This story is published at The Sulonian’15 at Smt Sulochanadevi Singhania School, Thane, India
Its 6:30 pm, the sun has set and the violet twilight flashed over the extensive sky. It marked a glorious moment for Mr Kishan from Kandivali to shut the heavy laptop and head home from the run-of-the-mill drudge and boredom that his awfully rich and powerful boss consistently imposed in exchange for an average pay at the end of the month. His only pleasure in the slog-zone is in reading that same old second hand self help book he purchased from the bazaars of the city five years ago and occasionally admiring his beautiful ex-girlfriend and flirting with her in his imaginations. Although he does get to enter her large cabin everyday and tune in to her unimaginable & reckless but rightful yelling as the manager of a plush branch and the bejewelled wife of the firm’s founder-director. THUD. She strenuously banged the door as he walked out – alone. He is now empty of any ambition of his own although heavy with unwanted, personal and indispensable expectations. With the normal burden on his shoulders Kishan boarded the train. The hustle of the metropolis drives past his grafted indifferent vision. One could easily spot his crimson red shirt, grey pants, blue tie, black bag and a languid grimace but everyone simply walked away (as usual) as they could see nothing panting and alive. He moved on past the noisy railway line relishing just the aroma of the famous, spicy & irresistible ‘Bittu’s Samosa’ which he didn’t buy. Not because temptations never stroke him nor was he restricted by wife, doctor, bank or the huckster but something carried him far away from the eatery. His worn out and ordinary boots are soggy with the urbane mug, still he hurried forward. Within a span of just few minutes he will be reaching home. He’s excited as if a dozen people are desperately waiting for him to celebrate his advent. His heart was earnestly beating so that he could finally breathe a sigh of relief once he steps past the threshold of the house made of bricks, cement, walls, colours, spartex and diligent toil. He has now crossed the road, climbed the flight of stairs with an empty but curious stomach and finally he rings ‘ting tong’. His working wife opens the door with an apparently pale expression as if she was expecting someone like Mr Amitabh Bachhan but unfortunately it’s Kishan. She served him stale rice with a weak plain yellow dal. The better half was too tired to cook a sabji. Accepting whatever served with a dire hungry belly and a large heart he patiently sits beside his minor son who’s big enough to own a business. He proudly runs the Bittu’s Samosa, “Kandivali station’s most wanted destination” (That’s what the son would call it). His Dad although didn’t actually wished to spend his hard earned money on his education and tantrums to watch him grow up into some junk food seller. The most wanted had now become the most unwanted. The father-son duo is close enough that they can hug each other but they didn’t even exchange a word. Their egos, beliefs and vanity have already set their souls far apart. Kishan had spared his fatherly affection only for his elder son who is a Harvard alumnus, a successful New York based software engineer and a dedicated despiser of his clerk father, utterly unmordernized mother and the lesser cultured brother. Hence, he never introduced his American wife and stylish children to those so-called simpleton Indians. But Kishan still would want to love him even when he can’t. The night has come. Sky is now black. Moon is the only light. Kishan will now go to sleep while listening to his walkman- the only ‘man’ that speaks to him. And then will dream of his wife serving him a tasty paneer tikka masala with stuffed aloo parathas, about taking his American grandchildren for boating and of seeing his proud samosawaala gentleman turn into a famous corporate entrepreneur who is quite richer than his pretty bejewelled boss’ husband.
This was just another mundane day of Mr Kishan’s life. Wait but who is this Kishan? Well, till now you must be very sure of the fact that he is no one special. He is just another common man with common thoughts who have led a common life. There are no statues erected to regard him and his little known name will be soon forgotten. Not many people care if he’s at home or at office, eaten a stale chapatti or fresh pizza, if he is married or widowed, living or dead. He is just one rough particle of the crushed marl which will be ruthlessly dusted off by our own people of same race, culture, blood, nationality and society.
This is what I want you to know very well is that no one wants to know about Mr Kishan from Kandivali.
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