7 levers

7 Levers

Nobody knew when Parimal could get angry. Nobody had ever seen him in anger. They spoke of him with a sense of indifference. And it is understood why so. It is but natural to judge people on how they manifest themselves. Hence Parimal never attracted any strong comments or praise because nobody had ever seen what he was like. He was a man in his early thirties with very nondescript features. He had a straight face, one could say, with exceptionally wrinkle free skin. He was now living in the Mathera complex for 8 years, still working in the same courier firm he joined 8 years back as operations in-charge. 8 years ago was roughly the time he actually moved to Nagpur in search of a living. They didn’t know much of him, except the fact that he was the most uncontroversial man in the knowing.
It is rather amusing to see a person react in a particular way when faced with a special circumstance. Although he led a normal life, there had never been a situation that could lead Parimal to give-in or open-up emotionally. People usually thought he was claustrophobic or didn’t hold an opinion worth sharing. Those were obviously the judgmental ones. There were those too who pitied him. It is indeed difficult not to have an opinion of someone who appears so conspicuously different. But then opinions keep people away from reality. Having an opinion is like creating an entire atmosphere of beliefs to convince ourselves of the same. Then there is no space left for the fact.
Parimal had a simple routine. Work, then back to home, a few hours of idleness which no one knew how he spent, sleep and then work again. On weekends he was always seen sitting under the shed in the community park indifferently gazing at the proceedings- playful children, love buds, youthful bonhomie and evening walks towards dusk. He only left for a brief period,presumably for lunch. On being faced with initiatives to interact he kindly disposed off courtesies and curtly declined further invitations.
Time constantly runs forward to prevent stagnation. Those who still manage to avoid changing have to come around eventually. There was a man who had been asking Parimal to have a walk with him for over four weekends now. Parimal had declined on all occasions.

It was Saturday again. He was expecting the man. He had imagined this man to be someone who was being dared to do so or probably someone who was conducting some psychological study on him as a specimen.
It was five in the evening when the man actually showed up. Parimal’s lips widened a bit, probably his substitute for a smile of self-admiration. Eventually the man materialized in front of him and repeated verbatim for the fifth consecutive weekend. “Hello sir! You look kind of immersed in something”, he said. Parimal had on all previous occasions chosen to declare his unwillingness to talk very politely, still clearly, and had declined his invitation to take a walk. Yet the man had managed to get the information across that he was a Professor of Sociology at the state university and wished to make sensible conversation. Parimal surprised himself by breaking his rote answer routine. “Yes I am. Engrossed”, he said with a semblance of a grin. He was a natural master of the monotone. Every word sounded like the click of a typewriter. Before the man could reply he continued, “I would really like to have some alone time.” The man’s eyes widened in childlike surprise, “You have that all the time! How about some friendly talk? You look like the quintessentially diffident chap from one of those severed literature items. Those that have been in the circulation for quite some time now.” The man spoke with such enthusiasm his eyes rounded up to wholesome circles. He continued, “You have never read them? Those under the false name of comatose? Funny. I mean the name. But real intriguing stuff if you find storytellers worth a read.” It is natural to expect a man whom we see as glum to have an interest in what we see as cult. Parimal could see the telltale signs of a conversationalist as always. He was trying too hard to strike a chord but Parimal never seemed to be with him. Probably he was too desperate and obvious in his attempt. Seeing no other way of escaping, Parimal stood up and walked away. He had never faced a situation before where he couldn’t figure out how to distance himself from a possible conversation. Home was just a few metres from the park. It was a one room apartment on the 2nd floor. He unlocked the door. Nixon 7 levers. It felt weird. He felt discomfort in breathing. Probably due to exhaustion from sitting in the sun, he thought. As he entered the small living space of his apartment he could already feel the uncertainty in step. The hair was undone. He could feel the strands on his forehead. He settled on the plastic chair, the only chair. As he was sipping water from his glass it occurred to him, almost instantaneously. The umbrella was lying just beside him. Why didn’t he, like always, go to his preferred corner and place it at a slant with the wall? Why was the lock still on the door? Had he forgotten to take the milk bottles from outside the door when he stepped in? Were they still lying there? Stupid, he thought. He must have been just a bit exhausted and that’s it. Nothing else.
Though inside he knew it was wishful thinking. There was something else. Something that manoeuvered its way into the evening, disrupting his daily check-list. He pulled his diary from inside the table drawer. Just a few filled pages. A half filled 3rd page was facing him. He checked. Yes, he murmured to himself. It was 8 years since he had last made small talk with another person. It was 8 years since he had last mixed up his routine this way.

