A random story

HE ran with great effort and after seconds heard a splutter; looking up he saw a rocket’s bright gold sparks vanishing into the dull cobalt sky of the evening. It was a week before Diwali, the biggest and most important Hindu festival, and also the marking of financial new year for many. “The clutch wire’s broken” the barber at a nearby shop had said previously and that was where he’d left his motorcycle, made a call for money, for he was broke as a beggar on the street; the friend Romola, she’d said she’d meet at the gate at the back of the college, the way to which went through a rocky road on the sides of which were workshops and homes, it was all very dirty and pathetic, felt sick to be there, the air was full of some lethal-smelling chemical but apparently innocuous, but he ran it and was struck by the fact that his lungs were overworked making just a quarter mile—at the gate finally, an iron-sheet painted blue, the kind you get at such place, the bore-kind, right? Well, that’s what he thought, at least, and then it wasn’t proper craftsmanship either, but little did that matter, there just had to be a gate for the sake of there being a gate so that they could do whatever they wanted inside it, and let no mortal find out the real face of…Well, sometimes the man went too… deep into things, for the sake of a phrase. Anyway, he reached there and talked with Romola, whose hair, he couldn’t resist seeing even through the perforated sheet and the gaps of the structure between them, were long and flowing in the dark breeze. “Easy. Easy. Why rush?” “What? You just told me to be quick on the phone, right?” he continued, gasping, “I need to start eating properly, if I want to run—run this stretch and tired as dead! What shall happen of me.” She handed the money and he “Thank you. Return soon. Bye.” And then walked back to his bike; “Is it open?” asked the bearded barber, his tummy an unshapely round that protruded and looked not fanciful, to say the least, but he was helping and that’s what’s likable about people, is it not? The sky was turning somber, a depressing dark, the dark which engulfs you, in all your vulnerability and hopelessness, fears and sadness, so, I think you got what kind of dark I say of, and I will save the suspense for later. Next what happened was, Peter replied “No, I will see” while taking off the bike off it’s stand, to which the other said, “Just check first why not? The next building.” There were onlookers, like there always are, in this case, sitting on a bench outside the little room of barbery—(I know that’s not a word)—his shop, where inside someone sat with white on their cheeks, getting a shave, maybe trying to sober up, but people could do really much better than shave to sober up, he thought while he put it on the stand again and said “Yea I’ll do that first.” And went on to the garage several steps away—“Hey, what happened?” “Clutch wire—it’s gone, broken, I think, I found this fallen from the clutch” he showed a cylindrical piece of metal to the man, in a shirt and pants, all filthy for the oil and dust and his hard work, but respectable, and composed, “Why are you so tensed? Relax, have some water, sit down, it will be done, get the bike.” “Sure, getting it.” And so he rolled the bike there—the gears couldn’t change and he’d have to, what, force it? Whatever, the point is, he changed it to neutral and rolled it down to the garage. “Come, just bring it here, what happened?” “This—clutch not working, wire broken.” “Done. You sit.” Peter drank water in a the glass, a not so hygienic one, but the dust takes care of you, in spite of all what medical science and now bioinformatics (and related engineers) might have to say—well, roaches can and do get you ill, but dust, no. It protects you, it is your origin, and your end; at least they say so. From the barrel, a plastic barrel it was that he took the water, and those barrels reminded him of the earthen ewers he’d drunk from, in the past, so beautiful is the past, and so wretched the present and so treacherous the future, for it’s derived out of wretchedness, and to get bliss out of sheer wretchedness is effort, and in the right direction, maybe, too. He sat when the other, a worker at the place, started working the motorcycle, “Why were you so tensed?” “I came running here, that’s why the sweat.” “Why?” “Just so.” “You shouldn’t bother so.” Yes he shouldn’t he thought to himself and smiled, the other after that went doing his work and he picked up the newspaper. For a time, he sat there and then was up, watching the clutch-business the other man fussed with, he just replaced the wire and the thing was good as new, well, at least in a manner of speaking. Now I wouldn’t go on elaborating that like “Ship of Theseus” did, that was good to sleep, when the movie went on. Anyway, presently, on the side there was a blacksmith, beating a shape out of an iron-angle. And the metal clanked non-stop while he’s there. Clank. Clank. Clank. This time thought, he stood watching the clanking and beside him stood a younger man sharpening some piece of metal and since as it appeared he was doing it the wrong he was hurt, and the clanker, who was also the head there, began complaining and tried to teach him verbally the right way to do the thing, when this man who owned this garage, went there to demonstrate him the right, but, as they all do, he was trying to do himself the thing correctly, and not handing him the job. By and by the garage owner returned and told him his bike was ready, when he paid and rushed off again into the sea of those reckless wanderers of the night. And the garage and blacksmiths stayed there, continued their things, whatever they were, but they worked hard, and as a team, and so does everybody. But then, where’s the problem? No problem, nothing nowhere. And it was Diwali week later and Christmas a month after, and so everyone has to be happy, right? Even Scrooge had to be! This is a happy world.

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