Woolgathering

The exterior lights of the apartment building temporarily abandoned
their illumination as the morning light entered. The smartphone kept
on a bedside table came to life with the sound of piano playing and
birds chirping. Its screen displayed 5:30 am along with a ‘stop’ and
‘snooze’ virtual buttons.

Mr Guha removed the eye mask and proceeded to swipe the snooze on the
phone. The phone would come alive with the alarm again right after 20
minutes as set by Mr Guha.

‘A mind deprived of a sufficient portion of rest is certainly a
disadvantage’, Mr Guha spoke to himself one day in the past, ‘but…
given the limited amount of time for growth and earning we have in
life, one can say, some sacrifice of sleep can become beneficial. The
trick is to convince the mind that it is rested; all we need to do is
give it a bit of satisfaction of having rested for example in my case,
a snooze for another 20 minutes. The mind must remember it got those
extra minutes of rest.’

Mr Guha often talked to himself and since no one knew about it, no one
pointed it out. In a way, in his mind, he understood himself the best.

‘Why spend some of the limited time of your life trying to explain
your thoughts to someone other than yourself, knowing well enough that
he or she will never move beyond scratching the surface, no matter how
close he or she is. Now, a person with similar experiences might be an
exception, but even that exception has its limitations. Only you
You can completely understand the person who is behind your flesh
and bones.’ Mr Guha advised himself another day in the past when he
was driving to work.

The alarm rang once more and the ‘stop’ option was selected this time.
Mr Guha woke up in his navy blue checked pyjamas and matching
nightshirt. It was time to get ready for work. What did Mr Guha do? He
was an advertising sales representative for a reputed newspaper. He
also worked as a freelance proofreader.

Most people thought that Mr Guha’s entire profession was an act. A
person who maintained his distance from all forms of naturally
possible conversations were successful in a profession which required
all forms of convincing.

‘My profession pays well and I also do what I love to do side by side
which also pays well. Professional and personal lives are two
different things with different scenarios. One might be a good
professional football player, doesn’t mean he or she has to be good at
doing tricks with football to entertain people.’ Mr Guha told
himself on the day he realised what people thought about him.

Mr Guha was ready for work in his beige coloured shirt neatly tucked
in his polyester blend black flat front formal trouser with the help
of a black and brown pin buckle belt. He sat down on the dining table
with a newspaper in his hand. The maid had prepared and arranged the
breakfast on the table.

Mr Guha poured milk in the glass on the corn flakes in the bowl. Then
he gave the newspaper a glance before returning to his cornflakes.

“You know who might come today?” spoke to a fourteen-year-old boy who sat
on the other side of the table.

Mr Guha looked at his son Akshay looking back at him expecting a
response to the question he had asked. He noticed Akshay in his
informal house dress.

“You are not in your school uniform and you look well. So, what’s the
occasion that has demanded this holiday,” Mr Guha asked Akshay.

“It is raining outside and it has been raining the entire night. The
The school declared a holiday, and my classmate Samarth informed me. You
must have received a message from school as well,” replied Akshay.

Mr Guha looked out the window and it was raining, lightly at the
present. He wondered how he had not noticed it. He took out the phone
from his pocket and went through the message sent from school, then he
looked at Akshay, “You better not waste time sitting and idling
around. Revise your chapters.”

Akshay nodded in silence.

“.. and you were saying someone might come today?” Mr Guha asked to
what Akshay had previously said.

Akshay raised his face to meet his father’s gaze, “Yes, a social media
personality. He is very popular around here. He is a freerunner who
performs tricks on top of various tall structures. He might come here
to perform on top of the apartment building”

Mr Guha delayed his response to eat a spoonful of cornflakes, “You
better not be inspired by such acts. We risk our lives every day
whether we realise it or not, there is no requirement to make it more
evident. If you still want to, then it better be for a purpose worth
the risk.”

‘Parenting is a task which involves as much hard work and dedication
as any other work in the world. Akshay’s mother never understood me
and I still don’t understand her decision of leaving Akshay with me
when she left. Did she actually think I was the better parent or was
Is the matter of money and resources required to raise a child? I
guess she took the answer with her if nothing else from my life. We
are not divorced but are definitely separated.’ Mr Guha had told to
himself 3.2 years ago when his wife left him and Akshay.

Mr Guha left his flat and waited for the elevator. He had called the
reception beforehand so that the valet could bring his car in front of
the building entrance.

The doors of the elevators opened and inside stood another man around
Mr Guha’s age. The man smiled at Mr Guha who gave an almost negligible
reaction. ‘If we waste our smiles at just anyone, our smiles might
lose their value one day.’ Mr Guha thought as he peered at the
stranger who was busy on his phone.

The elevator came to a halt and Mr Guha stepped out. The receptionist
greeted him and Mr Guha smiled back. ‘Now, that smile serves a useful
purpose of convenience.’

Mr Guha’s black sedan stood in front of the entrance of the building
and the valet stood beside it waiting. The rain was reduced to what
seemed like sprinkles of water.

Mr Guha stepped out of the building and as he neared his car, he
looked up at the sky, his vision was caught upon something and the
darkness spread and a second after it cleared, Mr Guha fell down.
Something had crashed in the car or was it someone. Mr Guha opened
eyes to look at the broken pieces of glass from the windows of his
car. There was blood splattered.

‘It’s the social media guy, I know for sure. How could they allow
someone like that to do his thing here? All the unnecessary ruckus
that will follow just because someone decided it would be a good idea
to let a kid do his trick on the top of the building.’ Mr Guha
thought.

Mr Guha stood up and without looking behind at his car he turned to go
back inside the building. The receptionist looked at him surprised.

“Call an ambulance and call my flat, number 147, tell my son to
come down” Mr Guha told the receptionist.

Mr Guha observed that the receptionist’s face displayed a state of confusion.

“I know the incident might be too much to process at the moment, but
you must continue your work. Please call my son.”

“..Sir, you don’t have a son. If your daughter has come to visit you
and is at home, I will call her,” the receptionist replied.

‘A daughter? Yes.. my daughter..’ Mr Guha recalled how his wife had
left him 3.2 years back, in the left hand she carried a bag and in the
right hand she held his daughter’s hand.

Mr Guha sat down on the reception sofa and stared out at the car which
was still standing with a valet who was still waiting.