Fiction
His life was an incessant
motion, upward and downward, without any real destination. He was a liftman in the forty-five storey
Narayana Apartment.
“Narayana!” Each day of his began with an invocation to
his God. “Give me the patience to endure
this purposeless motion.”
“If I move up to the 43rd
floor by this lift and return to the ground floor from where I started, what is
my displacement, assuming that each floor is 4 metres in height?” The young boy asked the girl the other
day. They were students who lived on the
43rd floor.
It was that day that he
learnt the tragic truth about his life.
He lived a life with zero displacement.
In spite of being in motion for over eight hours a day seven days a week,
zero displacement! Motion without
displacement, that was his life.
“Narayana!” He invoked his God again. Habitually.
It was a painful
realisation. That he would live an
entire life of motion without achieving any displacement. His pain was aggravated by what the boy and
the girl discussed another day.
“Does the progress of the
civilisation depend on great people?”
The boy asked the girl. It seemed
to him that they were discussing some book titled Lighthouse written by some Virgin Woolf. “What difference has Shakespeare made to the
world? Would the world have been any
different had Bait-ho-one never existed?
The world exists for the average human being.”
“Some people have changed
the world,” protested the girl.
“Instance?” Demanded the boy.
“The Buddha. Jesus.”
“Oh,” said the boy trying
to conceal his contempt. “The world got some more gods. Or new religions.
What difference!”
“Narayana!” A gasp struggled to escape his throat but it
died prematurely. One of the skills of his profession is to pretend not to hear
anything, not even see anybody, in the lift.
People come and go. Up and
down. His job was only to press the
right buttons in the motion without displacement.
Somebody died on the 43rd
floor. The lift could not contain the
coffin in its horizontal position. So
they placed it vertically against a wall of the lift. The dead person stood inside his cage and
peeped through the glass square of the coffin.
The dead man’s eyes were slightly open.
Two narrow slits. Dark slits like
deep holes. Was there a grin struggling
to wriggle out through those slits?
Was he a great man before
his death? Or an ordinary man to whom
the world belonged?
When the lift reached the
ground floor and the coffin was carried out, the boy and the girl entered.
“What is the death rate in
our apartment?” asked the boy apparently mischievously.
“One per person, I guess.” The girl said. Was she serious? He couldn’t say.
“No,” said the boy
apparently seriously. “It’s an indefinite
number. Almost like infinity in maths.”
Soon the lift started its
downward motion from the 43rd floor.
Motion without displacement.
Infinite motions.
Note: Shakespeare and the contributions of people like him to
human civilisation belong to Virginia Woolf’s novel, To the Lighthouse. Beethoven
is my addition but not the average man.
For copies click here or here |
What a narration!.....I could see myself standing there and could feel the anxiety of the lift-man....his restlessness, his hopelessness, his repetitive motion in the same place.....almost Godot-like absurdity, I guess.
ReplyDeleteI'm thrilled you got that, Sunaina. Thank you.
DeleteI can't resist appreciating Sunaina's quick sense of metaphor. Because I see a lift woman everyday at work who may not accompany us but leading a similar kind of life without displacement. That actually blinded my sense of Godot like absurdity which I choose to remember most of the time in my life.
ReplyDeleteAnother ingenious creation, sir.
Thanks, Wings.
DeleteDark humour is gaining ground in my writing. Something has changed drastically within me. Can't help it, I guess.
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