Its funny what classical music does to your brain. Fiction has always been farthest from my mind. But I couldn't just let go of this chain of events, completely random and fictional that set into motion this post. I love this format because I can continue if I want to or just leave it here. Both will make it interesting in its own way.
Title Here
Chapter 1
The aroma of dosai and sambar wafted in. Is this what they call food nostalgia? There was no way of course that there could be dosai or sambar here, at 6:30 AM on the platform. Which platform? That was obvious, it was always the same train. Which compartment? Ok it might seem impossible to cover all the platforms during rush hour to look for someone getting into the train. But therein lies the catch, our train had only a single women’s compartment. That she will use only the women’s compartment was a highly intuitive wager on which the odds were not good. But that’s all I had going. Hell, I had taken a week off from work. No one at home knew I had done that. I had to establish a pattern. Of course, knowing where she lived would be too much. I couldn’t fathom the consequences. And of course knowing where she worked couldn’t be harmless, but did I want to risk it? All these strange thoughts were making me excited, akin to the hyper-caffeinated manner. I never liked the sensation when I chose dark roast by mistake at work. The rest of the day was doomed. Too twitchy, you feel like the heart is ready to burst out of the rib cage, seems like eye balls are going crazy, even when you just stare at the screen. Can’t read, have to tap the floor until the guy in the next cubicle looks at you. He is too polite. That’s all he will do. Just smile at you. I hate people who took “Lage raho” to heart. Just simply hate people who wish you in the elevator without even knowing you. Just simply hate the need to thank people for doing their duty. Hate the fact that I can’t swear when I want just because I don’t have my own room at work. But you know what I hate the most? The fact that I conform anyways. No free will, no ability to make change happen. I am just a worm in a huge container of flour. I can eat, reproduce and die, hopefully if they don’t use the flour long enough. Don’t sieve it or worse, don’t cook it. Parma understood this, used to heal it with Zen. I have no real clue what Zen means. I tried to read a book when I was young. “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance”: couldn’t go beyond 40 pages. But it was about something about reconciliation, of the way to anneal contradictions while acknowledging their presences. That’s what Parma did. You are a “flour worm” and butterfly at the same time. Funny Parma chose butterfly. I love it at several levels. Of course just the beauty and flight lend it romance. And the metamorphosis: that’s the best. I could see myself there. Born as a wretch. Sleep for a while, get up as a butterfly. Lead an ethereal, perfect life, taste the honey, lay the eggs. I have no clue if Parma had this in mind. Parma just gave these pearls here and there.
