Slurred sleep

The 33rd day of the month

Thirty and thirty-one have been the norm since forever. Twenty-eight, just once a year. Twenty-nine, take a break, you are just a guest. The monotony of this rhythm is such that I tend to forget what's after 31. "Oh, it's 32, OK." And this happens when the calendar flips over to '1.' 

"Double you tee eff aree you tryin to tell?" asked Rob, in a tone that highlighted his labor at learning proper English. He shook Ron violently who was fast asleep. Ron didn't have to count any sheep; he was exhausted of late and been as lazy as the sloth he spotted during his recent trip to South America. For work. "Work? South America? What you have office in that country?" pondered Rob.

Ron didn't seem to move an inch. Rob stuffed a whiskey-soaked cloth in his mouth as Ron continued to flounder his dialogue.

I have been working for more hours than a human can ever manage. It's like borrowing a few hours from the next day to this day. And then more from the day after to tomorrow. It's an endless cycle until the eye stops blinking. "My eyes aren't blinking now." He tee-heed, the cloth holding still. Heart stops beating, I must say. But it's a thing now. If cycling or walking for kilometers was work from that generation, typing tens of thousands of words a day is perhaps worker. You know what I mean? Like comparative? Like work-worker-workest? OK. 

"Workest? Workest is bad. Fatigue. Stress can murder. Scary I feel." Rob felt a trap in Ron's speech in slumber. He bit his tongue while cracking on a KrackJack. He wet his tongue with the whiskey in front of him. He added two cubes of ice. He licked one before he spluttered them both into his glass. 

People around are not so kind. Sometimes. How would they know what's racing in the mind and beating in the heart? Would the moist eye be seen as a tear? Silence is not shy, always, you know. There are ten thousand thoughts thundering together. The concoction continues to cripple sanity. I don't seem to distinguish solitude from socialness. When one's on top, the other wants to take over. I am tired. Drained. 

"You drank much. Not good. Seem to saying many words instead of typing. You are upset?"

I fear that if a month goes by, the other's as worse. Days after days, it's a worn out tape. 

"What's problem, Ron? I sure not it's not worker but something more. Girl? Money? I happy to help. Tell." Rob poured more whiskey. This time he got four cubes of ice.

Ron fell silent. The cloth still stuffed in his mouth. He coughed up. Briefly opened his eyes and sucked phlegm back into his nostrils. He went back to sleep. Almost like a reflex.

Ron kept silent.

"I wait to you be up. From sleep. And the sadness. I there, my friend." Rob muttered. He meant it. As a guy who's been through some turbulence himself, he knew the troubles would soon be over.

I miss her. When I miss her, I dearly miss her. That's when one in the thousand words begins to make sense. Love. Months and days feel nothing, then. Ron fell silent again.

"Understand. You miss her, my friend. Happy that whiskey worked. Stress is nothing when love knocks." Rob realized that he emptied the bottle of the finest Macallan Ron got for him. His heart sank.

Ron fell asleep. For real. Rob chugged the rest of his glass.

"Hey but 28 and 29 come all month, no?" Rob said glugging the last drop of his drink.

Of deprivation

On a false night

She called him in the dead of the night. "Here. Right now!" she said. "What? Why? It is three in the morning," he replied. "I want you here in 15," she retorted. He cleared his eyes drooping heavy with sleep. "Damn! How does she expect me to meet her now?" he thought. Last night's heavy dose of sleeping pills put him to sleep so deep that days of insomnia seemed to take leave.


He put on his trousers, torn and faded; reminding him of borrowing a new pair from his friend. He spent the last few months of his life living off his friend's pocket, and paying his huge visa bills with his savings. He could lose his wallet and not fear losing sleep!


He drank a bottle of water before he stepped out. It felt like the Sun left his heat with the Moon. The night temperature hovered around 32 degrees. After a day in the Sun doing market research, he now has the night to travel 10 miles. But how...


He locked the door to his 2-room apartment for which he pays a useless 3000 every month. Now left with how-to-travel question, he began walking cursing his shirt wet from sweat. He walked into a treeless street in the night's dead silence. He walked and waited for her call; his phone felt lighter with zero balance, and enjoyed a healthy battery for over a week. He walked past a 24/7 restaurant that flaunted a shiny board of 'all night pizza'. He walked in and took a glass of water. But he wanted more along his long walk to her place. "Pennyless," he recalled. Attempting to forget his misery, he decided to walk on singing Sinatra's 'Strangers in the night...'. 


"Excuse me, Sir," asked a blind old woman. It sent him creeps but replied, "Yes, how can I help you?" He suddenly felt the exchange of words like a role reversal of his job. "I need some water," asked the blind woman. He walked in to the restaurant, handed her a glass of water. And then bought a bottle of coke for himself. 


Heavy breeze began to blow across the street. Trees swayed with a whistling sound. He leaned on her friend's door and knocked on it several times while he waited for her to open it. "What the hell are you doing here at this time of the night?" she opened and yelled at him. "What? You called me a while ago, remember?" 
"When did I?" she replied.
"Half-an hour ago. I thought it was something urgent so here I am. And you say what and why and when?" he asked in frustration.
"No. You called me a while ago from a pay phone. Twice. I gave you directions too. And why did you even ask me the way here? You've visited me several times. Just when I asked you this, you disconnected the line," she said.
"No. I didn't. I didn't even call. And when did I visit you...ever? What are you talking about? Look into my pockets. I have not a single penny. How would I have called you at all?" he said in a fit of anger. "Look. Why are we arguing over this? I am drop dead drowsy. I need to get some sleep. Can you please tell me the reason you called me?" he asked calming his nerves.
"I did not call you and how in the world did you buy coke if you had no money" she asked.
"Look at this. This is your number," he showed her his call records.
"What? Wait. How do you know I had coke?"


The breeze got heavier and closed the door behind them.