Not a bookshelf

The plan is to wake up early. Much persuasion has taken place the day before. He has repeatedly been disappointed especially when his hopes were high. But this time the possibility seems real. He has heard the facts, though not seen them. Doubts cast little shadows upon his hopes. But he is ready. And this time, things are timely. There is efficiency. Voices on the other side of the telephone have been hard for him to deal with. Often they have been like arrows, disguised.

As he walks out, he is already sweating. The truck is like a locked trunk, something out of a young boy's memory. It is secured and gives the illusion of always having been so. The man in red disappears into the dusty heat in a search for his companions. As he watches, he is indifferent to standing under the shade or under a sun, rapidly growing hotter. The guard with a large wart on his cheek empathizes with his request but is unable to violate an unreasonable rule. Everyone is accountable. They carry the boxes on their shoulders. He tries helping them with the little things instead of standing to merely watch. They seem quite unassuming and he appreciates that. He is angry perhaps, or even beyond anger but he knows better than to be strict with them. They are doing their job and are not to blame. Despite having to carry boxes through larger distances, first by the pool and then through the children's park, they make good time. He watches them bent over. And he tips them. It seems only natural. And finally music trembles over the remains.

They all huddle into a room. New and old. Strangers, some. Curly hair, freshly shaved faces, some bright red, like an absurdly red T-shirt. The speaker reminds him of a Koala, his eyes spread so far apart they could belong to different people. He isn't inspired. He searches for clarity but it isn't there. Reasonable appeals are echoed back and though the tone might suggest empathy, the words don't, the measures don't. There are ways to motivate and it isn't always through the most obvious temptations. He suspects the speaker might have been a man of detail once but he has moved on now. Upwards and towards confusion. No one is pleased but it seems like the worst was anticipated.

The songs that fill his ears stop and though he knew it would, he is surprised. Lights glow dim. He then proceeds to battle the waves.

While taking a U-turn, a man in a cycle almost hits him. He is very slow, has used the indicator as well and thinks it is not his fault. But then he realizes, such facts are useless in the reality of Indian roads. It is never about whose fault it is. He chuckles a little thinking about the analogies here and thinks some are true. But the rest of the way is safe. Circumstances are easy, he thinks. And it all might take time. There is nothing to lose patience about.

In the evening the mechanic arrives. He is tall, well dressed, a man with greying hair, decent English, and courteous, polite manners. He watches as this man ties a torch to his head, cover his eyes, his face and begins drilling. Engrossed in his calculations and his work, he doesn't notice him as he watches. Then he leaves to pick up the books. There is no place for them in this house and he will make one soon. He feels drained after the day. He has had little to eat and has perhaps run into too many walls. He doesn't seem to know, so he takes out a couple of snickers from the fridge to chew upon them. And slowly, almost painfully the books find a temporary home. He returns to see the man still at work, his grey T-shirt is now darker and he offers him water. It is refused till the task is completed. He sees many qualities he admires and feels respect. The apparatus, now hanging on the balcony is an invention of the mechanic himself. This man tells him about certain household devices he is trying to build and ideas he is trying to perfect. There is a touch of unmistakable pride in his humble voice when he talks about little adjustments and improvements he makes to his devices. He wishes he knew more engineers like this man, who know what they do, and who demonstrate them beautifully and most efficiently. And above all, care about them. He feels a bit reluctant to accept the discount they have talked themselves into. But it is too late. This is as close to Pirsig's mechanic as he can remember having encountered in recent times.

There are so many encounters during the day. so many new people. Some alternating between light and shadow. He stifles a few yawns, but then there are ones he remembers. He hopes to meet them again.

The moth crawls about the light-box and it is time to sleep. In fact, it is beyond that.