Amid the same old nauseating odor of a diaper having served its purpose for the zillionth time occupying the room, amid the night yet again having fidgeted in and out of slumber, oscillating between the disheveled bedcover trying to hold on to the edge of the bed and the cacophonic howls of the street dogs safeguarding their territory somewhere nearby, you hesitant to even let out a cold sigh at the sight of her frown snailing off slowly into a sleeping smile, it must have surely crossed your mind sometime - was it ALL for this? Was everything that you did was for lying awake in the bed at this night, just having rinsed your hands after cleaning up your infant's mess, praying that your wife won't wake up from the much required and deserved sleep, trying to think of a reason why corn flakes (yes the same damn cornflakes you have to put up with each single day as you would in the morning next day) were invented in the first place!
You were terrific, she was incredible. You did things; she knew whom they were for. Just a look from either of you and you both of your would melt. Words were abundant, even though you could totally have done without them. So much to say, so much to praise, so much to adore, so much to fall for. You could be a cowboy riding a colt in the moonlight beneath her castle window, strumming a Spanish guitar, singing for the bewitched her, gently swaying to your magical serenade, spellbound.
This erstwhile no-nonsense cowboy walks silently to his cabin wearing the most credulous of plastic smiles right from the parking lot to his table. Table on which he earns his bread and butter, nodding to the pot-bellied, cruel piece of joke called boss. He has adapted. Has taken to his new sobered up skin. Popularly known as 'Sir' amongst all who know that he won't default his EMIs and pay up his credit card bills 5 days before the due date and would give up after a few agitated cries when you victimize him on fine prints. The tamed citizen of the urban jungle.
Sometimes between those quintessential paper cup coffees or yawning in the black leather chair of the board room during a presentation, you do hear that serenade for a fraction of a second, echoing somewhere in the distance. And it fades even before it has hit an octave. And you wonder whether it happened to me, in this very life? And you wonder - "What Happened"? What happened to that moonlit night, to that colt, to that Spanish guitar. What exactly happened to you, to me?
When exactly was it? When did you first feel your fingers were too sore for the strings? When did you feel too lazy to ride the colt? When did she first forget to wait for you in her window? When was the first time she didn't feel like swaying in the evening breeze? When exactly did your serenade fade....and fell silent? Probably when your jockeys gave way to creased trousers and t-shits to sky blue shirts. Probably when you dumped your guitar in the garage behind your pricy swank sedan. Probably when you got on with the business of living, 'settling' into a comfortable nothingness and manufactured 'happiness' over the weekends.
You just can't remember. Even after banging your head against the wall, you don't know. You search for an explanation in those bootless evolution and change theories, searching for alternatives in work, people and other addictions. But you know that nothing that you put in that big gaping black hole will ever satiate it.
Tonight is just another night when I hear that echo of the silenced serenade, lying awake in the bed. I am not sure whether I still want to hear a melody that belies my vitreaous world. I have become accustomed to nothingness I guess. All I am waiting for is for it to fade away....forever...
