His room is a small room. Dimly lit. Sparsely furnished. In a corner lies a table with a desktop. His bed lies not too far, and as it is with young struggling men, his bed is his sofa and his chair and his dining table.
He is very tired today. Work has been like how work always is. The two hour ride back home has offered nothing new except a few thoughts, which he has already arranged, voiced, designed and uploaded on his youtube channel.
Today’s video is his 49th video.
He shares this video on all his social media accounts and waits for the game of hits and clicks to begin.
He quit his job today. Life was going nowhere. No one wanted to listen to his stories.
115 Facebook friends.
13 twitter followers.
On the way back in the crowded train, he saw that every second person was glued to their mobiles. He glimpsed into a few and saw that the people were watching viral videos. How could he be on each one of those screens? How could he tell all these people his stories? How could he make them laugh, cry, think?
He felt defeated. And very soon he would be broke too. With the job gone.
What was he going to do?
I could always get drunk, he thought. And so he did. He got drunk that night. Very drunk.
Night of Day Twenty-Two
Cheap whiskey, so much of it, he had. Cheap shiskey, he laughed, shiskey. Haha.
One step after the other, a random walk, he tried to focus, breathe and remember his way back home. It was dark, late in the night, it was just 10, but in his side of town, in his poor side of town, people were usually in by 8 and by 10 most of the lights were off and on the brick-laden streets in his poor side of town were left the rejects of civil society.
The rejects came to him and they clung to him. Give us money, they said.
Shiskey, he laughed. I will give you something better, he smiled, I will give you the best of me.
He bought them some food, he sat with them under a fading street light and he told them his stories. His voice roared, it softened, his face changed colors and his eyes came alive. Just like they had in his videos, his videos, which no-one saw, no-one liked, no-one share, no-one commented. But here, the rejects were laughing and crying and shouting and clapping.
A light went on in one of the nearby building. A shadow appeared on a window.
When he was done, he cried a little. The rejects hugged him. Come again tomorrow, they said.
Night of Day One Hundred and Seventeen
He stills live in the poor side of town. But he is no longer poor. He no longer takes the train back from work, because his work place is down the brick-laden street. His home is still sparsely furnished but he no longer makes videos. He still tells his stories though. Every night, he tells them, under the same fading street-light of the night of day twenty-two; every night he tells his stories to not just the rejects of the civil society but to the entire world.
He sits on a chair and they come to him, the people from his poor side of town. They record his stories and they upload his videos.
178976 twitter followers.
179870 Facebook Subscribers.
He is on every screen now.
A little like this isn’t it?