Lockdown : The Well (Day #1)

Eleven days of national disaster declared: Day one of national lockdown . Still no running water.
It has been happening for so long nobody ever whines about it anymore . We’ve accepted this ,we treat this ‘crisis’ with casual indifference.

When you open the tap it’ll mimick a hiccup like sound …only a bit more hopeless . This sound is not of complete dryness ,no! Its mocking , like theres something clogging the supply. That sound you make when theres a bubble of vomit stuck in your throat, burning the delicate walls of your gullet.

Nobody ever opens the tap anymore. Theres a well on the outskirts of the slums, so we casually head there. Half the settlement population queued up in a cacophonous convoy of creaking wheelbarrows , with the discipline of foraging ants. We share scooping jugs, buckets; and exchange pleasantries —shoulder hugs, knuckle bumps, handshakes— why not?

The Ministers’ safety measures are not a reality here. We are already victims of a deadlier pandemic ,those ‘precautions’ doesn’t apply to us…we live just outside the invisible walls of a castle called Class, like exiled refugees .

So we raise our fists ,punching the humid air of the wet lands and chant: ‘aluta continua’ in collective condemnation of the end of struggle. And the universe complies. ©


Picture : Courtesy Of Chesterfield Sofas.

Just yesterday a very great friend asked me a question and i quote : “If there were no destinations and you could travel forever, what form of traveling would you take and to where?”
I said First Class Armchair traveling through a creative soul’s rich imagination ,exploring and sightseeing places beyond touch ,fuelled by the inspiration fanned smoulders of passion,the love for written arts and of course; the silencing of the nagging voice of scepticism . What there a better way to travel or place to travel to ??

Than through the path made of threaded words and within the minds and bodies of fictional characters that can take you as deep as the past and as far as the future , or the vivid narration that can dangle you just above the presence,with buoyant prophecy ; as if you were a superior being with the power of foreknowledge only without the ability of altering fate (and yes, the thrilling pleasures of suspense to constantly incite and intensify the anticipation ).
But then comes the most loathed and quite inevitable part of Armchair traveling for every avid reader . The Destination. Those little words often written in bold italics : “THE END” as if to forcefully yank you off the cockpit of fantasy. You dread turning the last page and wish for a sequel, however satisfying the resolution or denouement might have been . More so because you know that reality is impatiently waiting for you to digest and sober up from the stupor of the utopia . Panting like a tortured bull ready to pounce ,swollen and inflated with even more tragedies because every book you read makes you conscious of at least one more human error . The legendary Mark Twain was spot on when he said : “Books are for people who want to be somewhere else” .
My greatest respect to the fictionate sculptors for creating a place of refuge and refill .

The Poetry Monarch

Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.

The Broody Hen (A Narrative )

Conversations With The Notepad