The Philosopher

People colorfully chequer our life. Its temptingly exciting to box people into categories and sort them in our head as types. I'm not wonderfully perceptive. Yet, I love to mentally label people in my head.My life is teeming with people; common,typical, plain, usual,conventional,strange,wierdly wonderful,attached,irreverent, melodramatic, detached, head strong,dont give a damn, cautious, evil, moral, stoic, eccentric, jovial, abusive, secretive, talkative. Its an exhaustive, ecclectic mix! And then there are some people. They zoom into your life and then right out. They just defy every conceivable idea of a type. They're defiant. They're special. They're special because they make a difference. They show you there's another way of living, another way of thinking. Another universe of being. Its rarely that I let people make themselves special to me. Infinitely, secretively special. Immensely special. One just revisited me today, briefly, over text messages.
A few short sentences punctuated a lazy sunday afternoon.An exclamation interjected the long hiatus. A question dispersed the vacuum of time. An answer reassured, things haven't changed. As always it didn't end with a full stop. It never did. He said, "call sometime..."
The cantankerous philosopher crept stealthily into the secret realm and got tagged 'special.' He's been there for a while now and not many have come close to displacing him. He does nothing to make him a worthy 'special'. He's not overtly expressive or caring. He'll never call, but will always say, 'call sometime.' He'll never send a message, but will promptly(almost affectionately) reply to every message. He'll rarely put an arm around you and say 'its going to be alright'. His green eyes, never judging, plainly do the trick. They reassure you.
He loves to talk. He can theorize about the poppy seed, the paratha or the porsche. He can see magic in a pencil top, a well toasted sandwich, a querty keypad or even a stupid cat. He'd like to own a audi or a merc, a rich woman and may be some camels. He likes the idea of a red harem, with a warm homely library, tucked away in some corner. The book shelf, he specifies, has to be of light wood, not encased in glass tombs, but open. He's thrilled at the thought of sitting on a huge heap of silver coins and flinging them in the air, just to hear them jingle.

He quit his corporate job because he wanted to quit selling his soul.

He can thrill you with ideas. He can slowly needle you on to something you never knew existed. He can puncture your zeal with his pessimistic vision. He can soar your dipping spirits with that reassuring smile, black tea and a drag. Special requests from excessively low spirits never go unredeemed, the guitar is strummed and a song is sung. The lazy bugger loves adventure, but it all HAS to be planned! Which bus? From where?Are you sure?What time?Really? Naah...I'll pass. I have to clean up the house.
Sprawled on the stony bench he throws a white beam of light on the tree overhead. He's looking for bats. He has a story. Always. But its rarely about him. You can pour your heart out to him.He'll unravel himself to you only in bits. And as you get to know him, you know there is a lot you have to compromise. Your expectations. Your ego. Your pride. What you share with him is too special to be compromised...for anything.Which is why I will call sometime...

And again we'll talk about the perfect reading room, with the wooden floors, white french windows, a low coffee table, open book shelves and old conversations.