"... ever since, the mind has lost traction and often slips into a space where empty comes to weep. Some call it brain rot. It happens when we drown ourselves in the digital stream, choked by chunks of short, fast-paced content designed to overwhelm and lull the senses. To a dull indifference. Becoming mindless, droid-like, an escape from what is real, ruthless, honest, and harsh. But it’s not just the brain that is rotten, nor is this the only cause. There is something else, running deep, polluting, and poisoning everything that makes us us. It’s there and here, within and without, crawling all over the place, fogging everything that dares to look deeper, beyond the veil of this commonsensical stupidity, or hubris, or whatever... "
A sudden, raucous cackle from the quad pinched him back to his senses. He snapped with a gasp as if stabbed from behind. Down he saw a pack of teenagers, likely in their first year, laughing out loud, desperate to let the world know of their existence, as if expecting a gaze of curiosity, or contempt at worst, from any random eye, just so they could feel seen.
“Hollow!” he said to himself. “They think they have it all. They think all this will last. Fools. Young fools. Look at me! Look around you! Your circles will break, bonds will rupture, brotherhoods and sisterhoods will vanish into thin air, puff! And the best part is, you would be utterly clueless when all that happens. You will stand helpless, oblivious, when everything you hold dear, all your petty secrets, stories and moments that you try to conjure and hold on to, dissipate right in front of your eyes, when all turns to dust and oozes out of your grasp. Laugh when you can, cherish while it lasts, but understand that it will end. Understand that you are just fodder waiting to be chewed and shat out by life”. He drew another breath, like there was nothing left.
“Well, congratulations; here it is, you have my contempt; feel worthy for a wink”, he sneered.
He was there, standing in that first-floor veranda for some thirty minutes. It was not really a strange place to be. Once he walked under that tiled roof, running his fingers along those same century-old cast-iron railings where he felt the breeze that filtered through the trees that outlined the veranda for the first and many times after. From there, he gazed out into the very quad with dreams and hopes and a naive optimism symptomatic of his age for almost a decade. So, it was a familiar place, alas, only that it simply could no longer tether him to it.
As he waited and slipped down the years, he found a comfy corner between two iron pillars. There he wedged himself, almost fusing to the iron. He simply wished to be unseen by the youthful traffic on the veranda or beyond. He only wanted to dip once more into his reveries. To his battles. To the truth of his stories. To the lies. But it was easier not to. All he had to do was reach into his pocket and pull out the smartphone. One click and even eternity will die sooner than it would’ve hoped. Life is simpler when we scroll and scroll and scroll till the thumb and mind feel the same and numb down. But to think, to feel, to question—now that’s terrifying. It’s the first step, resisting this temptation. Resisting this fuming urge to respond to the phantom vibrations, expecting the calls that would never come, messages that would never chime. Hypocrite. He ground his teeth, made a pathetic growl, and tried to fix his gaze on the quad and the people it held dear. He wanted to see them for what they were, beyond the colours, behind the rave. He trained his ears and almost hung from the railings like a bat, for he wanted to listen to their hearts beat, lie, hide and bawl. He wished to strip them bare and hoped to show them what they truly are, and that they are what they so desperately hide from all the time. To show them how inevitable it is. How certain life is.
There was a crowd growing under the tree. He spotted a girl with a violin and another with a keyboard. A faint melody began to stream, like trying to remember something, and he managed a sigh, reluctant to go deep, trying not to awaken what lies buried in his heart, almost like an instinct. It was an old, familiar song. The music that stirs the listener’s soul, awakening one’s deepest roots, bleeding through even the toughest of shells, potent enough to crack any heart open. Against his wish, the old breeze carried it to his ears, channelling it to his heart. But it only echoed the sound, without carrying or absorbing its essence. But the depth of a man's soul is greater than the shallowness of his mind, of himself. And one strange, insignificant note did find its mark, it cracked a seal open, enough to send a spark through the nerves, to show the possibility of lightness, to remind to let that sigh happen as it comes.
“Reminds you of someone?” a voice broke his meditations.
“Hmm… what do you want? I thought you were gone for good.”
“That’s rude. Is this how you treat a friend?”
“Friend? The word reeks when you spit it out like that. You are a parasite. A hell-sent relentless worm that bores into my soul with that incessant chatter. You are no friend. And I have none.”
“You have got sadder”
“Expecting a thank you note?”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not really how we work.” The voice mocked.
He growled, “Then why are you back, demon? I don’t think I have room for you too.”
“It’s funny you keep forgetting who I am. I am not your proverbial everyday inner demon, boy. I am not your scourge. You should consider yourself lucky for having me by your side. Helping you see what others can’t, helping you think beyond what many could even dare to start…”
“How lucky am I! Truly! Now, go on, brag about how you enlightened Buddha and nudged Christ and countless others across history. Lecture me, how you are the guiding spirit, the voice of reason, justice, and conscience. And remind me why I should listen to you. You have no meaning. You are a pest, an invasive critter that exists only in my mind.”
“Perhaps. Who am I to decide what you should see, in mind or matter? Maybe I am a figment of your imagination, just like those teens you mocked, or those kids over there, experiencing, and building ties for a lifetime, under that tree. Oh wait, I remember you over there, from many years back. You were all over the place, building connections, being…”
“Enough. Why are you here? WHAT do you want?” his voice cracked with rage and sadness.
