Winters are here. I absolutely detest them. They make you feel gloomy. In my country they also remind you of your social responsibility. Come January end and there will be news flashes about how many people died due to the mercury dip. Writing this on my laptop, secured inside the four-walls of my home doesn't bring me any closer to the harsh reality. And unsuccessful that I'm, makes me aware that practically there is not much I can do about it. So what to do? Can't cut on my nicotine sticks and buy blankets for the needy. Also, can't be a revolutionary and walk to a polo ground with playcards and shout slogans against the who's who of society and remind them of their social responsibility.
Contemplating these romantic ideas my feet start feeling cold, I snuggle inside the quilt and start dreaming....can't dream of any real things....it would be just like thinking of going to the polo ground...so I start dreaming as if I'm a noble. A noble in the Mughal Era. The noble who don't have much money to spend but thinks highly of his intellect. A noble whose only source of income is what his father left for him. A noble who is single, lonely in the majestic city of ....
START
Today was no different than any other day except that I went to Mirza's house. He was also bored and felt like dying. The moment I entered, he welcomed with a couplet:
"In distress you seek my company; little realising company is source of agony,"
Mirza believes he is a great poet. And his verses have a sharp sting.More less than often, I completely miss the sting. But Mirza keeps you in good humour and that's why whenever I don't want to be with myself, I just walk down to his house. Mirza was not in the best of his moods today. His muse, the famous courtesan of Chandni Chowk has caught cold and he is afraid that if he goes there, he will also catch it.
But lust is like a spasm, which hits you in the right places. Anyhow, we both decided to take a walk in the Meena bazaar. Such walks which I half-heartedly undertake are mostly limited to appreciating and aspiring for things – both beauty and its holders.
Mirza is a little bit more proactive than me. He makes a point to meet all the known faces, hoping against hope that perhaps his luck may smile on him and his visits to Chandni Chowk come to an end. Most of the time, I try to ascertain why a particular girl is walking with a guy, how is their relationship, why are they attracted to each other and also about the family background of the people. It's a funactivity.
Mirza and I were lucky enough to be invited for tomorrow's big poets meet. These kinds of activities have seen a surge since the King is in Agra. I heard he is busy building a mausoleum for his beloved queen, who died during childbirth. I am unsure why not here, can any city be more beautiful than this city. I have not been to many places, but of whatever these two eyes have seen nothing can be compared to the beauty of this heaven.
Mirza is hopeful that tomorrow he will get to recite his verses and this is his only chance. Perhaps that made us to cut our small outing short and return to his place. Mirza has a good stock of wine, and he is more aware of my state of penury than anyone else. So I'm liberal with eating and of course drinking to my heart's content at his abode. As wine touched my lips, he came with another of his one-liners:
"I don't drink because I miss her; I drink so that I get reminded of her"
Well, I guess Mirza's muse can be cured of her cold after having some good wine but Mirza, his condition only deteriorates after having a few glasses. Before Mirza can come-up with another of his famous verse. I decided to call it an evening, in fact I was feeling heady and a good walk back home was the only thing on my mind.
It was dark and foggy. I couldn't see even my own hand. But somehow I was walking, choosing lanes by instinct and moving among the barking dogs, who sounded like demons. It was the fourth lane, where I stumbled. A feeble cry and I realised it was some old lady who must have been hurt. I profusely apologised and asked if I could be of anyhelp. Her quivering voice resonated in that dense fog as she clutched my overcoat and said:
"It's not the fog outside which blinds you; it's your soul which needs warmth"
