Suddenly the noise stopped. I realised its 8 PM. I live in a small room. Behind my room rests an entire graveyard, a graveyard where things which have lived their lives waiting for cremation. Yes, it is a scrap market(kabadi bazar). Whenever I pass through the market, a nostalgic feeling pours in. I see beautiful things which were once pride of any house, things which were once eagerly shown to the guests by their owners. They all must have a long history. Some with stories of desire and lust, some with stories of pure love and some with just of possession. One can only imagine. And here they are, very eager to tell their stories but alas, there is no one to listen to. The only sound which escapes from this place is the sound of hammer striking the metal. Hundreds of workers crushing the bones of the objects, making them small and condensed so that they can easily fit on the truck in minimum possible space. It seems like in every strike, hammer is mumbling, "this is the end my friend, this is the end". I wonder,"do hammers have an end too"?
The whole process looks so mechanical. If one would take pictures everyday and compare them at the end of 365th day, he would find that they all look the same. Only people and objects will change but one will hardly notice it for those who die and those who kill always look the same. Death does not differentiate. Life does. Death ceases one's existence whereas life is all about making yourself exist in the world. We all are merely players at the stage of this world without any dialogues. We need to write our own scripts which will define us, which will give us an identity.
The noise has stopped. Behind my house, in the rubble of scrap market, there is a factory. In fact I share my wall with this factory. Workers start their machines at 8 AM which goes on continuously till 8 PM. Initially I was little irritated by this noise but whith time its rhythm matched with my rhythm. Now I can't differentiate. Habit, once formed, engulfs people and make them its slave. I hear you rumbling. You are probably asking what do these workers manufacture. Here lies the irony. In the midst of the rubble of scrap market, here stands a building which manufactures beauty products. I see you are not surprised. But think of those old objects waiting to be crushed and here lies in front of them this factory producing all the items which everyone from a young blood to an old soul uses for facelifting. What do they feel? This raises an interesting question. What do old dying people think of when they see young ones around them, a stage which they have passed but still cherish in their dreams? Are they jealous and their emotions ridden with anxiety and fear or they are willing to taste the death as it comes only once? Let me tell you sir that those who are enjoying their death are those who have led a content life and state of being content is not defined by words like destiny or fate.
The noise has stopped. The silence reminds me of Gorky's "twenty six men and a girl". Here, in the factory I see Gorky's twenty six men working continuously in a twelve hour shift making beauty products without having the faintest idea who will use them. But they must be knowing that some girl would wear them. Does the girl has the idea that she is cherished by twenty six men in their darkest and deepest fantasy. Probably not. They have never seen her but she remains alive in their hearts in different forms and shapes.
The silence has become overwhelming now. My chain of thoughts is being broken, I am revolving round and round between those old objects to Gorky's twenty six men. Life is taking a full circle here and I need to get out from this vicious circle. I need to close my eyes for dreams of open eyes are more dangerous. I need to sleep.
