A Sober Too Drunk

June 26, 2017

He; He is a sinner.

On an unremembered, unfortunate, unrealistic date, he landed a demon. After undergoing several life forms, he, at last, succeeded in transforming the history of his inferior self to a superior one. A human of charming physiques, a roasted mind. It was from the afternoon 2 of that sunshine, the endless hours of his evils begun.

A disguised dark storm summoning through his mother’s womb. A member they would welcome in delight, to subtly suffer their whole life. He, as a child, liquefied tiny black magic on his parents blood, and manipulated them to perform every ounce of duty, his. They were puppets. Dummies, who in the name of child, without a second thought, would attempt to bypass a crowded street, with their eyes shut. Bound to the spell of his unconditional love, they faithfully followed the trails of his words. Not even for once, missed the tracks of his countless demands and wish. But he; was born a demon. Numb and Void. As Superior. As human-like. Parents granted happiness, one after another. He approved happiness, one after another, with not the tiniest urge to offering anything back.

He was taught, Earth goes round. That happiness and sadness are the circular wheels of life to lap upside and revolve by. He, he was human. He was selfish. He demanded happiness. Happiness particularly. It was the 9thof June. As he turned eight, Ma had him 10 rupees to buy the candy. He saw a child, parallel his age, sun-burned, pale smile, yellow teeth, lean as a pole, ribs wailing out his chest, could be labelled nude if not for the often torn and sewed short that was trying extreme to cover his skin, as wide as it could. This miserable creature was a beggar, begging for kindness. He could have, in real, lent him that kindness. Relevant Pause. Irrelevant thoughts. A human-alike decision. He could have. He didn’t. He was, as said, a human. Rhyming the demon. Unkind. Selfish by nature.

But selfishness itself, is a better square to be sometimes.

Beyond parents, teachers were always the prior ones to polish his talents, to bind that trust and faith upon him, to striving his persona towards anything noble, finer and good. Even as their voices dried sore of continuous shouts, they disguised themselves healthy over all periods, lessoned their students one after another. Unselfish. Polite. His intentions, on the other hand, barged loud and clear. He masked teachers as his raw opponents. Giggled their names, blended them with filthy obscene words. On the concluding Friday of his school life, his absolute favorite teacher to mock, ‘Guruba’ walked beside him and said, “I know I was born to the burden of a big fat ‘Brahman’ nose. I am also vividly aware that you gag constantly upon it. But you do good in your life, child. Be a decent young man and it won’t matter anymore, if this lengthy nose of mine touches the ceiling above.” Then he was braced a warm pleasant hug from Guruba.

No sooner as Guruba turned about, he shrugged and scoffed, murmured, “Whatsoever!” then left. Guruba should have known better; that selfishness is a better square to be sometimes.

And at other moments, it’s better to stand by the words of your parents.

The cloud craves his oneness with rain. When the rain streams down to earth, the cloud becomes lonely lover again. He pleads for the sun to shine, and sources of water to quickly vaporize for he cannot withstand the aloofness, he bears in the absence of rain. Always, the rain fakes the promise to stay forever, but the instance lightening scratches its back, it pours cats and dogs down below. Despite of the numerous betrayal, the cloud, at all times, keeps on praying the sun to shine and sources of water to quickly vaporize. The duration of his stay with rain isn’t a matter of concern as long as he gets to spend a single moment with her. He believes one day she shall feel the pureness in his love and that day, not the scariest, mightiest of lightening shall be able to drift her away from his beloved zone.

After High School:

Baba and Ma never asked any courtesy of him. On each of his birthdays, they always remembered to present him with gifts of his will. Their birthdays, on the dim side, often passed unnoticed. If scarcely noticed, wouldn’t be celebrated so as to spare money to spend on their child’s purpose. One after another, they slayed their wants to constantly real his dreams.

Finally when the day dawned for the son to redeem their favors, his casted himself away. He denied. To be a doctor, an engineer, to recruit himself into any superstitious fields reckoned to have higher social status. He said he had things planned in his mind, and it requires time and paramount of patience. Baba begged him to differ, to hail his word back, and not jeopardize the only dream he has been sleeping to, every night once his son was born. The son wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t pity the wrinkles beside his Baba’s eyes, which aged longing the sight of his child on white aprons, drawing maps or circling the chair of highest degree inside a building.

They were all human. Both Baba and Ma, together their son, were traitors and betrayers. Baba and Ma traded the son’s will to theirs, and betrayed own soul. The son traded their wills to his, and betrayed their soul. Nevertheless, synonym to cloud, Baba believed one day his child shall understand. One day he shall do great. And that day, he shall be the happiest human alive on Earth.

At Bachelors: Happiness had turned into a rare phenomenon. Depression was a serial killer, haunting at doors, seeking out several victims. Friends were the only saviors.

