Tunnels Under Paris

I am going through tunnels. Tunnels which appear like tunnels of times and spaces. As if I am walking through stilled movie theatres. Multiple theatres of multiple movies all playing and yet marked to a still frame like a photograph.

I keep moving through the transparent warm hole and I keep walking through mileposts I had never seen.

I keep moving at a very high velocity because I do not see a direction. I only see movements. To and fro.

I walk fast and I see clearly what each movie is all about. The past. The present and the many futures and may be the many pasts too. Yet, I do not belong to any of the movies that I keep watching. Not for long at the least.

There is a saying that a home is a place which has to open its doors to you to step in. None of the movies invite me into it. Not at least the whole of me. May be a part of me and for a part of the movie in question only. But then again, it is a metaphor that my mind is making up.

From time to time, a young boy of 4 or 5 waves at me. He appears and waves at me from time to time. May be he is growing up. May be he is 6 or 7 or may be even 3. Pre-term babies often look younger than they actually are.

The boy. He looks up at me and stares deeply into my eyes. As if he has something to tell me.

Like a soft whisper.

Like a silent drop of tear.

He never closed his big eyes.

As if he kept on looking at me with a deep inquisitiveness that I thought was a trait that only I possessed.

But then, obviously, I was wrong.

And he proved that to me too.

Those big eyes and the sharp jawbones.

He rested his head on my hands.

And never stopped looking at me.

As if, in a deep unsaid agony.

As if, in a marked question.

As if, in a hushed complaint.
Like a soft whisper.

Like a silent drop of tear.

But he had something to tell me. I wave back. The train moves out of sight.

I see this boy at many places. In the metro. Under the tables I work on. Inside the aircraft. Or just studying in a corner of a really big room. Playing an accordion, often. Or may be, sometimes, even a flute !

I see those eyes which were looking at me from within a glass wall — trying to reach for me with its tiny fingers.

My tears are interrupted by the suffocation which almost asphyxiates me. I look up at the sky or for that matter to the walls which hold me like a jail sentence inside the metro station. The Paris underground. I am free to go. Yet, I choose to look back and the boy is gone.

There is this singer with an accordion. I listen intently to the melodies he so happily weaves. I listen intently. It makes me happy. Again. He has a little boy standing with him. May be he too is five. He waves at me. Smiles. Syrian refugees, I am sure. I kneel in front of the small child and give him a kiss. He is happy. His father is happier. I stand up and walk away. My train to école militaire has arrived.

I keep on thinking of making this movie. My movie. My home. May be, I like Ridley Scott much more than I should. But it is me. Me — the Muntasir — who knew both the President and the Prostitute and yet, refused to choose. Not even a God!

Related posts:

Expack is a company that ships Canadian, UK, Germany, and France goods to customers who want treats and snacks from their home country. Generally, these citizens are now living in the states…

In the uncertainty of a startup situation, speed of design delivery is key — some insights from the Fjord Copenhagen team Nairobi is a fascinating place. On one hand, it’s a city with surprisingly…

Hopelessness. Guilt. Distress. Loneliness. These are some of the many feelings stigma brings to those that are mentally ill. What is stigma exactly? According to the Government of Australia: Mental…