The Love Within

The hour hand of the small round clock ticks to 6. Dawn is yet to break in the horizon. Manik almost exhales a sigh, still lying on the mattress on the floor, which by now gives a touch of dampness from his night-long perspiration. He has been observing the slow, periodic motion of the clock-hand for nearly 2 hours. It is almost as if an anticipation for the end of the clocks journey at 6 kept him awake. Only to realize, disappointingly, the clock keeps on ticking.
Struggling to get up, Manik attempts to brush away all the floating thoughts in his mind. But it seems overwhelming to do so.
It’s been 3 months. The mind still lingers in randomly emerging faint memories, which progressively accumulate to inundate the senses with denial of the current situation, striving to break through. It is like what is happening is not true, a gust of wind will come anytime and diffuse this mist that is blocking the morning sun.
At the corner of the room, curled up almost like a fetus, lies Shen, the man from China. He is fast asleep, with his mouth slightly open. From far anyone would assume as though he had frozen to death, and a slight knock would severely compromise his integrity. Manik remains oblivious to such details, and approaches the sink to wash his face. His vision blurs as he stands up, and for a moment he think he is going to collapse. He clings on to the sink upon reaching it, taking a moment for his vision to recover before turning the tap. With several forceful splashes of water to his face, he attempts to diffuse the signs of a sleepless night from his mind and body. The feeling is not as gratifying from that of water from a clay pitcher stored overnight, but Manik makes do with it, like he has accustomed himself to many other things less trivial than this. In a turn of his head, he finally notices Shen, and can't help but envy such peacefulness in sleep that he is bestowed.
Manik and Shen are individuals of two different niche. Yet they share one common existence of solitude. Their differences all succumb to their underlying reality of living in a country not of their own, far apart from everything they hold dear. The religion of emigration is blasphemous in how it rejects all other religion, and it’s speech forcefully takes away all others.
Yet, in a way, they both seek happiness in what they do here. During the daily calls to his wife, which occurs after 8 at night when the IDD rates are cheaper, Manik never mentions the restricting four corners of the rubbish dump they sleep inside. Neither does he give a hint that he has a fever from soaking in the rain the other day, or cite the foul smell of rotting garbage that he has got used to at night. Evidently, and as he constantly reiterates to himself, the happiness that he longs for is not embedded in sheer hedonism, but something intangible. As for Shen, he does not have a wife, nor a family. His folks died trapped beneath the wreck of their own house after an earthquake collapse 2 years ago, leaving Shen nothing at all to sustain himself. You can't tell, not at all, by looking at Shen at this very moment, that he has gone through any such calamities in his life. Neither in his general demeanor can one notice any sign of trauma, but rather a personality that is exceptionally jovial, a bit more so then the general norm. It is of utmost intrigue, that if one could logically decipher the mysteries of human emotions and their effect on individuals that bear them, would the art of human interaction be much easier?
Manik gets ready to go out.
The bus stop provides a cooling shade from the scorching sun. It is only late morning, yet the sun seems to have prematurely risen with all its might and exuberance for some grand occasion. If only the reason of such enthusiasm was revealed to unfortunate earth dwellers like Manik, would they be able to equally rejoice in this phenomenon. The walk from Maniks' sleeping place to the bus stop is a relatively short one, but painstakingly tiring nonetheless. It comprises of several steep ascending terrains, which can easily be classified as small hills, along with several downward slopes, thus the path frivolously plays with the rhythm of your steps. With this in favor, and its unexplained morning frenzy, the sun has managed to imprint intricate patterns in sweat both on the back and front of Maniks' peach color cotton-polyester shirt.

It is as if this bodily excretion, sweat, is Maniks' perpetual companion in all his times of looking back at things, or whenever he voluntarily or involuntarily attempts to let arise a moment of self-reflection within himself. Deeply, it assures Manik of his vigor, his manhood and the intensity of his passion and lust at most sensitive of moments. The sap of confidence and self-assurance flows through his body with ever more vitality with every drop of his perspiration. It reminds him of the unbearable summer in his village that preceded monsoon, the ones that he used to spend contemplating about life resting under the banyan tree near to his house.