Another day

'Why are you doing this?'

'Because I want to. I love to do it. This is my passion, my life...'

'Really!'

'.............'

I think about the conversation for long. It's there on my mind on the long drive back home.

Evening home. Dad looks sullen. 'Poornachandra tejasvi is no more,'he says.'He passed away today at noon'.

Tejasvi is one of the greatest writers of modern kannada literature. He's 68. Although he'd penned down just a handful of novels and shortstories, they were powerfully concentrated and rich in content. A brilliant thinker and a rebel, he'd lived for the most part, in a remote hamlet, cultivating coffee, fishing in the streams, walking the untamed forests with a camera and his beloved dog, soaking up the richness of nature and the people who were very much a part of that nature, and then creating soulful prose out of the essence of this experience.

'Do you have any of his novels?' Dad asks. Yeah, I do have. More than that I want to tell dad that I'll be sharing a bit of the household expenses. But maybe this isn't the occasion. I'll tell him tomorrow.

My room. It's hot and humid. Fan's on. A quick shower. Sounds of the sea emanating from Moksha on Worldspace. Darkness. Soothing. I'm tired. Fall on the bed. Open your eyes after a while. It's already early morning.

Saturday. Day of rest. A strange kind of laziness. Of inertia. I watch time rush by-- in a moment it's late evening. A few errands get done. A bit of bloghopping. Watch TV. Sit and think about future plans. About fixing a few things. About cleaning the room--dusting every nook and corner.

There's a missed call. An unknown number. Although I don't get inquisitive I call up. Twice. No reply. Then a message from the same number. 'Sorry, I was trying to call up a friend.' I write back,' It's fine. I thought it was a friend'. I delete the messages. Then the same person messages back--'I was playing a game. Happy easter.' Then another message. 'Can I forward messages to you? I'm a student and I was just feeling bored.' And one more. I ring up, ready to blast. No reply. Half an hour later the phone rings. A girlish voice, or maybe a girl. 'Sorry for disturbing. Happy easter.'

Call up archana.

'How's the kid?'

'He's staring at me as I speak to you. Laughs a lot. Tries to turn and roll over......Do you miss him?'

'Yeah.'

'Just a few weeks more.'

Late night. A million stars up there. Power's gone. Darkness everywhere stretching upto the horizons. Cool breeze. As I gaze up, there's a sudden feeling of loneliness. A sort of helplessness, depression, lack of direction, of purpose. Something which I'd feel often, years ago when I'd loiter on the terrace at night. But why now? When everything seems to be settled and on track? I probe it hard. Nope.

'Why are you bored?'

'Don't know. Maybe because I have a lot of time on hand and nothing much to do. ......Tell me, don't you feel bored at all?'

'It's a luxury I can't afford. I'm on the opposite side. Lots to do. Not much time.'

'............'

'............'

'You look confused. Is everything ok?'

'Yeah. Everything's ok. Nothing to worry.'