusion, the craziness.
Reality is an illusion, indeed.
"Einstein, where are you?" I call out to the genius who quoted the sentence in sheer desperation.
"Don't you know? They banished him for propagating blasphemy in the name of knowledge." The girl answers sincerely. As sincerely as a rhetorical question can be answered with a preposterous answer.
I gape at her. "Are you talking about Einstein? The genius scientist? Who proposed the theory of relativity? The father of quantum physics?" I ask, my mind rattled.
"Yes, I am talking about Einstein, the man who said that free fall is a falling. And it is because that's how things move when external pressure is not exerted on them. That free fall is an inertial motion. But what is quantum physics? And theory of relativity? You know you use strange words not unlike yourself. But you know what I think, I think even us, body and mind, we have inertia too. A great amount at that. But why am I even telling you this? They will evaporate me if they heard what I said. Anyone who dares to go against them or associate themselves with a state convicts are bound to get evaporated." She answered. Her running has slowed down to fast pace walking.
I know what evaporating someone means. Mr. Orwell was only too generous in its explanation. If the state mechanism evaporates you, you will vanish from the face of this earth, along with any record of your existence. It will be as if you never existed.
I always wondered what if I was evaporated, no trace of me ever being in this world. My life, the days I spent living. My family, friends and their memories of me, everything will reduce to nothing. But that is just not possible. Our state has not developed such sophisticated mechanism for eliminating dissent. And the hundred and one human rights organisations that exist in this country would make it very difficult for state to develop such mechanism. So what does she mean by evaporation? And what was that about Einstein? She must be a lunatic with no sense of the reality I am living in, escaped from mental asylum. That is the only explanation. Or is it?
I don't know if it is good enough for the Arshi lovers. Please let me know if I should continue. And silent readers please hit the like button, just so I know you are reading the story, that I am not posting it here in vain.
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