The evening was already unusual. More crimson than ever.

He retired to bed at ten-thirty, as always. It gave satisfaction to still be a part of what had been an eight year long routine. After all that took place in the evening at least he could still sleep on time. It was still on his mind though. 7 years was a long time to spend alone. To wake up to yourself and come home to yourself. To make interesting conversations with oneself. To breathe alone knowing that there was no one to be taken care of. He was glad it had been so for the past 7 years. How he wished he could touch the finish line just like this, without having to fiddle with the world. The last time he did indulge, 7 years ago, it turned out to be a loss.
The morning was routine, the work all the more. He stopped at the grocer’s on his way back and ran into him again. “Well there it is. Divine intervention!” said the man. Parimal noticed his jovial face and the cheerful manner of speaking. He had seen that all the time in every stranger who intended to talk. He wondered why this one was so disturbing that it stood out like a sore thumb in his ever so stagnant yet peaceful mental setup. He was still emotionless. “So how long has it been since you last spoke?”, said the man with an unmistakable sense of curiosity. “It’s been a while”.
He rushed home. The ease in stride was gone. He wanted to return to his place. His place. His umbrella, his chair, his lock.


Mornings are usually calm and shiny. In perfect contrast to the gloom and dark of night. This one was different in more ways than one. For once the sun seemed reluctant to perform and for once there was a visitor outside Parimal’s door.
It was the same man. The door was ajar, very unlike Parimal’s morning setup. He stepped in. The living space smelled peculiar. In fact it was more a feel than a smell. The feel of abandon. As if the entire column of air inside the room had just been pricked out of its long slumber. He could see particles of dust fluttering in the air in the traverse of light that had just begun to filter through the windowpane.
Parimal had moved out. There was not a trace of him left in the room. All definitive Parimal items were gone. The man figured Parimal had vacated. So he had. He had moved out. He had moved on. The man couldn’t hide his disappointment from himself. He did not regret the possibility of Parimal leaving because of him, but the loss of a possible conversation. An enterprising monologue had ended leaving behind an unsatiated man and a room full of stale air. Besides these, what was left was a fourfold page neatly pressed under a lock as a weight. He pulled it from under the lock, unfolded it and bent over the same table to read. It read:
“The moment you pull this letter out we begin our last piece of interaction. I know you from the numerous letters I have of yours. It is you, I know that. It has been 7 years and it is not fun anymore. I undervalued the humane side to me but I admit it is not possible anymore to be a spectator to my own self. I haven’t replied to you in 7 years but I’ve started feeling the need now. That’s my nemesis. This vague attachment needs to go. But before I pull off the thread I want you to know some things. The one leeway I have to grant myself. I’ve been a social being before. On occasions more than one. But that was some 7 years ago. The world was the same back then, only mine was different. With beliefs that of a common hopeful man I used to trudge what now seems like the forbidden path. It was an atmosphere where things happened. On their own. Feelings emanated effortlessly. Vices were lost and virtues never pricked. It was a golden balance. Me, my wife and my son were all that there was to me, my wife and my son. Since then a fair bit has changed. Wife’s now in rehab. And son too. There is a fair possibility that they make it out of the substance abuse. Actually there is not. They won’t. Anyways, all this was not something I bargained for. It was handed over on a platter. Just as all those beautiful times. Beautiful is a strong word, nauseating. But let me say that destiny has nothing to do with this. It turned out the way it did and so I turned out the way I am. I can’t blame the divinity of nature. In fact it is praiseworthy how intricately crafted certain predicaments can be. I am now detached. And fearful of any attachment. The 7 years after admitting my family have been stagnant. Each year I have closed myself to influences. I like to watch people. They look like I did sometime back. Each year I have brought myself back from wherever I had scattered in portions. Now that I have assimilated entirely your undying effort makes me long for attachment. I am running away from it. Second time in 7 years. Probably for another 7 before I have to bow once more to my humane side. My literature is just a self indulgent rambling to which you have taken a fancy. But that is my safety valve. Try not to trace me again. Consider that a disservice. Lock the door when you leave the house.”

-Comatose


The man paved his way back with the lock in his hands. It was bright and sunny outside. Is this the hand I have been dealt with? He wondered. He locked the door. There was no mention of where the key was to go. A pale brassy piece of metal that opened the lock he had just put. Nixon 7 levers.






© Copyright Rests With Creator. Aabhar Dadhich.