“I just wanted to chat. Like I always do. Ever since the day you were born, I have watched over you, listened to you, and witnessed your growth, and your ups and downs. And I see what a remarkable young man you grew to be, how marvellous a human you truly are, and how resilient your spirit is, more than anyone else in this universe. So, tell me, what happened to that dreamer, that believer, that hopeless romantic? Why have you buried yourself in this pit of cynicism, doubt, rage… grief?”
“And you say you guided Socrates himself! Are you sure about your claims?
“Mock all you want. But I reach to you through what remains of your conscience. And yes, it is my raison d'être to witness the cosmic stream of consciousness and to help all agents of life fulfil its most sacred purpose, to live.”
“And you do a commendable job at that. Well done.”
“True, I am not particularly good at this. Nor am I omnipotent to enforce my will. But my voice is always there for all who are ready to listen, as long as they are ready to listen. And the truth is, nobody listens, and nobody cares. But I still, and always reach out to someone who does. And that’s why I am here. That’s why we are having this talk. Because deep down, you are not willing to give up, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.”
“Alright, tell me then, why do I not feel joy, or love or lasting connections, while the whole world appears to be filled with it? Why do I carry this unbearably heavy, crushing vacuum in my chest, all the time? Why have I lost my ability to believe, have faith in, and trust the people around me? Where is my compassion? Where is my pity? Why do I find almost all that transpires around me as hollow, without heart or soul? Everywhere I look, there is only greed, ambition, or hatred. The stench of putrid lust and the heartless connections it breeds fills the air. There’s no sparkle in eyes no more. Smiles vanish as soon as they take form. I see generations getting wasted by drugs; synthetic and social. Now come earth, air and water have been poisoned, and soil becomes barren. And those supposed to protect this land, and the life and values it holds, do nothing to cut the root of this disease. They instead pacify by pruning the branches. Now, enlighten me, what should I feel? What should be my mantra of contentment?”
The air blew all weak and dry. Enough to let some lost leaves fall.
“Hmm… those are some really good questions.”
“Is that it? Thank you for your validation?”
“Ha ha… patience, boy. Let me have my dramatic pause. Give me a moment here. I am here to listen to you. For your story. And you do have some fascinating questions up your sleeve. But do you see where you truly are?” And the voice started to hum. Something eerily familiar, but forgotten. Each note eluded him, but he did notice how his heart synced with the hum. The weight in his chest. It began to settle down, and sediment, lower and lower. He gasped for air, and each breath melted the grief in his heart; his eyes welled, tears waiting to cascade.
“I have hunger…” Words struggled to break free. “I am hungry. I… I crave… for an eye to see me. Witness me. I craved a finger to cross, a hand to hold, and a cheek to press against mine. I wished for a voice to find mine, a mind to admire, a friendship to cherish. I wanted meaning, action, and authenticity, not convenience or its displays. I have called, and there’s not even an echo. I have reached out, and it's just empty. There was nothing. There ever were only shadows of a mirage. And I see them for what they are. I failed to notice the truth; the nature of the daylight, and it burned me. So, I have removed myself from the equation. And now I have become this. It helps me cope. Yes, it is pointless to lament this world, our world. It is simply what it is, a sinking ship. And I am what I am. This is the way.”
“Profound. But when did you become this stupid? You are right about the world though. It is simply what it is and one can't save it whole. But, one can choose not to become a rat and prepare a lifeboat. The world can’t be saved; yes, but maybe the people around can be. Throw them a line, a jacket, an oar, a torch or first aid, give people something, they are you, give them what you crave. But, I will advise caution though. Some just have it coming, some are bound to drown, so make sure you too are not pulled down with them.”
He felt a strong, cool gust lashing his face. As if to douse a flame about to consume him. The flame that always rages under his skin.
“Save yourself. Find the courage to overcome whatever pettiness that shrouds your vision. Gather strength like you have before. Keep the doors open for as long as you can. And close them for good if you must. The shallowness you witness is real. But do not let it box you in. The desert need not be barren, for it might hold streams of life, water and seeds. In your heart is the compassion you seek etched for eternity. In your heart, remains the love that will flower the desert. But it’s just you can’t find your heart for now. Its beat is lost in translation. Do not let the smoke blind you, boy. B,y heart, this, remember, this. This is the way.”
“You are not helping me. Your sermon is not helping me!”
“I know. But you can. Only you can. It’s your farm. What grows there is your concern. I am just a passerby.”
“Do you think I don’t know this? Do you think I want this by choice?”
“It’s your question. Only you know the answer.”
“But….”
“We’ll meet again. I truly hope your desert finds its sunshine and spring by then.”
The hum got intense. It began to solidify in his chest. Whirling like a deep storm. Murmuring, singing to him, talking to him. But it stopped. A moment of absolute and complete silence. Stillness. And it exploded, shockwaves rippled through his mind and matter, as he was pushed off the railing, the verandah, into the bare earth.
He woke with a start. The bus, by then, had reached East Fort.
15/04/2025
