A Day in the Life of Jeevan

A Day in the Life of Jeevan

It was an insignificant day, much like the 16ths and 17ths of a month we would let pass unnoticed. The sun did rise in the east that day and found the monsoon sky of Bangalore blanketting the millions of late-risers still snuggled up in their beds. A few beams that did manage to trickle through lit up Jeevan's bedroom. Buying curtains was an item lost somewhere deep on his long TO-DO list. On some day, when he did have the time (which he always did) and interest (which he never had) to go through the long list and check them off, he would find this item surprising and unnecessary. He would wonder what he had been thinking when he had written that. He quite liked the sun lighting up his room. It helped him wake up early, as he did on that day.

He lay wide awake on his bed and stared at the ceiling. There was no reason for him to get out of it. He pondered about something and smiled. The smile grew to a wide grin and then he left his bed to set about doing his tasks for the day.

~~~***~~~

Toilet duties for the day briskly put aside, he first made himself a mug of coffee and then entered the second bedroom of his apartment. It had no signs of being a bedroom - it was his library cum music room cum workshop. He stood in front of his large bookshelf first and wondered what he was in the mood for. He was very happy that day, happier than the past several ones. He picked Destination Moon from his Tin Tin collection. He then stood in front of his music shelf and wondered again what he was in the mood for. He could not make up his mind. He tried running his fingers over a rack of discs to focus. Every disc looked appealing and trite at the same time. Realising he had no appetite for music that day, he decided to go random.

He turned on a random channel on his radio in the living room. He then went out to his balcony and nestled himself on his chair with his coffee and book, as Bangalore's beautiful monsoon sky greeted him. He could already hear the hustle and bustle of the distant Sarjapur road traffic. Down in his apartment block's large parking space and walk-way as well, the commotion had begun. He looked down from the balcony and found the cemented floor washed clean by the overnight rain. Yet again, Mr Ramji, from 4C of the North Tower (also the unofficial custodian of the cleanliness of Jeevan's sprawling four building apartment block), was taking the security guards to task for letting in stray dogs. Yet again, the security guards turned a deaf ear to him and left wondering from where and how the stray dogs came. Mr Ramji then started warming up for his jog while the couple from - Jeevan always forgot their apartment - returned from theirs. In some time, the office-goers and school children would begin to trickle out one by one.

He got back to his coffee and lost himself in his morning read. Tin Tin's adventures reminded him of his once dear ambition in life to become a detective and go on several adventures. He even had a name then - "The Third Eye" detective agency. Several years and several dear ambitions later, at 25, he smiled at the fact that he had pursued none of them. He was lost in thought for a long time and when it was time for breakfast, he found that he had finished reading seven pages. He then had his regular dose of cereals for breakfast and began work at his workshop.

Apart from the large shelves full of his books and music discs, his 'polymorphous' library slash music room slash workshop had an enormous table in the middle, on whose side, he had fixed a vice. Other miscellany in the room included a Guy Fawkes mask, a quiver full of arrows, a witch's hat and a violin - all of them mounted on the wall. Upon the large table, lay a long bow that looked beautiful even without its planned engraving, darkening and polishing. It was the first time Jeevan had ventured to make a bow and after two broken ones, he had managed to carve out a masterpiece. He held it with his left hand and ran his right over the sand-grained surface.

"Perfect," he said to himself, admiring his work, "Legolas would be proud."

It was heavy because of his choice of wood. Knowing that he would never use it, he chose longevity over efficiency. He wondered if someone would actually use such a heavy bow efficiently in battle. The urge to string it and test it was overwhelming. He had spent a month planning, designing, ordering the tools and materials, and then actually making it. He finally gave in to the tempation and strung the bow, took an arrow from his quiver and went to his balcony. He looked around and finally fixed his aim at a trash bin near the South Tower's car park. A shot from the sixth floor balcony to a trash bin about 200 feet away was not the ideal first shot he would have liked for, but he went with it considering the lack of other targets and the safety of materials and men in other places. The beauty of the projectile, which he wanted to admire for long, would continue to elude him until he went outdoors. He gripped the arrow with his fingers, took a deep breath, drew the string, took a clear aim at the plastic bin, released it and listened to the reverberations of the string, as the arrow sped towards and over the bin, missed it by a shockingly long distance and fell flat on the top of a car - thereby denting it and then landed at its side.

"Oops," he said and doubled up for the mini-disaster management.

He quickly sneaked out of the house with his wallet, a pen and paper in case he needed to write a note to the owner of the damaged car, walked briskly to it, retrieved his arrow from its side, estimated the damage it did to the car (which, he was relieved to find, was undetectable and hence harmless) and sneaked back in to his house.

The desire to shoot an arrow satiated, he then removed the string from the bow and began engraving a few lines on it in Elven. After three hours of intricate detailing and engraving (which included his signature as well), he finally began the final task of polishing it. When it was over, it was way past his lunch time and he realised that he had over-worked. Admiring what he had managed to create, he thought it was time well-spent and a meal well-skipped. He even decided against ordering food home and had apples for lunch.

Tired from the engaging work, he rested on his living room couch and considered taking an afternoon nap. He felt the day deserved better than an afternoon nap. In fact, he felt it deserved the best! He picked his favourite movie - 'V for Vendetta'. He had lost count of the number of times he had watched it. He considered himself to be V's greatest fan and he had all of V's dialogues by heart.

Ten minutes into the movie, he muted the audio and sprang from his couch and enacted V's dramatic introduction -

"Voilà!" he said in tandem with V on the TV, "In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition!"

And he swooshed his imaginary sword to etch an imaginary V upon thin air and continued with a note of seriousness -

"The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous," and after a haughty laugh, "Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me 'V'".

Proudly, he sat back in his couch, turned the volume up again and continued with his movie. At the point where V set Evey free from her captivity, his phone rang.

It was Mary.

"Hey Mary!" he said in a suprised tone, without the customary 'Hello', "Are you back?"

"Oh yes, I am, Bertie Wooster!" said she, pulling his legs.

"Bertie Wooster? Hmmm," he hmmed, buying time to get back at her, "So, how are all the poor children in the North East, Miss Teresa?"

"Oh," she said, "The usual. I mean - like everywhere - malnourished and exploited."

"Even after you've been there for four months?"

"Yes, even after I've been there for four months."

"Good to hear that. So, now you see there's no solution to this problem?"

"Don't start on that argument!" she said, warding off their never-ending discussion on social problems, "So, How's life for you? Still very busy doing nothing? Or you found yourself a job?"

"Job? Haven't I told you - Jobs are a 20th century invention and I don't want one."

"Ah yes! That quote! McCandless, right?"

"No. It's Supertramp's."

"Hmmm," she said trying to remember something she had forgotten.

"So, Are we meeting?" asked Jeevan breaking the pause.

"Oh yes!" and she remembered, "I was coming to that. I need some money."

Jeevan smiled. Mary hadn't changed a bit - she would pull all strings available, however socially inappropriate, to wriggle out of situations and yet keep a cool head while doing so. He wondered what situation she was trying to wriggle out of.

"You just came back from a company sponsored trip to the North East and you straightaway try to borrow money from me?"

"It's not a company. It's an NGO. And isn't that when people borrow money - when they are in need?"

"No, I didn't mean that! Don't they pay you at all?"

"Oh! That they do. But you know - it's a long story. I lost forty thousand setting up a library - a mini-library actually. Had to dip into my personal savings. I thought I could tally it with the help of some rich patron someday. Now, I am in need of it and you tell me - how many other rich patrons do I know?"

He smiled at her logic and tested it further, "No way. You're taking me for granted."

"Oh C'mon, Jeev! What are rich friends for? It's just forty thousand. I'll pay you back when I get a pay hike."

"First of all, I am not rich. My father is. Second of all, do they even have pay hikes in NGOs? Anyway, I'll send you. And this is the last time."

"Last time it is."

It was always the last time, each time. But Jeevan never regretted lending money to Mary. He knew it was money well invested.

"So, Are we meeting?" he asked again, breaking the pause.

"I'll call you about that."

"Alright."

"Alright then. Have fun."

"That, I have. Thank you."

He then went over to his laptop, transferred the money and after looking at his balance, made a note on his TODO list - "Get money from home."

He resumed his movie and as it ended, it left a void in him that every good movie or book did. He made himself some tea and finally, as the day came to a close and as dusk approached, he felt the void grow bigger. He felt he needed a break from the monotony - he felt the need to see people. He decided to go to Forum.

Forty-five minutes later, he managed to drive his car into a vacant parking space at Forum. He roamed aimlessly for sometime and then went to his usual first floor spot and observed his fellow humans. An hour later, he had dinner there and drove back home.

