Boredom

I am writing this, because I want to write something. As I promised to myself when I wrote Iccha Mrityua that I'll not write anymore stories on love-emotional relationships, so I'm keeping that promise. Anyhow this is not much of a read."

Start-

He was watching cartoons. Nothing wrong with that. These days he watched only news and cartoons. Perfectly all right. Can't call him insane, after all like all other morons he was more interested in what is happening around than what he is going through.

According to Mohit's standard, he was already past the age, when one is called young. But, then and now, he used to forget about it. Watching cartoons was a result of one of such follies. It was around two in the morning, a repeat telecast of 'Tom &Jerry' was going on. He fumed - "What the hell! How can they run short of ideas?" His hands pressed a number and the world changed. But even the news channel disappointed him, he moaned in frustration, "Please, not again." The only control he had over the television and his life was to - Switch it off.

Mohit was living alone. A two-room flat was at his disposal. But, he was in no mood to shatter the piece around him by inviting anyone. "This is my cave and no-one is invited," he declared to himself. Then he tried different positions, sitting on the ground, on the table, lying on the bed, standing near the door and so on.

He always had problems with the loo-door, he always felt that someone would peep in, or someone would push it by mistake, may be the chain will open all by itself. There was no good reason for this fear. Wait a minute, perhaps once his parents' beat him in the loo may be that gave birth to this unfound fear. After shifting here, he used to keep the loo door open, as if inviting - Come on see me, I'm shitting. One day he shouted as well - " I'm shitting and having a smoke, come on, see it."

The clothes were lying all around; he didn't care to arrange them. "Why should I? This is my house, and it will be the way, I like it," he debated with himself. But he was peculiar about the books. He arranged them according to his taste, promising to himself that at least he would read a few pages everyday. But soon like his other attempts, dust gathered over it. Now one can draw a figure over it, using the index finger.


November, announces the onset of winter blatantly. The chill in the morning air returns to haunt at night. Physically he was aware of this, which irate him all the more - "Why the hell, everything has to change?" he argued with himself. The day somehow was lost in the melancholic office but the nights, they were worse. "Nothing to do is the problem," he thought. Then he devised ways -
1. To switch of the lights, throw the keys and then try to find them.
2. Count 30 minutes (he tried counting more but was bored)
3. Brush teeth for 20 mins
4. If you want to watch a particular channel, you've to flip through the rest of them and decide upon two channels more


This was working fine, until one day, without any reason, the cable was disconnected. Like all days, he reached home before midnight, switched on the television and waited to hear animated voices but all there was a blue screen. His fingers frantically pressed all the buttons. The voice of a famous politician from some house confirmed, that only he was denied of this right to entertainment. Like always, the cell phone displayed - NO NETWORK COVERAGE.

The string of bad luck had just started, the tube-light refused to glow, so did the bulb. All of a sudden he was staring at the blue screen. He moved to the next room. Nervously he pressed the switch, this time fate was on his side. The room sparkled to existence.

"Thank God," he sighed. Mohit was afraid of darkness too. He never used to sleep in dark. Perhaps some odd relation with his childhood. He reminded himself the umpteenth time that he had to see a doctor for the pain has increased. He needs to call an electrician and most important ask the cable guy to correct whatever has gone wrong.

Old habits do die-hard; this was the third night when he didn't feel sleepy. But somehow he always found himself curled in that sofa near the bed or the pain in his back, make him realise that he slept on the chair. Sleep was hovering miles away from his eyes. "To sleep is to waste time and I don't have time to waste," but like everything else this was another one of those things on which he never had a control.

Yesterday, Mohit decided to restart an old game. Except himself he will kill anything alive that he see. Since then he has never felt alone. Nor he feels bored. But now there is an another problem, he wants to give all that he has killed a proper funeral but in that two-room flat, where he lives alone, where cartoons will rule for some more time, where he will keep the loo-door open, his black-hole somehow lacks a burial space. "How Unsuccessful!!!"