Everybody longs for a friend. Hither or thither, young or old. Why wouldn’t anybody? Friends are the pills to eradicate the vastness, loneliness, and coldness of this world, embrace that little tine-tiny joyous ride that coupons hidden in it. He did too. In the absence of friends, all the whereabouts around him was a misplace. He felt mistaken to be there, perhaps anywhere. This world merely resembled anything better, than a big massive symphony of junk and garbage. His living was a sinking boat. The scripts and plots of life sensed either too good, or bad to him. He seem to never fit right.

Then a bunch of similar misplaced individuals stumbled in. Cigarettes were lit. Cans of bears broken out. The fuzziness of life, slowly cleared away. Regrets and laments blown apart in the puff of weeds. Laughs. Loud, pleasant, and rare natural laughs. A voice in his soul screaming it out loud, “Fuck everything, I am going to survive. I am going to live,” and he lived for that moment. He fitted right in.

He would rumble, “The problem is, the world acts too drunk when I am sober and acts too sober when I am drunk. Or high. When our motions and emotions don’t pedal parallel, one suffers. As in the context of our world, it has forever been the week, sober one. Thus I bear no options than to be drunk or dazed, because the human system is brutal and harsh when it rests on this drunk edge, and I on the sober one. It punches with expectations, and stabs with reality. Says, once, twice, always, I am a loser. But I am not. I am a winner. I was born a winner. And when drunk, I am the supreme one. I am the winner. My boat never sinks. This is why I am not sober, not because alcohol, nicotine, or weed lures me into it; but because life grants me no choice.” Then he would rain tears, and his friends would console. They would drink some more. Cheers to his name. Drive him in the backseat of that little tine-tiny joyous ride that coupons hidden in life. This is why friends matter immense, because they are drunk when you are, and sober when you are not. They live beside you, as you.

At 27, years later, loneliness hugged him as his sole friend. The others in his bunch, exported to America, Dubai, and several working states of this world. He was alone, once more. And began healing the loophole of his friendship, with love. He found a girl, who actually caressed him back. Every night, he would imagine this girl by his side. Every breeze to drift by, was the cuddling of her fingers. Every girl, masked with her facials. He promised if he was ever to marry a girl, it would be her and nobody else.

On a Sunday, a year later, they bypassed a road as strangers without a ‘Hello’, or mere gestures of friendship. Neither did he have her name in his speed dial, nor did she. The bond was real. The love; true. But shortly, he realized these attributes weren’t enough to lead a prosperous family. Although we don’t often fancy to trust this, but the truth is, money actually pulls the strings of life. It matters, and it matters huge. Whilst his friends secured great jobs, pocketed salaries by the end of the month, and got married; he was in his room, trying to work out that same thing he had planned which according to the world, and a slight partition of him, had in real been a waste of time. He couldn’t drag the girl’s life, into the blankness he had created.

Thus one day he called her and said he had had enough falsifying love with her. That she was now boring and didn’t excite him anymore. He cried the whole day, the entire night. He punched walls. He slapped his cheeks and messed his hair.
At 30, his life had been the joker card the god played poker through. The sky heaved heavy in his arms. The rivers streamed too noisy. The air choked his throat. The eyes of strangers stared shame, pity, grim, all sorts of disgrace upon him. Once every regular day, the door to his room latched taut. Walls were punched. Chair was kicked. Notebooks were tossed into the air. The arrangements in bed flunked upside down. Then he yelled, screamed, drew himself to one corner, and screeched his back till floor. He cried out loud. Lamented; he should have known better.

The something in his mind had consumed a decade, exceeded all the boundaries of patience. He should have rather obeyed his father’s presumptions. If only he had, maybe life wouldn’t act this severe against him. Maybe he would have married the rose of his life, and they woquld have beautiful buds flourishing on their garden. Maybe he wouldn’t sense himself a loser. Maybe then, he would have actually lived a life before death arrived. Because presently, a part of him died every day.

Then after five minutes or so, he would stir up and continue his efforts on that same something. He had, by this time, sacrificed his parents dream and his darling heart, there wasn’t anything precious on his possession to lose anymore.

At 32, the sun eventually graces a smile one dawn. The sky weights light, rivers run melodious and air, sacred. That something, at the end, evolves into an actual tangible thing. His song hits a hundred million views on YouTube. His novel becomes the best-selling novel in New York Times. His painting gets sold in Venice for 5 million dollars. He is selected for a lead role in a massive ‘Kollywood’ movie.

At 35, he justifies his promise and marries his girl. At 37, he establishes an orphanage entitled to his father’s name. At 40, He flies his parents to a world-wide tour, alongside the absolute love of his life, and his one year’s old daughter. With time and paramount patience, he really does great. Baba, as of now, is the happiest human alive in this whole wide universe.

And he; his sins have been forgiven.

He is now a true human.

A beloved son, a loving husband, and a proud Pa.

About Author:

Name :- Sailesh Bikram Kshetri (LSM)
Instagram :- @sailesh_bikram_kshetri 

Personal Blog:-
www.lsmfictions.wordpress.com 


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