That Afternoon

He woke up that afternoon at around 3 pm in blue boxers and a white vest. By the time he brushed his teeth, took a shower and got dressed it was already 4.30 pm. He was wide awake now and he knew he was going to hate it later that night. His yawning mouth and black sand filled eyes yearning for an audience that was beyond judgement. He was a writer, he is a writer.

He knew he wasn't going to get much sleep, he knew that going to sleep would take an hour or two. He planned the rest of his day to the tee; decided how much time he could have for leisure, he was sure he wouldn't make it back home till it was way past 1 am. He wore blue jeans and a T-Shirt that was so comfortable that, how it looked was of little relevance.

He had a movie to catch at 6.45 pm, that gave him enough time between 4.30 pm and then, to put his fingers to the keyboard and churn out something worthwhile. So he did just that. He spent that time typing and by 6.30 he was ready to leave. Getting ready was one of the fastest thing he would do. Quick like a fox, if you still romanticize that analogy! Let me not hold you from the story now! So...

A door was closed behind him, an unforgiving old lock was negotiated and a very average day ensued. He jumped into an auto with his friend in tow, with just 15 minutes to reach the movie hall. It was a close call as it always is, with youngsters who aren't all too well acquainted with punctuality. Tickets for the movie were waiting in the hands of acquaintances he had very recently made. It is amazing what chores one will do for a stranger when one is making friends. It's a lot like courtship but that's a whole different story.

And...where were we? Oh yes, I was telling you about the movie. So, they reached just in time to eat a chocolate and went into the movie hall. It is a sight to see these days; people taking out their chocolates and eating them outside, just before they enter a hall. Eating chocolates isn't allowed in public places, the chicotine from the second hand crumbs hurts other people. He looked down at his black wristwatch- the golden hands pointing at the hours that had passed and the minutes that had gone by.

The ghastly movie wasn't supposed to be great but, it was meant to be an escape that would offer pure slapstick comedy. He laughed along with those with him and made snide remarks about the actors and director. Pointing fingers at others mistakes- the few blissful pleasures he allowed himself in life.

Although it took painfully long, the interval came just in time. He went out of the hall with his friends, they all had a chocolate each. It was night. He stared at the boundary wall of the complex; it was lined with posters of the movie he had been watching. The people in the posters all had blue mustaches, they had blue clothes, blue eyes and blue ties. He observed that the movie had taken up almost every show that day- single screens, I tell you- they show what sells!

The first half was still laughably long the second half was long with spurts of cheap comedy. You've been to such movies, I'm sure. The kind you wouldn't appreciate if you weren't a writer yourself. Sometimes though, it is hard to empathize with a writer, especially if you are a writer yourself. Writers and editors aren't very patient readers. A typo here and a structural faux pas there, is all it takes to lose their attention. Let's go on with our story before I lose yours.

So, they had some popcorn to munch on and some unreasonably priced cold drinks to gulp. The movie ended in a rather different place than would've made sense. But it was by one of those directors you don't expect much out of anyway. He left the hall with his friends not taking back much from the movie- just the gorgeousness of the female lead and her unearthly beauty. He admired her; to be truthful he admired women in general. How females across species put up with their male counterparts is astonishing.

Anatomy would have you believe that men and women are meant to be together, forever. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Breaking away from that thought, he looked up at his friends. All of them, oblivious and in deep conversation- an act of socially accepted pseudo intellectual defiance. They were three or maybe four, numbers matter little in stories such as this one. Moreover you could never trust what he saw through his lenses of his black spectacles- he calls a spade a spade but he is a writer. He may someday call a spade a spoon; good luck convincing him otherwise. Here’s where things get really interesting.

Abrupt, like life. They had another chocolate or two before they decided that it was a good idea to drink some milk together. It was rather late in the night for milk, especially for him- he had a date with his keyboard. Plus the cops can smell the milk on your breath, they can't smell the chocolate shake. Not like anyone was going to drive, just that he wanted an entirely average evening that night. Nothing special, no drama or theatrics; just a quiet night out with the fools he called friends.

There was a big red wall in the middle of the street with quills hanging from the edges. On the wall were these words in the yellowest of yellows, outlined in contrast with the blackest of blacks:

“Accept this, it is not your fault if you do not. Accept it as your own and soon everything will make perfect sense. You will be blissful and your true potential you will soon find. Look for all your answers here, the questions you will find.”

The boys walked across this wall, they had seen it much too often. They had each drawn a different meaning from it, each right and each wrong. He suggested they have a chocolate shake since it would take lesser time and satiate their sweet tooth better. It would also help him write better or so he thought. The idea was shunned though and he decided that milk didn't sound too bad either. He wouldn't have too much of it anyway. So they all went and had different types of milk. It wasn’t far from where they were, it was just across the purple channel that drove through the road of new beginnings. In the blink of an elephants right eye, they were somewhere. From here, just 87 more miles and he’d be there.

Conversations ensued- there was mindless banter. He left the milk drinking place and caught an auto-rickshaw. The sight of people lying on the sidewalk choking in their own vomit- a reminder of how too much milk is a terrible idea. The auto ride wasn't relevant enough to put down here. He reached home played some car racing games on an overpriced box that attached to the television and let you tie yourself to a chair. An ellipsis ‘...’ for the times he wasn’t there.

He went out to buy some grub with his roommates. Once back he along with them ate. They had ordered some Indian food for their palettes but they were served a deep dish of deceit. He got up and stated that he felt like writing and so he did. He placed a bottle of water to his right and a bag of potato chips to his left. But so keen was he in concocting his words that not a bite he ate nor a sip he drank.

He toyed with ideas and scribbled on a screen. He smiled at his neighbor who was to some college a dean. Our protagonist even tried working with a pencil and paper. In the hope that the charm of old school methods would help. It's true for the best of us- we may create magic with a wave of our hands when inspiration strikes. To make something out of nothing on demand however is a skill one acquires with time and effort.

He did manage to pen down something, not a poem, not a fairytale, not sonnets or odes, nor did he spill a screenplay onto a sheet that night. It was 2 am in the night when he sat down to write this enchanting but awkward short story, he later decided to call it- That Afternoon.