I sat on the chair with strict comfort and threw a glance at the world that shimmered with gloom at the other side of the lustrous window pane. The trees were bald as the leaves gave way to sheer complacency. The vivid green seemed to dissipate and, oh boy, life wasn’t this distressing ever before. The birds chirped in the language of the languid and the befallen. They were quite the opposite the previous day. Cacophonous, raucous, exuberant, boisterous; the subject of the adjectives to describe these teeny tiny beings stood incorrigible and confirmed. And the vehicles that irritated the tarmac every now and then were unconscious in broad daylight, as if caught in a dead stupor. The roaring of the engines, the bombardment of the exhausts, the clunky and the cranky pedals of the inferior two-legged beasts the kids rode, all of them in a dead halt. The tepid drops of rain stirred me in the most inappropriate way. Dejected, nostalgic, lonely,…

Lay at the very sharp edge of the table was a radio. A dismantled and a harassed one as if a great deal of demand was made on it. The speakers were flung open and the wires peeked through the crevices of the air. The buttons were separated at the behest of my knowledge. This 15 lbs mammoth gazed at me for a quick fix. You see, the antenna begged me to amplify its existence. Not only was the antenna at fault, but the capacitors, the resistors, the pesky diodes, the tuning coil (on whose orders the entire body sings) were faltering in their own ways. All the sine waves that cater the alternating current were lost and desolate. Much as me. And my mind, my body, my conscience…

I was once a journalist. Keeper of secrets, revealer of facts. Key to immodest outlooks and judgments. The light bringer. A solid stance on the filth of society. I had coveted the glorious awards and prizes once but all I received was rancor criticism and debacle. I was the face once and now all I am is a soul. Just a feeble soul lost in the realm of nothingness. I used to slide on the vernaculars, the soft words-dipped papers and behind the camera lens came a great sense of acceptance and satisfaction.

“And here I sit with desecrated radio sets tuning them all day long. Well, a sense of belongingness, I guess.” Words spurted out so loud even the walls of my neighbors could spell out the monologue I just delivered.

I never wanted a peaceful life. An adventure is what I had always strived for. Across the vast seas of the Mediterranean or the deserts of Africa, ask me about the never ending list I had conjured way back…

My sincere concentration on the mammoth was broken when my morning newspaper brushed its tender pages on the hard and unapologetic skin of the main door that eventually created an interstice between me and my new found devotion. To mend radio sets with utmost assiduity and care. And the welcome fees were humble enough to mend this lonely man in return. Even though I didn’t want my lazy legs to maintain a perpendicular stance to the floorboards, I had to force them to be in motion in order to fetch an entity that has perfectly presented a ballad of news and reportings.

“Normal people, in general, read newspapers. I drink newspapers. All of them. Elixir of life.” I smiled the moment I punctuated the sentence with a period.

I put down my eyeglasses making sure they don’t stumble and fall down and give themselves to the vicious mouths of the earth. I have had enough. I admit that I can be irresponsible at times. As I stood up and walked towards the room’s end, I looked back at the sharp edge of the table, at the radio and smiled.

“A sense of belongingness!”

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