An Elevator in a Mall

Posted: February 29, 2020 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction, Micro-Fiction | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Waking up the man walked a kilometer to reach the mall. It was noon. Throughout the day he was falling asleep intermittently. Walking for twenty minutes in the sun he was not yet properly awake. Through the glass sliding door of the mall, he entered in a daze. Before knowing he was at the foyer.

Where the bright mesh of the LED lights, the fluorescence of the tubes of the corridor, neon signages blinking noisily; the whole foyer had been made in relative darkness so that the merchandises could shine.

The toy cars vroomed and vroomed, a lure to the small boys. A trampoline swayed the girls- they were shrieking. Bouncing and shrieking. Showing off joy. The customers gushing in and out of the shops- crisscrossing the corridors, gloom in their faces. Although that feeling was momentary. It would go away after purchase.

An elevator at the end of the foyer was lifting more bag holders heavenward. The riders stood in stiffness, in awkward proximity, with anxiety to reach the destination. Standing erect on a moving ladder- the silent, wanting beings- gradually being floated away from the man.

Looking at them he whispered, ‘What brought us here?’

The entire scene felt so strange to him.

The year was 2019. The month was November. The having-an-ambition-vs-the-other-ways-of-living argument had been settled in the man’s mind only a few hours ago. He had found in his observations that the most rebellious philosophy of the year against capitalism was in disguise a capitalism’s bastard child. Made of the same blood.

It had disoriented him.

Nevertheless, the man had to ask the question again. It came to him as easily as to a patient asking his whereabout, waking up in a hospital bed. Or, maybe a vile forgetfulness had overpowered the man. Now his curiosity shining.

Or, perhaps, he himself was from the past, a la Rip Van Winkle of 2019, waking up from a slumber, had found a strange habitation that had mossed around him.

Of which he was no part. Of which he wished to be no part.

The truth that to be happy again one is to be wary and earn money and spend. And earn. And spend and be weary again and earn. And be earning and be spending, and be happy and be weary at the same time- this prospect of two stop traveling bothered him. ‘This is futile’, he whispered to himself.

But pondering again under that boisterous light; visiting the food court, smelling AC perfumes, hearing the children giggle in the mall’s made-up cheerfulness; it was difficult for him not to be convinced by the wiliness of the modern time. He could not foresee how life would be led without its convenience, without its hope for progress. No matter how expensive that was. How one would convince others that one might not be as unhappy as one ought to be. From stillness comes satisfaction.

That life could be led without its constant croaks of neediness – that insight although seemed true, he didn’t know a way to convey it to his fellow beings.