Skip to main content

Kafka, the monsters and the nameless.

Your ticket has been confirmed. Seat no. 13W. Have a safe and a happy journey.

A part of the confirmation mail screamed at me. Why do they even attempt at writing the same "safe and happy journey" message to everyone. What is so happy about a journey, I thought.

My bus was meant to depart at 5 a.m from the terminal. I woke up much earlier than that. When you have ghosts of past haunting your dreams, the morning becomes the end of your darkness. The mind fears those monsters with such trepidations that the cobwebs of the nightmares have to be broken by the dawn of new rays, new hopes and new aspirations.

From the corner of my mind I can see those monsters seeking the darkness that I have been trying to thwart. "Thou shall not find light", they seem to say even in the midst of the morning light. Going to a new place would help me find my light, I thought and so did the doctor, with a bag full of anti darkness pills, concur.

It didn't take me time to pack my bag. A book and some clothes to hide my ugly darkness is all that I needed. And so I reached the bus terminal ahead of the time, ahead of the snoozing humanity slumbered deep in its warm embrace of angels. "We killed your angel, my friend" whispered the monsters behind my ears. I ignored them.

The bus started its drowsy whirls half an hour late than its departure time. I wanted a window seat but even the ticket booking company, it seemed, joined hands with those monsters to part me away from the sunrays coming through the window.

"Block the rays, seek us and you shall be delivered", they sang in chorus. The only song that I hear, nowadays, from the nadir of my miseries tucked deep within the creek ruled by those monsters.

I placed my bag on the window seat and positioned myself on the seat beside it. The bus was a 2x2 and so I couldn't land myself a single seat. Not that I blame the company for everything. The conspiracy is not done by them, the outsiders, but by the creatures of darkness within me.

I dozed off to a sleep.

It was the same arid place with not an ounce of sunlight. A broken moon tried to throw her light, just when I saw them. The creatures of darkness. Laughing at my face. Distorted and diabolic faces adorned with maniacal, cannibalistic and hoarse laughter. A soft hand touched my shoulder and the laughter started ceasing , the faces started fading and the sunlight started seeking me as I woke up from my dream.

A beautiful lady was standing on the pathway between the bus seats. I looked at her and apologized. I took the bag out and made way for her to get to the window seat beside mine.

Did I see a sword eased behind her head? I looked at her. She was looking outside of the window, so oblivious to my presence. I was insignificant in front of her, it felt.

No, that was not a sword but a chopstick used to tie her hair. She was wearing a light green kimono or I don't know what it is called . With a round pair of spectacles holding its place on her eyes, she seemed nonchalant to the nonsense of the world around her.

Just then, she looked at me. Why is it intuitive to people to look back at the person ogling at them. I got a bit strait laced in that transitory moment. She smiled at me. Is that Kafka on the shore? She asked. I was holding the book, meaning to obliterate myself in its world. I smiled back.

I love Kafka, she talked back in response to my smile. A smile makes a person approachable, I remembered reading it somewhere. I tried plastering a smile to my mouth for everyone, in hopes that it gets cemented on my face captivating those monsters inside them.

I told her that the book is not written by the Kafka, although I love his works. She kept looking at me with her same nonchalant eyes making me more insignificant with every passing second.

"You know, you remind me of my brother" she said, "he also loves reading books." I smiled back with my inelastic plasticity of smile.

I wanted to talk to her. There aren't many people who would talk to me in such a cordial mannerism. People don't even talk to me to begin with. I am okay, most of the time. Better to be with the books than with insincere folks.

"You don't talk much, do you?" She remarked while opening her tiffin box made of shining steel and continued " want some cashews?"

I nodded yes and then no, as if I was some dumb weirdo. But against my inhibitions, said, at last, that I am thankful to her kind gesture to which she smiled back again, eating my diminutive existence from the world. There was something about her that made me weirdly comfortable, the way those anti darkness pills make me.

The bus stopped for a repose in front of a restaurant. Would you mind having a cup of tea? I asked her, after all her company indeed felt better than those solitary white tiny cruel pills.

Oh, I hate tea but let's go! She became a bit more cheerful.

"So what is your story" she asked me after we took a table at the restaurant. "Story?" I asked.

"I have no stories, as such but.."


