mob !! a retrospective,four years on:

it was a dark night. stormy, it was not, not by a long stretch. calm and november, it was an inky blackness that had settled over the outer western lip of the deccan plateau; wrapping the calm, and slightly nippy night air in a protective shroud of muffling darkness..........
the boys were asleep. most of them, at least.or were preparing to. in any case, their day- to -day duties were in no way affected by the raucous band of Boys-Soon-To-Be-Men in the building right across the road.they were here to do their duty, and as most of them settled down with their religious tomes, reading about the very principles they had enshrined in their own lives, and made such an obvious part of their outlook on life, it was with a sense of growing irritation and genuine consternation that they viewed The Mob of howling hooligans next door.
The Mob of howling hooligans was next door.fortified by cannabis and lubricated with alcohol, they lurched their way to the closest soak pit,bringing up red- coloured chicken pieces and scarcely mashed local breads with ease.their stomachs emptied, they wove their way back into the lair, clutching desperately at the bannisters, the world coalescing in front of their rheumy eyes in soft and blurry focus........
some of the boys began to stretch; some of them yawned, in spite of themselves. in some rooms, rags of cloth appeared miraculously in hands, in some others, the bottle of brasso was taken from behind the mirror.
brass tags are notoriously hard to polish.particularly if they consist of one roman numeral, or four letters of the english alphabet with dots fusing the letters in between.
yet the boys perservered.the sweat that coalesced on some of the brows was the perspiration of honest labour, the satisfied glow that fills a man when he knows that his duty is done, and that when he says his three hail marys and his hallelujahs,he is at peace with the world, and is about to sleep the contented sleep of the blessed.
suddenly, The Mob seemed to be roaring out something in collective inebriation: not much could be made out in the babel of voices, but the boys recognised something about exhorting them to turn their lights off. an involuntary curse went off in the minds of many of the boys. some of them hastily covered their mouths, looking at the kitschy pictures of their gods on the walls. some others shook their heads, and went down on their knees to say their prayers again.some of them peered through the windows at the building across the road, some took a deep breath, and forced themselves to stay calm, and to forgive.
all of them switched off their lights.
the boy was about to turn his lights off, and say his prayers before slipping into morpheus' land.he had been vaguely aware of The Mob all evening, but he hadn't given it much thought.The Mob's affairs were a universe removed from his, his slender frame was already burdened with more worries than his one score and two years had prepared him for: an upset stomach, a suspected volvulus, an indifferent lover, a recalcitrant motorbike: the boy's cup of woes had been filled to brimming the previous week; and this week there were still the mail to be opened.
but they were chanting his name.he stopped for a moment, slipping out of the cocoon that he had spun around himself, so carefully, over the past few hours. in one single bisyllabic roar, The Mob had suddenly burst back onto the garden of his consciusness, trampling over the flowerbeds,kicking the dog, and frightening away the geese. in the far corner, one of Them was urinating into the fountain, laughing raucouly all the while, and making lewd comments on the size of the fountain in his garden.
because it was a small fountain, to be sure.white, and flawlessly smooth; he had spent days softly caressing its alabaster surface, humming to himself as the fountain softly gurgled.
The Mob was chanting his name, and the tempo was increasing.gradually, the chant became a frenzied roar, and his curiosity was aroused, in spite of himself. he was aware of the awesome strength of The Mob, and recognised its capacity to strike out, and maim, and crush; but he had done nothing wrong.he had never sullied by thought or by action the happiness of The Mob, choosing instead, to follow a policy of not engaging them, and to keep relations to a minimum, and cordial in the rare occasions when they did come up.in fact, until this day, he had been prompted to believe that some of The Mob, in person, actually liked him for wat he was, and would never strike without provocation.
he was wrong, of course. as he opened the door, and stood outside, blinking suddenly in the glare, he experienced a single moment of pure, undiluted malevolence.the wave of hate was carried across that crisp winter air as clearly as if it had been a airbus 320 with screaming propellers. he paused still, unsure of himself, and not comprehending wat was going on. he was innocent, as far as he knew; and surely not even mobs, impulsive as they are, would not attack without reason?
then someone in The Mob started baying.he could not make out the words,but he could understand. the man peeing in the fountain invited the others to come and join.somebody had seen the peacock nestled among the high branches of the tree, and was trying to coax it down into a cauldron of steaming water.the man peeing turned around and saw him, his eyes bleary and unfocussed, his breath rank and fetid, his reddening face twited into a horrible grimace of malice, and hatred, and jealousy, and spite.he looked at the boy and uttered a single name.
they were shouting out Her name.it was Her that they wanted. it was Her being that was his mistake. She, who was unattainable to all of them, was his.each day, they frolicked in this very garden,making love in the cool shade, whispering sweet nothings to each other as they lay in each other's arms, listening to the nightingale sing to his love, far far far up in the trees.
The Mob was rampaging now.forty able bodied men, blood lust in their eyes, their nostrils flaring,their rabid frenzy snapping at his face.stinging him like a slap, leaving him bewildered, and hurt, and afraid.
he shut his door, turned the light, and curled into a ball, hot stinging tears of his own impotence sizzling on his face.
The Mob went on, late into the night.and late into the early hours of the next day; till the last among them, too tired to go on,dropped off in mid- sentence, and fell asleep.
the garden, ravaged and ruined.gazed forlornly over the wide expanse of the deccan plateau. then , somewhere in the distance, it began to rain.