A day in the life of a Morning - a short story
He wakes up gradually. Outside, he can hear the daily sounds of the regular clatter. He stares at the ceiling fan and follows the blades. It makes screeching sounds, like they always do. It’s comforting, it fills the silence of the room. It’s deceitful, the blades threaten to break loose when he knows they won’t. He doesn’t want to get off the bed and walk to the bathroom. He wants to do something utterly irreverent in an inconsequential sort of way. He wants to get off the bed and eat the ludicrously creamy vanilla cake from last night. He hates vanilla. He doesn’t understand its use outside of an ice cream flavour before being iced with hot chocolate sauce. Years of conditioning has taught him to not even speak to anyone before brushing his teeth; mornings should only taste of toothpaste and tea. But today he wants to fall prey to a vanilla cake, his utterly claustrophobic call of the wild.
He stares out of the window. Clear skies and pigeons’ ugly screams. The early summer air enters the room to give a whiff of the outside. Smells of dried fish with carbon monoxide and engines of oversized government buses. It is the advent of summers across the Tropic of Cancer. It is the sound of dripping water in the buckets before the taps go dry and the sound of air conditioning at nine in the morning. Posh women in over-sized sunglasses and hopeless excitement of post millennium kids in over-crowded shopping malls. Underarm sweat and cheap deodorants, short tempers and hasty decisions. He stares at the window. The lack of wind perfect for a game of badminton at night. The lack of places to go and the comfortable embrace of the indoors. He is going to build illusions of happiness in pixels, and store them in a folder called ‘life’ on the desktop of his under performing netbook.
He stares at the phone and goes through ‘memories’ on Facebook. Happier times when he was sad. Exactly the way memories are looked back on by people who create cobwebs in their minds. The timeline speaks of self-important messages regurgitating manufactured passion for politics and sports. Cats and dogs playing prostitutes for humor, and a very funny sexist joke right below a very sarcastic feminist take on something seemingly intriguing, like superhero movies. He is going to take a look at funny football videos as he defecates. A few messages on WhatsApp groups and a couple of individual ones. Smileys as replies. Indifference as subtexts. Onomatopoeic monosyllables. Meh.
He crawls towards the edge of the bed. Stares at the wall in front. It deserves a poster or an artwork. Something postmodern. Something deceptively funny, ironic, like a Salvador Dali rendition of “See you later, alligator.” He smiles at the thought, the wall smiles back. Or something to that effect. A DIY lamp installation on the side table lay fallen in its own post-apocalyptic world. There have been ardent requests with a hint of parental threat to recreate it to a functional state. It was a gift from someone. He thinks of that; he lets it be. Forced metaphors of fallen relationships. His room is an imaginary civilization of mediocre analogies. He stares at his phone again. A possibility of a work call always looms and disappoints. It looms, he waits, it disappoints. It’s time to be anxious.
Around seven minutes of anxiety later, he crawls out of the bed and finally stands up. The day has started. He needs to carry himself to the places where he is supposed to be. A warm wind rushes through the room bringing some more of the city air. He remembers daily commutes and the smell of sweat in crowded trains. Spit marks across the windows and rummy on briefcase surfaces. He walks up to the window and slides it shut. Keeps the warm air at bay. It becomes a bit calmer now, a bit cooler. It’s time for the bathroom trip. He picks up his phone.
One day, he will open that window. Not for the air to rush in. But for him to rush into the air.