Thursday, July 17, 2008


Urban201 Fresh01


by | Arificial Intelligence

My vacations have ended and we are back on gear 4 in our studies. Lectures, notes, class assignments, peer pressure and monthly tests. Aagh, all this is so boring. This university routine would turn me into an emotionless robot. And this in turn would lead to the death of my blog.

"Rest in Peace", I would then say in my robotic voice, when I would visit my blog in the cyber-grave.

Today is the first day we come to the university, after the vacations. Our teachers should have given us free periods so we could stretch our thinking cells and flex our writing muscles. No. A big 'NO' from the Vice Chancellor. Instead we are pounded with extra classes.

I come home and see a dull day ahead. Thanks to the Vice Chancellor, I have lunch at 4:45 pm.

6:25 pm, and I leave to water the plants. Yawn. Boredom. As I sprinkle the water from the pipe, I stare at one of the dying plants: "This could be the fate of my blog as well", I tell myself, if life continues to be as dull as it is now. I would have nothing interesting to write.

I put my finger over the pipe to raise the water pressure. Yawn. Boredom. I am staring at the grass which is being flooded by the water I am adding.

I see a woman strolling in our street; walking at a constant pace, I see her nearing, almost approaching me.

BanG . .

She is standing right beside me. I stare at her in the eyes. She looks 35, well-off and yet looking worn-out.

Another BanG . .

She places her hand out and says something. There is no sound. Is she begging for alms?

Again she places her hand out says something. Again no sound. Is it a ghost? Should I scream for the cops to come? But this time she places her begging hand around her mouth.

O.K. so she needs water to drink, not alms.

Fine, mute lady, this pipe is yours, "drink as much as you want", my talking eyes said.

10 . . . 20 . . . 30 . . .50 . . . 60 seconds. She is still drinking from that filthy pipe. Finally, when she is done quenching her thirst she moves the pipe on her face. What? Is she mad as well?

10 . . . 20 . . . 30 . . .50 . . . 100 seconds pass, and she is DONE. She stares at me and blurts "Thank You." There was sound this time round, loud and clear. I am baffled, and then I ask her the most stupid question: "What happened?" (Whatever happened, it is none of anybody's business). She walked out as if she heard nothing. Is she deaf? And then I see the woman strolling out of our street, walking the walk of a drug addict, I see her distancing, and then bending into another street.


Deaf? Drug addict? Lost? What was she?

Was this day interesting enough?

Should I quit writing?

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