Some are creating records. Others are making double histories.
And Most of them are half my age.
She won the Tennis Doubles again, Boy Band’s song is in the
top of the charts consecutively for the fifth week, he fought the soldiers all
by himself, they signed a pact and the stories alike. The insignificant-me can
do nothing but ponder over what to write.
In 6 billion, how much
do I matter?
To whom do I matter?
Why am I not a celebrity?
Why I am not talked about?
All these questions run behind my head while I wait at the
cobbler’s place. His workplace is a tiny steel box to fit him and ten pairs of
footwear that he had stitched together.
“How much ?”, I ask him with thoughts still lingering
somewhere subconsciously
I don’t know what he said but I handed over a lot more than
he asked for. I didn’t take the change and left the place with just a nod. I
remember him trying to smile through his infected mouth and say thanks. But, I wasn’t
in the right mind to take his gratefulness.
Am I not just another
person going to work, making a livelihood so that I can eat my next meal in peace?
Wouldn’t I been able
to something for others if I had more money or power?
I was doing a self-analysis in the middle of the road as if
the pollution would spray answers into me when a mother, with a little child
mounted on her scooter, tried to push her vehicle around mine. I just looked at
her, pushed my vehicle behind and let her pass ahead of me. I remember the
relief on her face and she explaining that the child was late to school. But, I
wasn’t in the right mind to take her thankfulness.
The flickering orange light in my vehicle indicated that
there was no petrol and this distracted me a bit. But, as soon as I saw a
poster of a famous car racer above the bunk, I was back into my own world of self-destruction.
I told the puny man over the machine for a tank full and he shot some
instructions like zero which hit off my head. Suddenly, I was woken by loud
honking by a huge white van, like it was the last day for all of us. I realized
there was a coil of green pipes in front of the vehicle which my puny man was
trying to push with his Popeye muscles. Being larger than him, with no second
thoughts, I helped him and brought peace to the Petrol Bunk. He whispered
something under his heavy breathe and folded his hands. But, I wasn’t in the
right mind to take his drama.
Wouldn’t people look
up to me if I was famous ?
Why was I not talented
at all ?
Again, I was stopped on the road not by the lights but by
the white shirt traffic police. He was signing hand signals to other side and
put us on hold for the time being. He was glancing over my side. It had to be
one of this; either I was so attractive that someone noticed me in the crowd or
I was doing something terribly wrong. In split moments, I realized he was
actually looking for his associate who was seated on the pavement with hand on
his head.
“Are you ok?” he shouted at his associate.
“No, I have a terrible headache”, his associated shouted
back.
As a spectator, I watched this like a movie on a screen
while realizing I have a good stock of analgesic that I was addicted to. I
pulled my bag, pulled out a strip and handed it over to him. He looked at me
like I was offering an atom bomb. After full 20 seconds of blank straight stare,
he blinked and accepted my atom bomb. The
white shirt traffic police signaled us to leave and I was on my way again.
It wasn’t until I reached my cubicle and opened my mails; I became
completely aware of the surrounding. There were multiple mails from customers asking
for lot of work to be done for the day. It made me feel that I was more important
at my workplace and there were people reaching out to me.
When I resorted to solve my clients’ issues, I felt a lot
more significant than the usual. At all other times, whose life is this
insignificant-me making it easy anyway?
