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A lazy realization
Perhaps the only place in Delhi where one doesn't need an AC in the harsh months of summer is the stairs of gate no. 1 of the race course metro station. Sitting there carelessly, you can easily drift away from the echoes of the city's magnanimous rush and the pinnacle of its concrete structures.

What happens there? You see, after arbitrary intervals of time, chilly gusts swipe across your face sending eerie chills down your spine, providing refuge from the numbness of the heat. But as I said "after arbitrary intervals of time", which means you never know when the wind will treat you with its presence and therefore all you can do is anticipate.

Before I elaborate any further I would like to drift away into a second stream of thought. Who are we, and what is it we live for, what drives our madness, why do we keep hope, why do we dream, why do we love inconsequentially or why do we even exist?

The train of questions can stretch beyond the depths of reality and curl into the shadows of the infinite and what lies beyond it, just like the Himalayas, crowned with glaciers and standing ever tall, extending into the skies and pitying every human who claims to have ascended its peak and deducing in his ignorance that he has conquered it. There is unknown and then there is 'known'; what we know is simply a dubious misinterpretation of sensory information that our mind wants us to believe in. But that is all gibberish, period.

Our days are spent doing work that we abhor and our nights catering to our raw thoughts ready to wander into the utopia of all the things that we have long forgotten. In our dreams, things scream and we listen; in reality we scream and the constructs listen.

Everyday we sit on a pyre, with flames of the society turning the fabric of our dreams into the ashes of despair, but no phoenix emerges from this pyre. What rises, is a more obedient, goal oriented and self-interested machine which as Oscar Wilde put it, 'knows the cost of everything but the value of nothing'. A machine, whose idea of happiness is money made from the sap of a tree whose sight he abhors, money whose ink is derived from the breast of nature's wilderness that he doesn't want to drink from-yet unknowingly, he does.

We want peace but pay for it with chaos, we want happiness but gain it by plunging into sadness, we want to live, but we live like we are dead already. There are stars that we can't name but use them to navigate through the rough tides of the unforgiving seas, just like there are problems that we don't know of but use them to occupy the empty spaces of our thoughts.

A human being is product of quantum and cosmic conundrums. We have 1 trillion atoms in our body at our disposal, working all day and night just to keep us alive, yet we search for hope in some distant mountains or galaxies, we are so lost into our own selves, that we forget that we are not a singularity, but rather a part of a singularity.

Sitting there on the stairs, you can hear the sound of cars struck in traffic jams, feel the moistness in the air and smell the people walking past you. All this time you wait for the next installment of a chilly breeze; you get used to the waiting and the relishing, and never get enough of it. After sometime you realize that it is taking more time for the breeze to blow and its intensity is decreasing but you still hold on to hope and wait for that one final gust that will totally cool you down.

You don't want to let go, you want to drift into your thoughts and day dream about all the things that you want to be. The wind comes and the wind goes and now you are at an impasse. Should you leave the place and again face the melting heat outside or should you stay? It creates a conflict.

Finally you decide to wait and this time, the gust takes a lot of time, you get tired but you can't let go, you've waited so long, why should you! A much less intense breeze comes and less significantly cools you. It leaves you sad and now you realize that sometimes things don't come back as they were supposed to and sometimes it's better to let go. You stand up; carelessly rub the dust off and walk away ascending the stairs one by one. While walking away you feel like the chilly blows have returned, but you don't turn back, you can't turn back, you keep walking and at some point, obliterate into the crowd.

Later you realize that the intensity of the gusts never decreased nor did the time interval increase, it was simply your body getting used to the changing temperature. You realize that all the while you waited for the breeze, it was already there, but you were just asking for more. Your relative thresholds were changing. Now you feel enlightened, you feel different.

But, you were never there at the stairs, why would you even bother to take a moment from your busy life. You are happy with your air conditioned rooms; you are happy sitting on the sofas than on the stairs.

You were never there at the race course metro station; you never existed, neither did I.

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