Samay

The grand brass bell of the ancient temple of Samaypur did not toll for the hours. Instead, a massive, unyielding stone pendulum of black granite swung in the central courtyard, slicing through the humid air with a rhythmic, heavy swish, dividing eternity into equal, indifferent beats.

The villagers called the pendulum Kaal, convinced that its movements dictated the tides of shubh and ashubh; auspicious and inauspicious times. When the monsoons were gentle and the marigold fields bloomed, they offered sweet laddoos, chanting, "What a blessed time Mahadev has given us!" When the droughts cracked the earth and the cattle wept, they beat their chests, crying, "The times are cursed."

But Kabir, the silent keeper who tended the oil lamps beneath the temple arches, knew the truth. Time was neither a benevolent deity nor a wrathful demon. It was a river of pure Ganga water; flowing, unfeeling, and completely blind to human prayers. There was no such thing as a good time or a bad time. There was only time. It simply was.

Instead of seasons, Kabir measured existence by the travelers who drifted into his courtyard along the dusty highway. He was a man made of deep river silt and quiet wisdom, a reservoir of unconditional patience. And because he was a reservoir, thirsty souls always found their way to him.

First came Mira, a young classical singer with a broken voice and a hollow chest. She arrived when the summer heat was at its peak, her eyes wild with a drought of inspiration. Kabir opened his veranda to her. He gave her his midnight conversations, his grandfather’s ancient musical treatises, and the quiet, steady warmth of a clay cup of ginger chai. Mira drank deeply. From Kabir’s vast spiritual expanse, she took the best of him, his profound stillness, his capacity to listen, and the golden, unexpressed ragas of his soul. Her voice returned, richer and deeper; her name began to echo in the royal courts. Then, just as suddenly as her voice had bloomed, her need for him ended. She packed her tanpura. With a brief, distracted bow of respect, she stepped into her palanquin and passed on. She had taken the best of him to light her own lamp, leaving Kabir with an emptier courtyard and a handful of ash.

Next came Dev, a bitter man fleeing the wreckage of a ruined business and family feuds. He arrived when the monsoon clouds hung heavy. Unlike Mira, Dev did not want Kabir’s light; he was drowning in anger and needed a place to dump his poison. For months, Kabir bore the weight. Dev drew out the absolute worst in Kabir, testing his patience until it snapped, provoking a harshness Kabir didn't know he possessed, and turning the peaceful sanctuary into a battleground of bitter arguments. Dev picked at the rawest, unhealed scabs of Kabir’s psyche.

Once Dev had purged his internal demons into Kabir’s space, his shoulders lightened. He stood up, adjusted his silk kurta, and left for the city without looking back. He had used Kabir as a sacrificial fire to burn off his own impurities, leaving Kabir to clean up the soot.

Kabir sat on the stone steps, watching the granite pendulum slice the air. Swish. Swish. He felt like a wayside dhaba, a transient stop where people pulled over to refuel or discard their trash before moving toward their grand destinations. He had made these travelers his absolute karma and priority. He had rearranged his life, his peace, and his prayers to accommodate their arrivals and departures.

Yet, to them, he was merely an option. A convenient shade tree during a hot afternoon.

One evening, as a young traveler knocked on the heavy wooden gates, seeking refuge from a sudden dust storm, Kabir paused. He looked at his reflection in the polished brass of the temple lamps. He saw the hollows under his eyes left by Mira, and the sharp, bitter lines around his mouth left by Dev.

He realized then the profound error of his own devotion. He had treated passing guests as permanent deities. He had allowed himself to be a footnote in chapters where he should have been the epic itself.

Kabir opened the gate, but he did not step aside. He stood firmly in the threshold. He offered the traveler a coarse wool blanket and a plate of simple khichdi, but he did not offer his soul. He did not let the man reach into his reservoir to take what he willed.

"The storm will pass by dawn," Kabir said, his voice as steady as the pendulum. "You may rest in the outer veranda, but tomorrow, your road awaits."

As the traveler slept, Kabir went to the center of the courtyard. He understood now. People enter your life like seasonal winds; some will carry the scent of jasmine and take your light, others will bring the dust and drag you into their darkness, and then they will pass on. To curse the samay; the timing of their arrival is foolishness; time is neutral. The fault lies in making a passing traveler your destination.

Kabir smiled, a genuine, liberating smile. He would no longer be an option for those who only sought a temporary anchor. He belonged to his own divine center. And as the great stone pendulum swung forward, he stepped in rhythm with it, moving onward, bound to no one’s journey but his own.

The Storyteller 2.0

The fluorescent lights of the office didn't flicker, but to Milind, they hummed; a low, vibrating frequency that seemed to sync with the dull throb in his temples. He sat at his desk, his fingers moving across the keyboard with a mechanical precision that felt more like a haunting than a career. 

Around him, the world was a blurred timelapse; colleagues drifted by like ghosts, their mouths moving in silent, urgent conversations about quarterly projections and logistics, everyone locked away in the private fortresses of their own ambitions. 

He leaned back, his eyes glazing over as the office noise faded into a distant roar, realizing that these days he was falling into a trance. He could see them all, quite occupied in their own worlds, and while he minded his own business and maintained that cold, sharp focus on the work, life beyond the screen was becoming a desert.

The irritability had started as a spark and was now a slow-burning fire. A ringing phone felt like a physical strike, and a casual "Good morning" felt like an emotional demand he could no longer meet. 

He looked at his hands and realized they were shaking, gripped by the fear that it was either a disturbed mind or something deeper and more permanent. He knew he was eroding, and if he didn't find an anchor, he would drift out so far that he might finally get lost in the grey.

That night, Milind didn't turn on the television or scroll through the curated lives of strangers. Instead, he dug through a cardboard box in the back of his closet until his fingers brushed against the leather grain of an old notebook, its yellowed pages filled with the half-finished dreams of the man he used to be. 

He realized then that he had to devote time to rekindle his old hobby of writing stories; it was the only thing that had ever offered him true solace, a much-needed peace against the encroaching silence of his life. Perhaps a change in place or a short vacation was necessary to break the cycle, but as he sat on the floor with a pen in hand, he knew he had to find a remedy soon. The first sentence he wrote was a shaky, honest admission of his own existence, a small flare sent up into the dark to ensure that, despite the monotony and the fear, he was still there.