~~~***~~~

Today, If I remember correctly, marks one year since "The Great Quarrel" (Or should I use "The Great Enlightenment"?). So this makes it "My Year of Living Dangerously". ;-) That holds literally too. Anwar anna has even now not given up calling me up and asking me if I am safe. Life has been more than safe. It has been bliss. I do miss them, but I am now happy that I'm living far from them than living a hollow and meaningless life. I am happy that I don't live a life entirely determined by the need to put up faces in front of others. I'm glad those days are over and this is life at its best.

I guess I have not yet conquered the will to have people around. I do feel lonely at times, so lonely I wish I hadn't left home. This makes me doubt if Thoreau ever felt lonely at Walden Pond. I doubt if Supertramp ever felt lonely. Would V have felt lonely had he been real? Or at least boredom? That brings up the question - What's the difference then - between loneliness and boredom?

Why can I not spend all my time watching/reading/listening? Why do I crave for human contact? What's the difference between spending an hour with a book and spending an hour with a person? Customised perspective? Possibility of love? Touch? The answer still eludes me.

May be, it is easy to throw away a book that you don't like. But not a person. On the contrary, it's hard to get a human you like. Ah! Humans are intrusive and make life complicated. Books are simple and leave you free.

---
I was at Forum today. I see a lot of permanent-tatooed people. It's interesting. Another mode of expression of solidarity to something? (I should get one too.) :-)

---
I finished making the bow today. So, the bow and arrows are ready. The quiver needs some final touches. The ears are ready too. The tailor called. He said he will deliver the cloak tomorrow. The goldsmith said the fiery etchings are done as well. I guess I am all set for Operation Middle Earth.

---
Mary is back and in need of money again. I guess she has got into a habit of borrowing money from me, which is quite worrisome. But yes, Mary is back. :-)

---
I'm glad I'm writing this even after a year - Tomorrow will be yet another day when I wake in my bed and nothing will be expected of me.

Jeevan then put his diary back in its place, picked his copy of The Golden Treasury

and went to bed. ~~~THE END~~~