Lost in Thoughts

Today was, perhaps, the hottest day of the year. The intensity of the sun was at its peak, and the scorching rays of the sun were certainly too much for anyone to bear. No sign of shade and no gust of wind. No clouds in the sky and no people in the streets. This heat and weather were too cumbersome for every one...every one except me. Yes, the heat doesn't affect me any more, nor does the cold take a toll on me. Actually, nothing affects this seventy two year old body now, for it has seen it all. Rough weather is nothing compared to what I have experienced. Accident, poverty, deaths of loved ones, homelessness, hunger, loneliness and what not. There's no kind of pain that fate has not made me familiar with.

My appearance is certainly not something people cherish. When people look at me, they see an old man with a beard as unkempt as it can be, working in torn, stinky clothes and drowning in his sweat. The only thing my appearance is good for is...striking fear in children. Parents, who are having a tough time controlling their children, point out at me so as to show the children that if the don't behave, an old, ugly and scary man will come to kill them or something. The irony is that the same parents criticize for objectification based on looks...sigh.

But things weren't always like this, nor was I born scary. I wasn't always alone, nor was I always homeless. There was a time when I was loved. There was a time when rough weather was tough for me to bear too. But that was a long time ago. Everything has changed now.

Any ways, I was busy digging the ground in order to get to the faulty sewerage line which needed to be repaired. I had been working continuously since morning and it was almost noon. My body was working on empty; it didn't have any strength to face the burning heat. How could I have any strength, when I hadn't eaten anything last night? Whenever I am faced by such conditions, I always get lost in thought and my focus gets completely off of the work. I got lost in memory lane today, too, while I dug deeper and deeper.

I remembered the beautiful days of my life. The days when I was happy. The days before that wretched accident happened. Once, in the distant past, I had a wife and a son. My wife was the most beautiful creation of God, perhaps the only one who saw beauty in my not-so-beautiful being. The love we shared was of the kind that was described by Keats and Shelley in their verses and poems. An year after we got married, we had a son, who was as beautiful as his mother. That day was, perhaps, the happiest day of my life; everything was perfect.

I wasn't an educated man and so this capitalist society never considered me fit for a good job. But that didn't matter any more, for I had a son now for whom I was willing to even walk on fire. I never wanted my son to face the hardships I had faced.

I wanted to give him the best possible education, so that he could have the opportunities I never had. I worked day and night and put in extra shifts, all for my son to have a bright future. I and my wife sacrificed everything; and we succeeded. My son got admitted in some fancy, foreign university; the name of which I've never learned to pronounce. After my son completed his education and returned, he was a man, and we were proud of him. He had exceeded our expectations. My son got a very reputable job, and I retired. We were all so happy. Everything was perfect...until two years later, there was a traffic accident. My son was driving home from work, when he got hit by a lorry and...well he was dead even before he reached the hospital. You have no idea of how much I wish I was dead with him, too. His death didn't only bring sorrow for us, but our lives fell apart after that. I was never able to find employment, and because my son's house was on lease, we eventually became homeless. Food became rare for us, and we had nothing except each other. Time passed by. Things were tough, but bearable, for love gives one strength. But fate was jealous of our self-contentedness and love, and my wife got diagnosed of cancer.

Lost in thought, I kept on digging and accidentally hit and burst the sewerage pipe. The stinky, muddy and...shitty water squirted all over the place, including me. My clothes, which were already soaked with sweat, now became soaked with...excrement, but it didn't matter at all to me, for you have no idea of how this...this sewerage water is not as alien to us unfortunate ones, as it is to the lucky folks. Any ways, after putting in an extra hour, I was able to curb the trouble I created by fixing the leak in pipe. My job was over for the day. I sat on the footpath, like I do everyday, and smoked a cigarette before I took the walk home. As I was sitting there, staring at the lucky folks, who had no inkling of just how blessed they were, I noticed a page torn from a book lying next to me. It must have been thrown there by some fellow, after he used it as a carrier for his hot dog, for he knew little of the value of books. Trust me when I say that some people value toilet paper more than books. I lifted up that paper and tried to read what was written on it. It contained the following words of poetic gold:

"Our love, oh beloved, had to come to an end,
For death, my dear, is our one true friend."

Oh how simple and easy do these poets make love and the loss of beloved sound. But what do they know of pain? They don't know real love, for they have never looked into the eyes of someone and felt completely helpless. They don't know real intimacy, for they have never touched a hand and become as warm as candle. Nor do they know real loss, for they have never held that same hand and said that it'll all be alright, even though they knew deep down in their hearts that it wouldn't be. Poems are merely rhetorical, meant to be read and appreciated, and nothing more. They don't have the emotions, they can't carry the...pain, because real pain and true love can never be described in words. There's no language invented to do justice to these emotions.

The irony is that I, too, was a poet once. I, too, tried to produce such poetic gold once. But after my wife left me, an year ago, I never did poetry again. I just never found the strength to create romantic poems now that my beloved was no more, nor could I find the words to describe the pain I felt. And even if I were to write one, who would read it? For the one who cherished my words was no more. Poetry, it seems, is like a breeze in a person's good times.

First my son, then my wife. I had it all, but I lost it all. My life could have been so much different from what it is now. I could have had love, I could have kissed my grand kids, I could have enjoyed my old age, I could have lived. People consider themselves unlucky because they are born in a middle-class family, or because they don't fit into the modern criteria of beauty, or because they don't get to eat their favorite meals everyday, or because they don't have...an iPhone 6. What do they know of bad luck? Bad luck is when your life investment, your heir, is taken from you. Bad luck is when the only person who made you beautiful is no more. Bad luck is when your beloved is dying in front of your eyes and all you can do is cry. Bad luck is when water similar to that of sewerage is a blessing for you. Bad luck is when you welcome death and it doesn't come to get you.

Lost in thought, I started my walk home.