Vagrant Meander

Hi, I am Roderick Idrich, the President of the great State of Gibrak. It’s a teeny-weeny island at the side of Africa, one like a pimple on a teen’s face. Poof, they are gone when you turn seventeen. But, no, we stayed. You might not have heard of us but we are right here, hanging around. We are one of the oldest republic of Africa; independent before we knew it. I think because nobody ever noticed. Anyways, let us talk about myself, Roderick Idrich. Don’t go by my spelling, my first and last name sound similar. They have the same rick at the end. So, as I was telling you I chose politics at a very young age. Even before you get the right to vote. And that’s 18 in Gibrak. Let me tell you something about our constitution. It’s a direct rip-off from the British. I am not too sure but it seems when our good old European friends were busy trading slaves off Madagascar; some of them from our independent Gibrak too; we took the liberty (as told before we were independent before we knew it...

“I am unable to sleep.” “Why?” “Can’t you hear? It’s raining.” “Let me tell you a story.” “May be a song would help.” “Let me just shut up and you try to sleep.” “In the morning, I was trying to wake up. Now, I have to try to sleep. Why do I always need to try?” “It’s called inertia, my friend.” “I call it hogwash. May be your story is better than your idle talk.” “Ok. Don’t you dare sleep while I am at it. What was that?” “A mouse may be. I think they are also interested in listening to you.” “I think I might have gained a better audience.” “Common! Story please.” “Not too long ago, I went to my ancestral home. I had lost my job, thanks to the recession and was tired trying to get a new one for two months. I wanted to recompose, rejuvenate and get ready to take on the world with new zeal.” “A loser might also sometime sound like a crusader.” “Thanks. So, since I had no work and a lot of time at hand, it became my habi...

The house is in shambles; the fire long gone. The deserted large rooms; the ghostly omnipresent mist. A ghastly pale figure; stirs in broken chair; removes the tattered curtains; cranes his neck outside; To become the void that envelops it. A tiny WHITE LIGHT; flickering beyond the haggard mess; calls out for it. Hands fumble for matchbox. No need for it!!! The chandeliers are burning; glasses clink. Hoots of joyous outburst, the house burns. To match the blinding WHITE LIGHT. Strangers pass by gaping at the The ache, the passion, the alluring images. The house is the white light pitched against the void and winning. The white light disappears; The house grows cold. The walls crumble; the furniture rots. Pray WHITE LIGHT!! come back.

Running through the desert, the vision blurs, the lips parch. But I run, towards the Pole Star, always distant in the infinite. I run for it, I hurt myself. But it remains faraway bruised, aloof, shining like the dark horse.

“A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.” -Edward Abbey I have seen ‘Baba’ Ramdev only on televisions and newspapers flocked by numerous followers devouring on the mumbo-jumbo and trying weird ‘asans’. My eyes always catch a fleeting glance of him whenever I come across the channel which airs his yoga sessions while flicking through the whole paraphernalia of entertainment the cable TV provides. I have heard that he has amassed a lot of wealth; now he even owns an island!   I don’t practice yoga. I work for an MNC leading a quite sedentary lifestyle with a healthy appetite of alcohol every weekend and junk food almost every day. The problem is I am in habit of reading newspapers. With eye-popping scams hitting the headlines at such humongous pace; I shift uncomfortably in my chair while going through the numbers. F***, with people becoming billionaires at such speed; how can I be happy with my double figure salary. Where is my ...