We come across all sorts of people in this microcosm of ours, those who rule the stage, those who are behind the stage, and those who stand out in the crowd owing to their own charisma. Much has been said about them, much has been written about them. But there’s another kind, the kind least written of, the kind least spoken of.
The kind who is always there but never considered. You look through him, you look past him, you look over him, but you never look at him. He merges into the background as thoroughly as a wisp of smoke, as a chameleon in the greens. He is obvious, he is transparent, as ‘always there’ as if he were never there.
You will not find him rushing out to cheer the performance, you will find him sitting at a cozy corner of O.A.T stealing eyes from attention. You will not find him making merry at the market, you will find him relaxing in the lull of the common room. You will not find him at the A.E lawns bustling with the crowd during ‘informalz’, you will find him sneaking through B.O.K lest someone calls him upstage exposing his well concealed trepidation.
He has the talent but not the flair. He has the potential but not the belief. To him stage is a nemesis, to joust with whom is assured doom. To him fame is a far off dream, a rare gem. Too difficult to get, too precious to handle. He has forgotten the taste of appreciation. He has learned to tame the outbursts of his vibrant spirit. A deep fear stirs in there, which resurfaces whenever he tries to break the shackles.
Look at him, and you will see an impassive, deadpan surface. Delve deep, and hidden beneath the layers, you will find a vivacious soul. Concealed under the cloak of anonymity, lies the desire to be acknowledged. He feigns disinterest, but inside he yearns to be involved. There in his dreams, he is the master of the dais, the puppeteer of a thousand heaving hearts. Here in reality, he is but an overlooked, unconsidered fleck in the crowd. There in his dreams, he holds his love, dancing with her to the tune of his heart. Here in reality, he struggles for a fleeting glance, to preserve that image of hers to quench his longing soul.
He is not difficult to locate. A little of him is in you. A little of him is in me. He is the one sitting by the fire, listening to the stories of the security guard. He is the one leaning on a friends shoulder, laughing to his heart’s fill. He basks in the brahmasarovar breeze. He croons his way to the library. He knows the value of laughter. He knows the price of contentment. He has a collection of failures, a bouquet of resentments, and smiling over those, the insignificant nitian trots along.
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