The Shelf

I am a free bird fluttering all across the globe. Though mostly, always in my imagination. I am broke to the zilch and every time, I see my bank balance, I wonder where all my money went. It is another case of absurdity that there is no bank account in my name, and I m not at all a broke person, but there is no harm in imagining.

I have never believed in the theory of banks, there are too far from you to keep money; and it is sheer ludicrousness to think that a metallic locker will safeguard money while my house is considered unsafe. My father never trusted banks with his money, mostly black, and the same legacy has passed on to me. I keep most of my money under my bed; one never knows when the need will arise and I have to fly immediately to an unknown destination on a short notice.

Imagination is a powerful tool; even Albert Einstein must be nodding in his grave, again an imaginative thought. Every morning when I open my store, I imagine being perched on top of the store's roof, I have never seen a mountain to visualize its top, like a bird ever ready to fly. The flight does take place, and I do envy the crow on top of my store's roof.

The crow, an amazing black bird, stout body, medium-length tail, and you cannot ignore its beak and harsh crooning. Every morning, I religiously open my store full of unpronounceable medicines, I am a pharmacist, in the so-called professional world, but in the real one, I am an idler. Though I am a very happy pharmacist, my shop is as far as possible from doctors and hospitals and I rarely get any patients with unreadable prescription slips. Please do not have this presumption that I am a pauper, my economical status is as sound as my imagination, and I am a very well off individual living in a big house in a posh locality.

It is all due to the grace of the will left behind by my Father, he was the most infamous affluent attorney of this city, and a day never goes by, when someone in this city does not remember to curse him in the filthiest of the language possible. My parents had no doubt that I will need their monetary blessings all my life, so my father worked like a shark, until his end, for my welfare. My docile mother saved most of my father's earnings for my welfare. It was the only arrangement that my parents never argued on.

I see my friend again, the crow, and a pang of jealousy hits me, and I look up at the sky and question, "why is life so unfair? It is a dull day, everyday is a dull day, but today is an extremely dull day and I mean extremely and extremely. I am thirty-five today and tomorrow, I will be turning thirty-six. A perfect age, where you start realizing that you are crossing your mid 30's and are moving towards the grayish 40s. But such is life, you need to move ahead, even if it is towards the dangerous age zones.

I see a boy crossing the road and then he stops, looks around like a criminal, and gleefully jumps in the puddle of muddy water. I imagine the repercussions, his ears being screwed and a good trashing by his mother, she is unable to see the pleasure of the moment but every pleasure is wrapped in a thick coating of sin, so who are we to complain. Then a friend of his joins him and they jump, jump, and run away towards their tempestuous domains.

My imagination transcends everything infinitesimal and goes beyond the thoughts of the living. Yesterday, I strongly felt the presence of my docile mother; as usual, she was having her hysterical fits after a fight with my father. I often imagine my father, callously setting up traps to catch the fishes of this city's pond, especially the weaker and the helpless.

My pleasure of idleness is short lived, a well-known visitor comes from nowhere, what a brute, he is coughing incessantly and waving a torn slip. I look at the slip, seems to be some medicine's name scribbled, but which one, I pretend to match the medicines and the slip names, I am angry, why did he come, is my shop the last left in this city. I pick a bottle, give it to him and he pays but does not leave, he keep staring at my clock. It strikes three and he makes his leg move away from my counter, amusing to note that he is fond of the number three on my clock.

I have known him for a long time now and everyday, I go through the same routine, and he obligingly waits for my clock to strike three and then dutifully leaves. I have been giving him the same bottle for the past seven years; I know he has rows and rows of the same bottle on his crumbling big wooden shelf. That is his pleasure and who am I to question it. He is the only one, who visits my shop regularly, day after day, it does not matter whether it is raining heavily or a curfew imposed on the city, he is there in front of my shop at 2.47 pm without fail.

I admire his punctuality but every afternoon, I have to sacrifice my pleasure of idleness to attend to his pleasure. It irritates me to no end, every day, I imagine his 1975-made shelf to crumble, and his house deluged in the sweet syrup. The shelf seems to be as obstinate as his current master is. I again sit on the chair; it is also 1975 made and squeaks a little every time I sit on it, sitting on this same chair, my father squeezed the life juices out of many of his clients. But who am I to complain, it was his pleasure and he went to the extremes to gain it, and I have no shame in admitting to the immense gains that I received because of his pleasures.

