A Second Childhood
Hey you, out there in the cold
He was a little kid, short & cute, with a thicket of hair that would one day be the envy of his neighbourhood friends with receding hairlines.
Getting lonely, getting old
He played with pigs in the sty, made mud caricatures in the front yard, and tried to moo back at the cows when they’d return in the evenings.
Can you feel me?
He was bright, cheerful bright; not the anti-idiotic bright that schools value these days. He was outgoing to the extent that he managed to venture out on all fours, and on occasions, pass the front gate before being lifted back inside by the matron or the other person whose face he couldn’t remember.
“You can’t give me the dreams that are mine anyway, half the world way.”
Now, slightly older than that little kid in the differently sized puddles of rain and pig poop, he dreams. He still wets his bed, but he dreams wetter dreams.
Hey you, standing in the aisles
Somedays he is sick, other days he manages to walk out onto the front porch. The puddles are mostly dry now, the poop has forcibly been pressed into the cracks and crevices in these dry puddles. And all the pigs were either minced or processed into succulent sausages, but he wouldn’t know how his childhood companions tasted. He was allergic to food, at least to most of it.
With itchy feet and fading smiles
He hears a cricket one day, and the mellow knock of a busy woodpecker. He imagines them to be a part of some long-forgotten orchestra. He sits up in his bed and strains his neck to get a glimpse of these, perhaps legendary, musicians. He always fails to spot them, but he tries until he tires and falls into a sudden sleep.
Can you feel me?
He loves the occasional cheers and shouts he hears from children he assumes are of his age, playing in the fields or making merry in the unruly waters of the river. He loves the rains, it reminds him of his bright childhood. And he clings onto such memories because he can feel these thoughts fading each passing day.
Hey you, don’t help them to bury the light
He dreams a lot.
He’s a merchant one day, ruler of the river he hears so often when the night is calm and the wind is barely moving.
He’s a bird on the other. Gliding about in the vast sky, eating whatever birds eat, chipping away at any wood or twig he finds. And with a gentle goodbye to the blue sky, he returns to his nest to sleep, soundly, tucking his toes inwards and resting them against his satisfied stomach.
Don’t give in without a fight
He’s older now. He sits on a rickety chair. On one hand, he holds a book, in the other, a handful of rye seeds. He half chews, half swallows them, while entirely engrossed in his book. It was something he found a year back. It is faded, and termite infested in the important places, but he manages to make out most of the images that are in it.
Hey you out there on your own
He discovered photos of people in rooms discussing something important. There were goats in one picture, grazing, and no one else in sight. There were mechanical bird-like things on one page, with black trails coming out from both their wings and glassy eyes and whirly rotating thingies on the wings as well. Strange birds indeed!
Sitting naked by the phone
Would you touch me?
There was a lady, and unlike her matron all dressed in boring white overalls and gowns, she was in miniature clothes. She had two strange, rounded, dough-shaped things on her chest, and a tuft of hair showing between her legs. She was too strange. Too thin, too open, too weird in her expression.
Looking at her for a minute or two always made him feel strange all within. He’d turn the page quickly whenever that happened. Consciously he knew that she’d be there when he flips through the book, but that was again something he felt he could look forward to. He just couldn’t figure out this lady in nothingness, yet she seemed to convey a lot with her looks.
Hey you with your ear against the wall
Waiting for someone to call out
He hates thunderstorms. He hates winds. And he especially hates the blinding flashes that are accompanied by loud, erratic booms. They scare him. They come unannounced, leaving his eardrums weak & his wits in total disarray. And then suddenly, there’s silence because he’s cupped his hands tightly over his ears. The determination with which he does this is remarkable. He may be sweating and shaking all over, but his ears muffle out anything remotely unfamiliar or foreign to him at that moment. And he huddles into a ball & mutters half-formed words; begging for light, begging for delight.
Would you touch me?
When he awakes, it is a new day. The wind has settled. The darkness has dispelled. His ears are slightly red, but somewhere they still echo last night’s storm. He’s unsure about looking outside. He waits cautiously to hear familiar sounds of birds & boys, and that hope makes him feel safer for now.
Hey you, would you help me to carry the stone?
Open your heart, I’m coming home
He’s lonely. He’s old; not broken bones & sagging skin old. He’s old within.
More importantly, he’s lonely, he’s cold. His heart beats, not because he’s alive, but to keep him alive. He feels fewer things each day. He hears the birds less often. The voices from afar no longer shout in ecstasy, but they sound accusing to his reddened ears.
But it was only fantasy
The wall was too high
As you can see
He knows not the past from the present. He knows not what to expect from his future. He has no prospects. He has forgotten where he left that book. He’s sad and angry, but it could have been hunger. He’s agitated maybe, but he just couldn’t find solace.
No matter how he tried
He could not break free
His dreams are darker now. He sees his pigs, but when he gets near he finds them dead. He sees his matron on a hilltop, she looks menacing, she’s got horns, and so he avoids her gaze as best as he can. He also sees a little kid running up & down the hill. He looks familiar. But before he can get to the kid, he wakes up in a mess of hair & phlegm down by the window sill. He curses out loud at no one in particular, and tries to recreate his dream, but to no avail.
And the worms ate into his brain
He’s stopped venturing out after that day. He hates the outdoors. He hates that he remembered those pigs. He had names for each of them. He hates his matron. He doesn’t know where anyone is, but he hates them all.
Hey you, out there on the road
Always doing what you’re told
Can you help me?
One day, he recalls that dream — The kid was running up the hill, towards the matron. He saw her lifting the kid up in an embrace. But he also saw her licking the child and smelling it thoroughly. Then suddenly, as if she had judged the kid redundant or unworthy, she threw the boy into a dark pit. And down went the kid, into a darkness filled with oinks, grunts and wailing babies.
Hey you, out there beyond the wall
Breaking bottles in the hall
Can you help me?
That shattered him. That sight, those sounds, that darkness. It consumed him. And subconsciously, he never did leave that dream — he dived, or he thought he did, into the pit of nothingness and more. He lashed about in there, but in reality, all he did was break whatever was in his reach.
There was blood everywhere. There were pigs everywhere. Just no child. Just no past, present or a future.
Hey you, don’t tell me there’s no hope at all
And soon he was breathing his last in that dark pit of mind, whilst lying on the floor of his mud hut, caked in blood and broken shards.
He felt warm suddenly. He wasn’t alone anymore. The kid was there, right in front of him, playing out in the mud, without any worry or care. And he involuntarily lifted the kid & put him on the front porch because he was venturing alone, outside the fenced yard. He found his pigs nearby, the mooing cows returning home, and saw the matron at the door.
And then there was a sudden flash, ominously followed by an echoing clap of thunder.
Together we stand, divided we fall.
This story was inspired by Pink Floyd’s song — Hey You.
