THE ROYAL BLUE CARPET
I happened to meet him on a gloomy street yesterday evening. He was walking 10 steps ahead of me. It was dark, darkening with every step we were taking ahead. It was very quiet, even though thousands of vehicles were passing every second. I don’t remember the moment I started following him. I don’t remember what the hell happened that I started walking beside him and even accompanied him to his apartment. We were walking together but he didn’t take notice of it. I thought he was up to something. He walked at a constant steady calculated pace. I could hardly see his face in dark. Everything seemed animated and programmed. He opened the door and we were inside his apartment. As we entered, there was a big, dark drawing room welcoming us. The floors and the walls were heavily carpeted and the roof was made up of dotted asbestos sheet. They were all painted in royal blue. The house was absolutely sound proof. We could hear each other breathe. There was total silence. It appeared if I had entered a different planet. There were very few things filling up the drawing room. A small, circular table of steel and glass in the centre of room, one large, heavily cushioned sofa stuck to the wall and a small primitive television set of 60’s stuck to the opposite wall. Everything appeared clean and empty. And the clock on the wall had stopped ticking. There was a small bulb illuminating the entire room. I could barely see the other end. There was a small, dark passage leading to some other room, may be the living room. He lived alone. His name was Paul Anderson. He was born in 2057, graduated in 2076. It was all written in a framed graduation photograph on the wall, in black and white. Soon after, he undressed himself, removed his socks and shoes, switched on the television set, prepared a cup of coffee and settled himself on the sofa. This was probably the first time I could see his naked face clearly, as he sat facing the dimly lit bulb on the opposite wall.
He was different. Something strange. He had scanty blonde hair on his large, round head merely covering the scalp. There were no eyebrows above his small, mongoloid eyes. He didn’t blink. His eyes were blue and still. They were absolutely blank. He had a little remnant of nose, small lips with no features and almost no ears. There were holes on either side of his face with a small skin tag covering the opening. He had a prominent, scarless face. It was white, scary white. For a moment, I felt as if his face would rotate and laugh at me. There was absolutely no trace of hair on his naked body. He had thin large hands with lean, long fingers. He had slender physique and a flat belly. He had a rudimentary, minute stalk like penis with pea-sized testicles covered by small, flaccid scrotal sacs almost like a hermaphrodite. He had thin legs with no fat in thighs and calf muscles. He had thin long feet with no anatomical arches, almost like flippers, making them rest absolutely flat on the carpeted floor.
He moved very little, as if every muscle is programmed previously to move a calculated distance. There was an air of divine silence around him, frightening, deafening, astonishing. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and remote control in other. He showed very little movement as he brought the cup of coffee near his lips. I could hear him take a sip of coffee and bring it down his throat. He changed channels with another. He was gawking at the television set. To my surprise, when I looked there was actually nothing running on TV. There were only blank colored vertical lines on every channel he flipped with a caption in black and bold, “INCONVENIENCE IS REGRETTED”. It almost scared me to death. I touched him to make sure he was alive. There was no response. I poked him with a knife. He just blinked twice. He was definitely alive. But as good as a dead. I called him with his name. He didn’t respond at all. I even managed to shout. But he was still as always. I brought my ears close to his chest to listen him breathe. He was breathing very slightly. His chest moving few millimeters with every puff of inspired air. It was like a naked piece of flesh lying on the dead couch with few last breaths in his account. He was completely impassive to any kind of visual, auditory or tactile stimulus. I even shut down his TV to evoke some kind of response from that piece of dead flesh. He blinked again and kept on flipping channels. I wanted to go inside and search but I was scared to death. Just the idea sent shivers down my skin. After a while he finished his coffee and carefully kept the cup on table so as not to make a noise. After a while I saw him peeing sitting there on the sofa. He urinated beads of a red jelly like transparent substance of exactly the same length and width. They traveled beautifully down the stream, from his rudimentary phallus, falling like gems on the couch and finally embracing the royal blue carpet. The substance disappeared from the scene completely after few seconds. I thought it was there to stay but it was like a magic.
He sat there completely frozen for about an hour. I stood there in the corner, watching his slightest activity, motionless. Thereafter he finally stood up, walked towards the corner and settled down on the carpet with his chest facing the roof. For sometime he kept staring at the roof. Then suddenly he shut down his eyes and went to sleep. He was absolutely quiet. There was not even a slightest movement of his chest. I decided to disappear from the scene. I looked around to make sure there was nobody. As I tossed my eyes across the room, I stopped at the graduation photograph of Paul Anderson. He was dressed in all black with a piece of folded paper in his hands along with 20 other similar guys. As I looked carefully, all of them looked absolutely similar to one another. All of them had blank, blue eyes on a big animated, white face with small lips and no ears. They were like copies of one another with different names mentioned at the bottom of the photograph. It was hard to believe. 20 odd guys with similar face but different names.
