The anecdote dates few years back,and nights were long and nights out were in vogue. Salad days is what they say.
And as expected as it happens often, he did not heed to urgency and words were lost. He sat there staring blankly at the screen, and rummaging through his thoughts. The splitter-splatter of rain was his only companion offering some condolence.
It was a cold morning, the ground was strewn with mist, and dew adorned the leaves. The clock read 5 o’clock and he was some seven hours early from his usual waking up time, which made him groggy, disoriented and sleepless. Yet as was customary for the old house in Kalimpong, early morning came with morning walks and jogging. Midway of his gigantic yawn he thought what others would be doing now. Back in his hometown by the ghats, his mom and dad would be still asleep, or probably dad would have got up. In the religious end of the city people would have started flocking the ghats for their morning dip in holy river. It cleansed them of sins and may be sleep too. He shivered at that religious prospect. Back in his school, the corridors would be desolate, with some lost chap squandering in dark corridors for his room. It was usually during early morning that the squandering lot descended from Kailash. Yes the grass was a popular pastime, which started late at night, and ended in wee hours of morning, and almost always it would be accompanied with riffs on guitar along with majors and minors.
He was jolted out of his dream,He yawned for hundredth time, and unwillingly tied his worn shoelaces. Air stuck him as cold, deep in his spine, yet there was something unearthly about it. It was pure, pristine and virginal. There has to be something when Thomas Jefferson said
-The sun has not caught me in bed in fifty years.
They slowly moved on to the meandering asphalt path, Kalimpong being a hill station was blessed with nature, and had a certain peace which usually medical practitioners recommend to chronic patients. The canopy of trees lining the path was further thickened by the mist, which intensified the aura of gaia. He at that time would have never thought of all things he this would come first in his memory when thinking of his days spent there. Mind has its own strange ways.
10 hours later, he was back on his scribbing pad, with Clint Mansel Lux Altera playing in background.It created a false aura, of something grand happening. Suddenly the prospect of reading Mr. Barnes looked more rewarding than jotting down stream-of-consciousness writing like Joyce. Mr. Joyce had taken an interrupt with Mr. barnes around. Another incentive which moved the scales in favor of latter was that book was 150 pages only ! And 150 page novel won the man booker, he had to check it out first. (The guy doing media and communications had a knack of suggesting good books).