The Cold

Death is cold and death seems unmoving. However, for Kevin death should have come to him a long time ago. Around his body, thin sheet of blankets covered him, but it he would need for than to save him. The blankets were all wet, except for the one next to him. The falling snow and the biting frost had made it wet. It would take more than a few blankets to save him. If Kevin could see look in the mirror, he would shiver; shiver of the cold, shiver to see his frail body. He vibrated and shivered even more, his body quivered, reverberating desperately to create warmth in him. Already, his usual dirty skin had a tinge of blue.  

It would take a nice warm house to save him. But every since the bank took his house, living and scavenging on the streets had become the life for Kevin. 

And as death came for him, not even Kevin realised it. His eyes were shut and he was in a deep sleep. His metabolism rate slowing down to a tiny pulse, and eventually it would stop and he would take breath his last. 

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The Police and the Law

Abdul just felt frustrated. His fingers tightly clutched the paper, crumpling the edges a bit. He was always a man who followed the legal rule book, but right now, he was in a dilemma. Slow wind blew from the rickety fan above him. With every swirl, the fan threatened to just fall off from its hook, but it didn't. The top button of his khaki uniform was unbuttoned and his lips gently blew wind inside trying to cool off his sweaty body. Today, after hunting the streets for over a month, another scum was in the lock up, another scum that caused pain, but as long as he was behind those bars, he couldn't hurt anyone. 

Six months as station officer and he already knew what was going to happen. Next day he would be presented to the court, bail would be granted and then he would just vanish. The same thing happened last month with another scum criminal. That was the system and Abdul knew he was in it. 

The scum in his jail was a rapist and a child fucker. Yet, tomorrow, he would walk out. Only, if the legal system was stronger, more sufficient. 

“Chai, sahib” a voice interrupted his thoughts. A fifteen year old child placed a glass of the hot beverage on his table. His head nodded, his hand put down the FIR that supposed to be filed and picked up the tea. 

“Saab”, spoke up Sameer, “You don’t need to think much about it, let me do it”. A constable with a large waist breath sat on a stood near the office entrance. His hand were wrapped around the stick which tapped on the floor. He was obviously annoyed at the Station Officer’s decision making process. 

The officer heard about such circumvention at the Academy, but he promised himself, it wouldn't turn out this way.  

The last of the hot tea drained down his throat and the office jerked his body up. “You’ve decided?” questioned the constable. The officer did not reply. 

From his office, past the small waiting area of the police station, he stood outside the lock up. A few petty thieves stood inside with the scum. “Get them out of there”, he ordered the constable. The fat constable charged inside and chased them out of the lockup and put them into the spare one. 

“Give me the stick”, the officer called out another order. The stick was placed in his hand, his feet charged inside the cell and his arm swung back. But the blow did not land on the scum. 

He couldn't do what needs to be done. 

Someone was tugging the stick out his hand. “Go home”, the constable suggested, “I will take care of this. Go home to your family.”

The stick slipped off his hand and into the constable’s. 

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The Working Class Hero

The mornings would be difficult for anyone to wake up and once upon a time, it was difficult for Jim to wake up too. Even before his alarm rang, his internal clock kicks in and he’s up. The tea is on the kettle, the tooth brush is in his hand and his eyes keep glancing at his watch. Soon enough he is done with his breakfast, dressed in his formal wear and he’s off to work.
  
The crowds crushed him, shoulders brush against his own and elbows nudge him. The public transport was teetering on the edge being over-whelmed with the population of the city. Then, he reaches work. From 10 – 7 he works. Well, not exactly, Jim’s got to account for the give or take of time. On paper, it's 10-7, but there is always a slight stretch of time. Work never ends. He packs up and heads back home, braving the thick crowd in the public transport again.

***

This time, Jim needed the ring of the alarm clock to wake him up. The tea was put for boiling, toothpaste brushed against his teeth. A sip of tea, a bite of sandwich and he was dressed in his formals and off to work. At the station, his eyes kept glancing at his watch for the train. Jostling crowds, people diving into the train, words bad mouthing people and then, he was in the train off to work.

At work, paper work swamped him. A pen in his hand and spectacles on the bridge of his nose, he dived into it. Start fast, finish soon; that was the idea. 1 o’ clock, 2 o’clock a quick lunch break at the office canteen. 7:30 done with work, time to head home for Jim. As always the trains kept jerking on the train tracks when it is just supposed to zooming by. Then, he reaches home.

***
Bang, the airplane engine explodes and he’s plummeting to the ground. Jim rolls of his bed, sending sensors to his brain. He wonders if he could have skydived in his dream. The toothbrush was stuck in his mouth as white minty lather dribbling out. The tea whistle rang out and quick hands switched off the gas. With breakfast churning in his stomach, crisply ironed clothes on his body and black polished shoes on his soles, he was off to work.   

Work place politics, assholes and good souls was what he met at office. Another lunch meeting of trying to convince higher ups. Work breathing down his shoulder, Jim got done at 8:30. He prayed that he would get powers to just fly home, but God didn't grant his wish. As usual, he battled the crowd, all trying to get home.

***
The alarm rang, he did not bother to open his eyes. His thumb jabbed the button and it stopped crying out. Saturday-Sunday, the only good in his life.

A day to introspect.

The professional industry is such that we work from 10-7, 10-7, 10-7 – day in and day out. A habit, a format, a work life schedule in exchange for money. For some the timings vary, but on some level we all work on a schedule format.

The industry forces everyone to work that way and it sucked for Jim. 

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