Lost Race

He was sitting in a corner, all alone by the table. Cup of coffee stayed cold while he was lost in thoughts. For a passerby, he was one of the aged, homeless, aimless, lifeless men who’d not even deserve a second look by the “busy US”. But for the world in his mind, he was a celebrity of his own genre.

Our parents grew up listening to him lending his magnificent voice to the immortal romantic songs in the movies, making a normal actor to a legend. We even come across the legendary name of the actor marked in grandeur naming the streets, the community, and some even go to an extent of worshipping him for the characters the actor portrayed. When the actor was put into the test of his lifetime, the whole city stood still, forcibly by those who saw him beyond as a normal being. The roads were blocked, shops closed down, schools and colleges shut down, riots unveiled in every corner of the city and media working on their toes to showcase his sufferings. News spread from city to nations, people from every sector giving their condolences. There were numerous offerings given to the God for the actor’s wellbeing. Even the politician didn’t let their hands off and made a mockery of the entire situation. Finally the tough time bowed down and opened the gates to the actor’s safety. He was safe, walked out heroically from his troubles and was again treated kingly for his success.

Meanwhile there was another soul, whose career came to a halt as his voice would no suit anyother actor other than the legendary actor himself. However, to his fate, the actor had chosen to sing for himself in all of his movies.

The actor lived to his name, but the voice who gave us the songs was lost in the race. He chose a life of anonymity, for that was far better than seeing his career buried. But he’d still not let go his possession. He’d still wear the Mysore turban and the silk shawl given in honor of his talent. He sought a life which saw him sitting by the corner in one of the city’s old restaurants, sipping a hot cup of coffee and nothing else. He sat hours together, scribbling on his book with shaky hands. There were lots of people visiting the place and they failed to even acknowledge his presence. He’d sometime walk into a gathering and put forth a request to allow him to sing.

He is remembered occasionally for his songs by those people who respected the talent. However, the count is handful. They’d come to him, reminding him of the songs which had touched them in several ways. On their request he ended up singing couple of lines for them. And he was treated with yet another coffee. A mere way of showing their respect to him, but they failed to see the tears rolling down his eyes. He was not meant to be here, he was meant to be a legend by himself. But who’d listen to him. Isn’t it the society’s rule that someone will be remembered only in their absence? He is not remembered in 2nd half of his life, and doubtfully will not be remembered even in his absence.

He is walking the path of loosing an identity, and yet he is so alive, sitting by the corner of his favorite table. Cup of coffee still cold as his thoughts were for now. Lost in his thoughts, his tired eyes caught up with some sleep. When the hotel was to shut down for the day, he got up, took his belongings – a torn umbrella to beat the heat, a newspaper, a diary, pocket full of pens and cheap plastic covers which supposedly had his bare essentials. The table might see him again the next day, if he survived to walk for another cup of coffee.

He walked himself out of the table into the road of darkness. He deserved a better position and state of living, but destiny had his say on the singer’s life.