" Nothing", how would I have described the hidden vampirical monsters. I said nothing.

"You know, I am a fighter" she said, but this time gazing at me with sincerity of an angel. "There is nothing you can defeat, if you set your mind to it. Even your monsters hiding behind you in the daylight" And she gave me an angelic smile.

How did she come to know about it. I literally looked behind me, to which she laughed a little.

"Try this" as she withdrew her chopstick, her sword, from her tucked hair and gave it to me.

I took the sword, looking innocently at her. What would I do with it. Furthermore, her long beautiful hair distracted me. Those long hairs reminded me of Repunzel. But I kept keeping my silence.

Kill them. She said. Kill them with all of your might. You have your light. You don't need to seek the light. Light is you. You are light.

And so I took the sword and looked at them. Where is thou, you wretched, I shouted.

 Hither you. Let me have your blood. Let me have your cynical laughter now. And so did I kill them. Each and everyone. Within my self. Within my silence.

I looked at her. And at her sword. And the dead bodies of the fallen demons.

Keep it with you, she said.

Excuse me to the washroom, she continued.
As she went away, her radiance oozed out of her as she went away.

Her cell phone was left abashedly on the table. A visiting card underneath it. I took the card to have a read.

It said- North eastern regional cancer institute.

I looked at her and her bleeding tear drops forming a radiantly red pathway, trailing her.

I decided to give the sword to her. She needs it more than I.

What is her name? I asked myself.

The light in me whispered - Nameless


  1. I must confess dis dat aftr reading dis i m feeling a bit relaxed dat i too can try to kill those monsters. Thanks bro fr dis. God bless u always.

    1. Not always that you visit this place, but when you do, it pleases me.

      We all have those monsters and defeated they must have to be.

      May the light bless me :)

  2. Fighters win, others become religious or at least reflective writers. I like the narrative. Flows gently like a gurgling brook.

    1. Fighters win even when they lose. To keep fighting is to keep being alive.

      The writer in me owes much to you and to the books that accompanies me all the time. :)

  3. I haven't read Kafka, barring perhaps a few stories.
    However, loved your narrative.
    Coming to "Wishing you a safe journey', it seems they know that the journey will be uncomfortable .
    That is why they wish :)


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The invitation letter

If you look closely at him, you will see a labyrinth of lines. Curved lines. Faded lines. Intersecting lines. Lines which formed through ages of anguish. Valleys formed through the concealed dry tears of loneliness. Marched, the invisible soldiers of agonies marched through those valleys. Left . Right. Left and shoot! Killing the unarmed beggars of happiness on the road.

His clothed hands, clothed with loose folded, blemished and wrinkled brown skin, held an invitation letter.

What you see would be a painting- a dilapidated wooden house, shades of yellow and red enveloping the background, a recliner in the centre and the old man sitting on it holding the letter. The hands with clothed and wrinkled memories were the only thing which remained unsteady in that painting.

He would not know what was written in that letter. The boundaries were becoming addled to him. The black ink and white spaces knew no boundaries, his memories and dreams knew no demarcations. His memories were dreams …

Light knows Independence

"Baba" called Asmaan to his father, "When are they giving me the books. I miss my studies already"
His father had a small shop of second hand books. Books don't die, he believed. They don't have a shelf life. People die. They die of poverty - hunger, malnutrition, illiteracy, unemployment, politics and flood. But books don't.
But he was proved wrong when flood stormed, like an unwarranted storm, a storm which gulped down everything like an ugly demon never satisfied of preying. His tiny heart seemed to miss those blotted ink marks of yellowing pages. The roaring water not only drowned his abode but also his heart which kindled a dream to soar high, higher than the cupid's arrow for he had heard his devotion to books attest - "the sky is the limit".
Ironically, the only thing he could look upto through the shabby refuge camp was a gloomy sky which held no promises. But he held on to the promises which comes like the same deluge inundating…

A dead clock

Where did my voice fall? Cobwebs on the wall With a dead clock and  lizards crawl Staring at me, making me so small So small!
The dawns and the dusks The days and nights in this dust Looking for my voice, used to trust Looked at my mind, oh a rust!

Waiting for you here
Amidst my layers, within my fear
Steps away from my door, you there?
You there?