How the fuck is it possible? Am I in a different time frame? Or am I in a different zone all together? Or am I doped? There is definitely wrong somewhere. But how can it be figured out? With these questions I managed to slip from his apartment. I ran as fast as I could, holding myself not to look back. Finally I reached my place, opened the door and looked in the mirror to make sure everything was in place. For a moment I saw the face of that mysterious man in my mirror. I shut down my eyes and looked again. It was me there, staring myself as if it was the first time. I picked up that day’s newspaper and found it was year 2010. I shut down the system and went to sleep. I didn’t know if I was going to be so alien and cold but one thing was sure I had decided to revisit him the following day.
I happened to meet him on a gloomy street yesterday evening. He was walking 10 steps ahead of me. It was dark, darkening with every step we were taking ahead. It was very quiet, even though thousands of vehicles were passing every second. I don’t remember the moment I started following him. I don’t remember what the hell happened that I started walking beside him and even accompanied him to his apartment. We were walking together but he didn’t take notice of it. I thought he was up to something. He walked at a constant steady calculated pace. I could hardly see his face in dark. Everything seemed animated and programmed. He opened the door and we were inside his apartment. As we entered, there was a big, dark drawing room welcoming us. The floors and the walls were heavily carpeted and the roof was made up of dotted asbestos sheet. They were all painted in royal blue. The house was absolutely sound proof. We could hear each other breathe. There was total silence. It appeared if I had entered a different planet. There were very few things filling up the drawing room. A small, circular table of steel and glass in the centre of room, one large, heavily cushioned sofa stuck to the wall and a small primitive television set of 60’s stuck to the opposite wall. Everything appeared clean and empty. And the clock on the wall had stopped ticking. There was a small bulb illuminating the entire room. I could barely see the other end. There was a small, dark passage leading to some other room, may be the living room. He lived alone. His name was Paul Anderson. He was born in 2057, graduated in 2076. It was all written in a framed graduation photograph on the wall, in black and white. Soon after, he undressed himself, removed his socks and shoes, switched on the television set, prepared a cup of coffee and settled himself on the sofa. This was probably the first time I could see his naked face clearly, as he sat facing the dimly lit bulb on the opposite wall.
He was different. Something strange. He had scanty blonde hair on his large, round head merely covering the scalp. There were no eyebrows above his small, mongoloid eyes. He didn’t blink. His eyes were blue and still. They were absolutely blank. He had a little remnant of nose, small lips with no features and almost no ears. There were holes on either side of his face with a small skin tag covering the opening. He had a prominent, scarless face. It was white, scary white. For a moment, I felt as if his face would rotate and laugh at me. There was absolutely no trace of hair on his naked body. He had thin large hands with lean, long fingers. He had slender physique and a flat belly. He had a rudimentary, minute stalk like penis with pea-sized testicles covered by small, flaccid scrotal sacs almost like a hermaphrodite. He had thin legs with no fat in thighs and calf muscles. He had thin long feet with no anatomical arches, almost like flippers, making them rest absolutely flat on the carpeted floor.
He moved very little, as if every muscle is programmed previously to move a calculated distance. There was an air of divine silence around him, frightening, deafening, astonishing. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and remote control in other. He showed very little movement as he brought the cup of coffee near his lips. I could hear him take a sip of coffee and bring it down his throat. He changed channels with another. He was gawking at the television set. To my surprise, when I looked there was actually nothing running on TV. There were only blank colored vertical lines on every channel he flipped with a caption in black and bold, “INCONVENIENCE IS REGRETTED”. It almost scared me to death. I touched him to make sure he was alive. There was no response. I poked him with a knife. He just blinked twice. He was definitely alive. But as good as a dead. I called him with his name. He didn’t respond at all. I even managed to shout. But he was still as always. I brought my ears close to his chest to listen him breathe. He was breathing very slightly. His chest moving few millimeters with every puff of inspired air. It was like a naked piece of flesh lying on the dead couch with few last breaths in his account. He was completely impassive to any kind of visual, auditory or tactile stimulus. I even shut down his TV to evoke some kind of response from that piece of dead flesh. He blinked again and kept on flipping channels. I wanted to go inside and search but I was scared to death. Just the idea sent shivers down my skin. After a while he finished his coffee and carefully kept the cup on table so as not to make a noise. After a while I saw him peeing sitting there on the sofa. He urinated beads of a red jelly like transparent substance of exactly the same length and width. They traveled beautifully down the stream, from his rudimentary phallus, falling like gems on the couch and finally embracing the royal blue carpet. The substance disappeared from the scene completely after few seconds. I thought it was there to stay but it was like a magic.
He sat there completely frozen for about an hour. I stood there in the corner, watching his slightest activity, motionless. Thereafter he finally stood up, walked towards the corner and settled down on the carpet with his chest facing the roof. For sometime he kept staring at the roof. Then suddenly he shut down his eyes and went to sleep. He was absolutely quiet. There was not even a slightest movement of his chest. I decided to disappear from the scene. I looked around to make sure there was nobody. As I tossed my eyes across the room, I stopped at the graduation photograph of Paul Anderson. He was dressed in all black with a piece of folded paper in his hands along with 20 other similar guys. As I looked carefully, all of them looked absolutely similar to one another. All of them had blank, blue eyes on a big animated, white face with small lips and no ears. They were like copies of one another with different names mentioned at the bottom of the photograph. It was hard to believe. 20 odd guys with similar face but different names.
