The Magic of Floyd

They say familiarity with an inconvenient situation dilutes the inconvenience to the point of near-tolerance.
“And ‘they’ all suck!”
I could hear my thoughts gushing through the frustration-eaten patience-gates. Yes. I had said it loud. The hot female’s sporadic glances visibly ended with one last ugly stare. ‘Their’ equation always worked in the reverse for me. The previous train-waits played themselves as ghostly apparitions in chronological order-each more horrendous than its predecessor. A fine globule of irked perspiration slithered down my cheek, tickled my chin and began bracing up for the big dive downhill.
It was a bad day.
Not saying “happy journey” to my girlfriend and breaking up with her( you could say she deserved it, but it still kinda sucks), missing the first train, getting my pocket picked-all seemed happy and gregarious experiences in the face of the present ordeal. From a distance, the train trumpeted gleefully and my respectable regards were lost in the din. I got in the wrong coach, and underwent psychic dissection at the hands of many a ‘polite’ people. Wading through the legions of bloodthirsty ‘3-tier-aristrocrats’, the epic expedition ended. The hot female had the same section of the compartment and the same ugly stare.
‘Screw you bitch. Screw you all...’, my mind groped for something justifiably sinister, ‘…masquerading despotic dunderheads.’
It was a bad day- and I was doing the least I should have done. My tired hand thumped on my pocket. It felt something. And out came, my balcony-mate’s Ipod. Without remorse or ecstasy, I thrust the earphones into my ears, and got it started…………………………………………………..
It was surreal, as if I had entered my own dream-matrix. The music was strange. Was it melodious? Definitely. Could have I said, what was coming, in the next second of the track? No. But… yes, it was unpredictably melodious. And I floated through an ethereal medium, while my head felt like a feather.
I opened my eyes. A kid was wrestling his dad, on the opposite berth. ‘… Daddy what’d you leave behind for me?’ I laughed deliriously.
‘Come on boy, have a cigar…’ It was a summon. And I obliged( yeah I think Goldflake is ‘cigar’ enough for me) The hot female was babbling something while thick piles of smoke were curling around her everywhere.
Boy! I was on a roll! I was in ‘interstellar overdrive’ mode! And then the ‘Mother’ of all magic alighted.
A delicate dose of intoxication journeyed thorough my veins, and the subsequent high was unbelievable. The frivolities had been laid to rest… Finally I was ‘comfortably numb’!!!

Hope Love and Despair

Hope-that unfathomable ocean of bliss that our heart chokes itself into, that evanescence, the dream of which, buoys the destitute in many an abyss, which whispers faith into the mind of a dying to cheat fate, and also that which had kept Rashid walking. Who was he? And when would he stop?
Those were questions that did not matter. Not even to him. His throat felt like a dead bird's gizzard flaming in perpetual heat. His parsed lips were a starker incarnation of lifelessness than the starker ones in the grave. His soul-robbed, life-quenched body betrayed glimpses of energy.
Energy, each quart of which he ardently pumped to his precarious steps. A snake of footprints, that would be last tinctures of this frailty trailed from him to somewhere inconceivably far. The Thar had taken more than a toll. It did not smack its hideous dry lips just because another prey would yield up his exorcised life. But it did so with all the more devilry because when the spiked sun-cursed chains would finally perforate his fading soul his hope would also be butchered. And the hungry desert would want this. Because this hope was obstinacy personified. In the wake of the dark hand of fate knocking at his door Rashid was hell-bent on one thing- he would not keep the bag down. What was in it? But this mattered to him. More than anything else. He was tottering to a side now and then on the brink of bumping into a rock the next moment- but he wouldn't keep the bag down. The few cacti that had shot up as mocking witnesses to this slow and sure hunt seemed to taunt Rashid. Rashid cursed them summoned Allah which seemed to stir up some of the staling ruddy drops and he walked on. Bone scorching heat and blood freezing cold had taken their full turns to snub him. But he wouldn't give up. What prize did he believe he would discover if he reached his elusive destination. Was it a treasure? For reasons untold he believed it was nothing less than that. But the scales infinitesimally in Rashid's favour could be tipped any instant. But he saw something. What was that? It made him rejuvenate his burning throat with false vigour, and give out a cry of pleasure which could also have been a cry of despair. As he reached a spot, one distinctly lower than the surroundings, he placed the bag on the sands with a thud. 'O great flower! Are you hurt?', he murmured to his stricken self and unpacked it. In the midst of this scar-on-earth place, a girl rolled over. Her skin and flesh had partly degenerated, and she was rotting. But one could say she must have been heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Some moments later, Rashid's last scrapes of energy were sipped into creating a small, depression there. The figure was laid with the utmost care as if it were some fragile element of artwork that must never be scathed. Rashid's face lit up. But this time it was true hope...
As I had defined hope- it is again, that feeling which makes a corpse of a lovely girl breathe into her lover's ears, 'Let my body be buried where the Kaaba of our village was once located', even if it was assumed impossible by fate...