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OBSESSIONS

The wavelengths of the three flickered unrelated, each quivering under the mighty ripples of sunlight spread across the backwaters of their respective machineries.

The first wireless was squeaking at points which was a deliberate attempt to twitch the listeners' ears. The other two were perturbed at its pathetic babbling concerning a stupid motorbike. It talked of the engine, the speed, the comfort, the experience. However, all these seemed to be the perfect examples of mankind's tendency (often greatly stretchable) to entangle things into convoluted strings of terminology and frivolous aspects. The first wireless would telephone people, summoning their opinion on a piece of rubbish. After all, it is a mode of transportation and must be considered as ordinary unlike a free passageway to paradise. The squeaking, babbling noises didn't cease. It went all evening and what was supposed to be a discussion seemed to lead onto labyrinthine and indecisive banters and paradoxical discourses. In the course of an hour, the second became much louder than the first and the third felt all the more annoyed.

The second wireless started to hum cranky tunes- the sort that is played in county fairs, the sort that is sung by mostly everyone while taking a shower, the sort that is prevalent on London roads, the sort that made Jack go deaf. It all seemed to surmise the aspects of music that had been created by legends long ago only to be exterminated by inartistic nincompoops. It was a hard rock song, or so the third thought. The drums cascaded untuned beats that went 'BOOM, BANG, BANG, BANG, BOOM, CLASH, BOOM, CLASH, BOOM, BANG, CLASH, BANG, BANG, BOOM, CLASH, BOOM!' and kept extending till it reached a stage of absolute chaos and nearly managed to pull out the ears. The first was immersed in its own thoughts, oblivious to what the second hummed. The third, in its attempt to accumulate the highest volume, tried to shout out- loud enough to reach the mighty Jupiter.

The third babbled unremittingly about books- mostly academic ones based on Jane Austen, History of English Literature and Byron. Perhaps, it gave the most uninteresting of details. Its epicentre was based on antediluvian books fancily called classics- which everyone claims to have read but which, in reality, stand with crimson, torn pages and fading ink. It spoke of American Literature and how American writers tend to display an excess of gothic imagery and pride themselves for being atheists. It was engaged in illuminating thoughts about famous works, famous writers, famous sayings and famous everything only to be left betrayed by people who couldn't care less. The first, the second and the third who were obsessed with their respective penchants showed a cold shoulder to the others as if they weren't of the same breed or rather, the same lineage. What happens to the world whist they are lost in their obsessions, will come to knowledge tomorrow morning.

The ménage of the Davidson's woke up the next morning to the sound of the church bell which rung brilliantly even its course of drudgery. It was Monday- and there was nothing more to it, or rather, supposed to be. The master of the fortune, Mr. William Davidson woke up to find his heart beating fast and his feet rushing to his new motorbike. Mrs. Penelope Davidson, the indirect owner to the fortune was flicking through the pages of Naipaul and Coetzee. She kissed the front cover and rushed to her husband to show him her newly-acquired assets. Little Jack Davidson, the heir to the fortune, was yapping at the arrival of the music CDs and listened to them for hours, and turned nearly deaf. He rushed to his parents to persuade them to forget everything and listen to croaky voices. Mrs. Davidson kissed Mr. Davidson and Jack came running along- each of them mystified at the arrival of the objects. No one knew about the other. Mr. Davidson didn't like music nor did he read. Mrs. Davidson preferred horses to motorbikes, books to hard rock. Jack was confused- his father never asked for his opinion and his mother seemed to become all the more bookish.

The wavelengths of the three flickered unrelated, each quivering under the mighty ripples of sunlight spread across the backwaters of their respective machineries




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