once...at times

· I play simcity and the gridlines get etched on to my retina. Wherever I go those crisscrossing lines hover in front of me. I stare at the blackboard and I see them. I look up at the display board at the Howrah station and instead of the timings of the trains I see the gridlines. And when I close my eyes they become more prominent, against a backdrop of dirty red. And when I dream in my sleep I see every thing from behind a screen of persistent gridlines.
· I travel in a crowded train, a train full of people returning home after their days work. All the seats are full beyond their capacity and so are all the available spaces in the compartment. Their sweat drenched shirts press against each other and they breath down one another's neck. I stand sandwiched among them. A pall of stench hovers overhead. As my legs ache and my lungs get filled with unpleasantness I think of a journey when I had had an entire seat to myself. I remember that I had leaned back against the backrest and stretched out my legs and cool wind was blowing through the window against my face and playing with my hair.
· I travel in a crowded bus, a bus full of people who apparently have to board a single bus although hundred other buses are plying on the same route. The bus gets stuck in a traffic jam. For a minute I feel the vibration of the engine beneath my feet and observe my co-passengers. A old man. Two guys who think they are cool. A businessman with crates of some unknown goods at his feet. A row of sad looking middle-aged women occupying the ladies seat. Then suddenly the engine die a sudden death and all become very still. A grunt rises among the passengers in an angry chorus. A man mutters something and few others mutter something more in support. The clock ticks by. I become restless. I bend down and try to catch a glimpse through the window and I see a sea of vehicles, hopeless and clueless, presided over by huge hoardings with smiling faces. The air inside becomes stale. Minutes pass but nothing moves. I hope the bus will move again soon. Then I become angry. Anger gives in to frustration. But nothing changes. Gradually I begin to take a sadistic pleasure in the proceedings. I love the aching in my leg, the revulsion I feel from nauseating breathings around me excites me. I look forward to the prospect of being stalemated here hour after hour until we have to disembark and take to the street on our foot. I envisage every road in the entire city being filled to the brim with motionless cars. Suddenly the engine spring back to life, the bus starts moving and fresh air rush in through the windows. I heave a sigh of relief.
· I travel by the early morning train. The train is nearly empty and I take a seat by the window and as the train rushes along, disturbing the morning stillness I see men relieving themselves by the side of the railway track. One of them stands up with embarrassment written over his face as the train pass by him. All other men study their own private parts.
· I start to keep a diary with the novel intention of keeping an account of my life, which at times drives along a long stretch of road that runs through an expanse of flat land and sometimes negotiates the dangerous curves of the mountains. Every night before I go to bed I duly fill up a page and at the end I look a t the blank pages and wonder what will be their contents. Somewhere along the way I lose my zeal and subsequently the whereabouts of my incomplete diary. Many years later I come across it while executing a cleanliness drive in my room. It is soiled and moth eaten. I take a break and go through its pages. I smile, while at times the smile goes away as I read words that I had once written. Then I come across the blank pages. For a moment I stare at them. I notice they are no longer white. They have become yellowish from dust and grime.