How the fuck is it possible? Am I in a different time frame? Or am I in a different zone all together? Or am I doped? There is definitely wrong somewhere. But how can it be figured out? With these questions I managed to slip from his apartment. I ran as fast as I could, holding myself not to look back. Finally I reached my place, opened the door and looked in the mirror to make sure everything was in place. For a moment I saw the face of that mysterious man in my mirror. I shut down my eyes and looked again. It was me there, staring myself as if it was the first time. I picked up that day’s newspaper and found it was year 2010. I shut down the system and went to sleep. I didn’t know if I was going to be so alien and cold but one thing was sure I had decided to revisit him the following day.
6 comments:
Dear Bhaiya
This is the write up I originally wrote for the series 'Rape me before I die'. Somehow found to be appropriate to be posted here.
Dear Mohit
Somehow, the feel of this piece of writing is something like that of psychedelic. I am saying so because of the difference between the kinds of dreams we have. Normally, we are participating in our dreams but there are possible certain kind of dreams where you are only observing. I think that there is a distinction between darshan and imagination (of course, concrete imaginations of this kind). Secondly, this kind of writing is not actually representative but it is performative. Performative in the sense that it is drawing something on paper instead of writing on the paper. Writing is only the facade, the intent is more of picturization. It is somewhat a kind of screenplay. A simple comment on this would not be of real value. Such a write-up hits your memory and hits it hard.
I'd pushed me to read thrice to get appropriate idea of fiction hidden behind this piece of
writing. In such a sense, firstly, i would contemplate that this genuine fictional touch can't
be written by ending up with uncredential context. Such a holistic concept needs a brutal
stiffness of brain nerves to get harsh exercise. May be it'd be your in-sane illusion, but
temperament to cope up with such intellect emotions, is something immeasurable. I think by
ignoring such juxtapositioning of notionality, it'll be a justifying act of prudence... Secondly... What i feel is that the
Paul is the shadowistic character here. And the person, who accompanied him to his home,
might be moved with illusionistic freaks of such unusual charm of the scenes occured in
front of him. Same what is present by Brad anderson in The Machinist...where Trevor
Ruznick, due to Anaemiac syndrome, come to face impediments of such disease.And
indulged several fractions of illusions.....
By the way keep writing in this passion.....
I'd pushed me to read thrice to get appropriate idea of fiction hidden behind this piece of
writing. In such a sense, firstly, i would contemplate that this genuine fictional touch can't
be written by ending up with uncredential context. Such a holistic concept needs a brutal
stiffness of brain nerves to get harsh exercise. May be it'd be your in-sane illusion, but
temperament to cope up with such intellect emotions, is something immeasurable. I think by
ignoring such juxtapositioning of notionality, it'll be a justifying act of prudence... Secondly... What i feel is that the
Paul is the shadowistic character here. And the person, who accompanied him to his home,
might be moved with illusionistic freaks of such unusual charm of the scenes occured in
front of him. Same what is presented by Brad Anderson in The Machinist...where Trevor
Ruznick, due to Anaemiac syndrome, come to face impediments of such disease. And
indulged several fractions of illusions.....
By the way keep writing with this passion.....
Byee...
Dear Bhaiya
Thanx bhaiya for appreciating the write up and taking it to a different level by calling it a screenplay. The intent was not to write one but to portray a world we are going to build in coming years. The world which would not only be hollow but also dead at its core. I watched la dolce vita two days ago for the first time. There are thousands of images and stories which have been portrayed in the movie so brutally and marvelously that calling it only a movie would be suspecting its intentions. It's an epic in itself drafted by the visionary Federico Fellini. The movie has hit me real hard. I used to visualize such kind of visuals in my mind. But watching it on the screen has been a kind of 'Darshan' for me. I feel as if somebody hit me real hard on the head and tried to show me the real 'me'. The reality is really ugly and brutal. And it's too difficult to be hopeful.
I'd pushed me to read thrice to get appropriate idea of fiction hidden behind this piece of
writing. In such a sense, firstly, i would contemplate that this genuine fictional touch can't
be written by ending up with uncredential context. Such a holistic concept needs a brutal
stiffness of brain nerves to get harsh exercise. May be it'd be your in-sane illusion, but
temperament to cope up with such intellect emotions, is something immeasurable. I think by
ignoring such juxtapositioning of notionality, it'll be a justifying act of prudence... Secondly... What i feel is that the
Paul is the shadowistic character here. And the person, who accompanied him to his home,
might be moved with illusionistic freaks of such unusual charm of the scenes occured in
front of him. Same what is presented by Brad Anderson in The Machinist...where Trevor
Ruznick, due to Anaemiac syndrome, come to face impediments of such disease. And
indulged several fractions of illusions..... By the way keep writing with this passion.....
Byee...
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