Where did my voice go?
A dead clock or is it slow?
Oh! I feel so low
Feel so low

A letter with no words

What can I give you more But a letter with no words a blank sheet of memories!
I thought of infusing the page with some notes some notes of music that my heart cries But what can I give you more but a silence of my sound!
I thought of enclosing some moonlight on it some shy reflection of my dreams that I once dreamt with you But what can I give you now but a darkness of miseries
I thought of giving you a fresh page with newly gathered hopes that I endeavoured to have without you But what can I give you now but a crumbled folio with creases of agonies
What can I give you more But a letter with no words a wasted sheet of memories!

Enough is not enough

# Enough is not enough
I was a seventeen years old when I met you you were shy  I was bold Gold! were those times when I didn't have to rhyme to put meaning to my poem
I look back to the time when you were what you were no pretension out of deception although, now, you are not the same  as aforementioned.
You used to say you would never leave me no matter what You know what, I was a fool to set you up as my soul cause now when you say you have had enough my soul cries with your every insolence add your silent monstrous, capricious violence
my silence I am not afraid of silence I am just afraid of the silence of my silence Are you still listening to what I say and mean be patient, I have lots to say and catch on! I wont be silent hold on.  let me grab the pen and paper Okay now! Time to scribble you down.
You live in an alternate reality the gravity, your nicety those bubbles I am gonna burst now Can you say now That you truly loved me when I was your only option no solution, just a notion No guys to fall …

What is self confidence?

What is self confidence?

It is not about the desperation to get something anyhow by any means of any hook or crook.

It is about knowing fully at the onset that you will fail. You will fail miserably with each and every step but yet it's about having a belief that you will be able to make it.

It's not about being intelligent or genius or clever or extrovert .

It is about how far you are willing to push yourself towards the edge of the insanity.

It is not about finding an easy way out

It is about experiencing the path that you took in the journey and making the best out of it.

You might never make it large but you can die trying.  You can have a satisfaction of being courageous at the adverse situations in life.

Life is composed of time. A man made concept of suggesting that the entropy of the universe is increasing incessantly.

No one can stop the entropy, no one can stop the chaos and no one can stop the random events thrown at you.

If it throws you a stone, it will be your …

Ma rulzzz !!!

I have a firm belief that communication is an engagement of both the listener and the speaker in a clear, concised and convenient form, where the roles of the speaker and listener should be interchanged in accordance to the context of the conversation and it needs to occur naturally without anyone imposing the other to remain in his/her previous role.
Communication uses tools which forms the basis of language. A language, just like evolution of species, has been evolved through a myriad of civilizations right from the beginning of early man.
Communication undoubtedly has been the only sole means for the survival of homo sapiens on a planet which doesn't treat anyone with niceties. Nature is cruel to everyone and to not communicate with others leads to the natural regression towards extinction.
We have seen communication in the form of cave paintings which shows the human tendency to record events for the present community of human beings and also for the posterity.
But as the civ…



Brevity, that is so hard to find my feelings and my emotions my love and my affections Oh I go so blind for your love in my mind
Brevity, that is so hard to find my feelings and my endearment my love and my sentiment Oh I go so inclined for your love on my line
Brevity, that is so hard to find my feelings and my passion my love and my devotion oh I go so behind for your love is so maligned
And I resign And I go behind I am so blind your love's maligned And I go behind And I resign

The disease of oblomovka and the boulder of Sisyphus

What does he run after? What does he want from his life? What is his true calling in his life?

Almost hundred pages are spent showing him lying on his bed. Those pages depict how he never steps out of his bed to enter into the rat race of the mundane life. He has a plot of land somewhere in the country side and when an ominous letter reaches his bed, he starts planning to take matters in his hand. He resolves to put an end to the financial crisis he might suffer if he continues to stay on his bed. But can it not wait till he rests his neck on the pillow for sometime. And thus he dozes off to sleep and the letter gets dusted with his intermittent cycle of sleep and resting of his neck.

Oblomov, the protagonist of the novel Oblomov, represents the epitome of slothfulness of mankind. We all at some point in our lives have suffered from the disease of slothfulness, a trait of human beings which disinclines one to exert his energy over trivial matters.

Everything to Oblomov is trivial. The th…