Pre-script: I request all the readers to turn their logic
precise brains off and read the entire tale in one take.
The train quietly pulled off. I could see my cousin waving
back as his figure faded black into the evening sun setting behind him. The
green flag guard was waving appeared like a freedom signal where I could fly
back to my friends. Tired as I was, with the packing and talking job since the
morning, I decided to take in some fresh air before I get back to the classic
rock and stylish punks. I quietly got back into the bus and soon set my walk on
the bank of that small lake, quietly letting my mind write and arrange the
records of my cousin's visit.
And there it rang. my phone that was acting dumb for the past
few days. "Where are you dude? Did your cousin leave? When will you be
here?" Deepak was shouting completely forgetting that he was in a pub.
"At the necklace road, taking some fresh air, will be there soon" I
answered, repenting for every phrase that I spoke. "Dude, grow up, it's
filthy now. Come here fast, It's not your oldie pub. Did you forget?” he went
off reminding me of this peculiar day pub that was newly set up at IMAX.
"A day-pub is one that would stay open till early
night, and later would be converted into a banquet hall or a disco floor as per
the demand" I remembered Manoj defining, much in an engineer's style. I
quietly walked thinking of those old days and old IMAX as guards in polythene
gloves enacted their checking on me. I caught up with them soon.
I tried not to stare at the name, but could not help myself
staring at Urdu printed in green on the white lamp board. It was queer to see a
mall have a board written in Urdu. Also, I further answered myself saying that
this must have been why I never got to hear its name as but the day-pub. The
guards there checked us for a little longer as we walked in. We ordered for a
pair of Kamikaze and an Agent Orange and started talking about what we did in
the past few days, running into the chicks we saw every now and then, as was
our habit. Soon, we drank our first glass and ordered to repeat it. I, out of
curiosity and kick, walked to the bartender who wasn't there.
I peeped into the counter to see a man quietly writing the
bills on fluorescent foolscap paper records. He was a man clad in white Kurta
and a blue chequered Lungi, sitting on the grinding stone, more queerly than I
expected. His clothes showed a good quality, much being owned by a pride man,
and his Sajjda placed beside showed his riches and beliefs. "Excuse me
sir, what do you want?" he said in an old-cityish tone, looking up at me.
I pointed at the empty chair and he seemed to have muttered something.
"Come with me, sir" he led me into the kitchen inquiring about my
tastes, picked up a few bottles and sat down preparing it.
I slowly engaged him into easy talks about the business,
lastly asking him, "Why do you have a pub so traditional in a mall like
this?" "As long as the drink remains the same, every single customer
of mine shall be more pleased at this oldie appearance sir" he spoke in a
philosopher's voice. "And why don't you engage tokens?" He simply
laughed in a silent cough, his age visibly clouding his voice. After a dragged
giggle, he spoke "No need of that, sir. I believe in my traditional
techniques." Confidence ringed in his voice as he said it and splashed in
his eyes, when he held the drink up for me. I took the drink and walked alone
as he walked out of his other door.
To my surprise, the curtains were dropped and I entered into
an echoing Banquet hall, wondering if it was the same room I had been in ten
minutes ago. I walked back into the kitchen, which too was, empty. A bit
frightened, I silently ran through the fire exit and entered into the mall in
the lower floor sipping my cocktail. They were waiting right at the entrance
with empty Martini glasses. I was happy to see them, sipped my drink up, and we
walked, silently slipping the glasses onto an empty table in the lounge. We
were walking down the stairs slowly planning for the larger party tonight as it
struck me that we didn't pay the bill. Considering it much as an achievement,
we walked down the stairs pacing, ending almost in a run at the exit gate where
the guard again checked us. "474" he said to the fellow who was
writing down some records, and we resumed the run.
I was leading the run when I saw some guys sitting in an
orange Jeep, glittering in the dusk. I ran faster passing them by and occasionally glancing at them, as if I was running from them, as if they were the old man's staff, enjoying the mall-break into
the necklace road where I finally paused gasping, landing my hands on my knees
and bending low, only to see that I was alone. Fear ran along my spine as I
tried to figure out what might have happened to them. Thinking of what was
happening, I was searching my shirt for what 474 referred to, and I saw it
written in a charcoal, one that could not be wiped, on the triple point of my
shirt. It was my entry number, I recalled. Panicked, I began running again.
I ran faintly passing by a kid playing his red remote-controlled
car, who was as busy in his own work as I was in mine. In desperation, I
continued, until I stood tired and panting, as over a thousand thoughts
overwhelmed my brain. Then, with sparkling lights, a red Ferrari Italia, that
one dream car of my childhood, ran by, pulling over not more than a few yards
behind me. I stood thinking.
Post-script: This was an unedited dream. The language is
completely grammatical, and any deviations mentioned there-on are discreetly
writer's imaginations. The length constraints are responsible for any lack of
description, if any.