After my father's peaceful demise, the chair and clock were the two things that I moved from my father's office and used them to adorn my shop. His other inheritance, legal books, pen, paper, bookshelves, trophies and other symbols of his success, I left for the looters to feed on. The three o' clock man sneaked the pride of my father's office, the 1975-made shelf, in the broad day light with the help of two strong-built men and a pick up van. My eyes were the witness to the unfortunate event, and I am still bearing in silence the consequences of that day. After I left the office doors, open, for the looters, my mind had a second thought about the shelf, I went to pick up the same shelf to keep my syrups, and there I saw it being sneaked out of the office, lifted, and dumped with out any consideration on the van. Our eyes did meet; we both acknowledged each other but it was too late for anyone of us to stop the proceedings.

His visits everyday is part of his unspoken reimbursement, he pays me five rupees extra for the same syrup bottle, and he never reads the price on the bottle to realize costs have increased. My business is running in continuous loss by giving him the bottle for twenty-five rupees less, his act of kindness is becoming expensive for me, but I never complain, I am no one to snatch his pleasures. His gesture also comes out of ingrained guilt, the offense of looting a gigantic shelf, boldly out of my father's office in my presence. However, in my eyes he is not a criminal, he just could not resist the temptation of a gigantic wooden shelf and I do not see any wrong in that, but the annoying part is he does.

He robbed a mere wooden shelf from the decadent dead man, who made him wait till three everyday, for six months, with hope; but never ever actually did file his son's case, he lost his twenty one year old innocent son in the want to provide the best attorney's service. According to my senses, he is an annoyance who must not come near my imaginary pleasures but I do wonder everyday, his coughs seem to be getting worse. I am alarmed and perturbed, if the longer arm of the clock starts moving away from 2.47 and I do not see his shaky presence in front of me.

I move in my chair and it squeaks again, I love the squeaking sound it makes; for me it symbolizes the dynamism of my existence. I hear noises and screams coming from the house, the three o clock man's house, he stays on the other side of the road. I crane my neck to see what is happening without making any effort to get up and I see swarm of people gathering in front of his house. A dead man's news travel faster and it brings in a horde of onlookers, and this was the case of a thrilling accident. My heart starts to beat faster in the realization that my imagination did have a real life. The shelf could no longer embrace the last syrup bottle, it lost its poise and balance, and fell on him, deluging not only his room but also taking away his life.

My imagination of how he died closely matches the third person account; as usual, he leaves my shop unburdened little more from his guilt. He goes straight to his son's room, where the shelf is kept hidden, more from himself than anyone else. It was not the bottle weight that caused the gruesome death but a screw that departs from the shelf at the precise moment of keeping the bottle. I can clearly see his horror filled eyes and his hands rising for protection, but there is no stopping the resolute death; the gigantic shelf with all its syrup bottles falls on a screaming helpless man of 57. I can clearly visualize his body pierced with thousands of broken glass pieces, his old yet handsome face defaced beyond recognition and his body soaked in his own blood and the cough syrup.

There is another story that the fourth account tells me, of his loyal servant opening the son's room, to gratify a seven-year old curiosity itch, and meeting his doom. I doubt the fourth account, but no one has seen the servant after that fateful moment. A fifth account tells me, of a guilt conscious master catching the servant gazing in bewilderment at the shelf, unable to bear the revelation of his blemished secret, the master imbalances the shelf and makes it fall on a helpless servant and disappears from the city forever. I doubt this account too; the three o clock man was a gutsy man, who sneaked the shelf out of my father's office, in broad daylight and in my presence. But, no one has seen the master and the servant after that fateful moment.

I close my shop at ten and move towards my house, on the way, I see the life sucker dilapidated shelf on the veranda, standing in obscurity. I pity it and suddenly become conscious that I have lost a very dear friend and the impetus to open my shop and sit on that squeaky chair. Through out the night I am inconsolable and the pain is unbearable.

Next day, on my 36th birthday, to my surprise a gift waits for me, the three o' clock man's Will. I am yet again the proud owner of my shelf and all his belongings. I once more leave behind everything, this time for his unheard of relatives; I take the shelf, and put it in my already crammed shop. I mercilessly thrust innumerable nails into it, I have lost my confidence in screws, my 1997 made shelf makes way for the 1975. I feel more like my father, very much at ease, in spite of a murderous shelf holding all the syrup bottles; I am no longer in the clutches of grief. I see the longer arm of the clock reaching 2.47 pm and my chair squeaks little more under my weight. There is a pleasing smile on my countenance, from now onwards there will be no pricking hindrance flattening my pleasurable idleness.

At 2.47 pm, my trepidation increases, as I hear the nauseating coughing again.