Induced Hallucination

Jim Morisson lay pasted on his wall. It was one of those centre page posters from a magazine called Sun. This small room in the otherwise palatial house was “his only” space. It was a place where he could give vent to his idiosyncrasies, where he could think like Majorission (the inverted Jim Morisson), where he could be “creative” and most important where he could in letter and spirit, emulate his idol-Jim Morrison.
On a floor above his, was the Thokur Kuth or the God’s Room. The room for the God was almost as the same size as that of Jim Morrison’s. K seldom had anything to do with this room. He grew up in his own world in what was otherwise a very orthodox Brahmin Family. He was antithesis of everything that they stood for. He called his family members crazy and to them he epitomised madness.
When they sang,”Maat Pitta tum mere” he would be rocking his guitar and singing”O mother,I wanna fuck you,O Father I wanna Kill you”.
Soon all this was going to change.
One day his father brought a calendar: the ones that shopkeepers, halwais, newspaper agencies and the likes publish every-year to boost their sales. One more God, K thought. His father had a fetish for picking up and bringing home every image that even bore a brief resemblance to any of the myriad deities that Hindus have. There wasn’t a wall in the entire house but for K’s room where some god, demi-god or saint did not lay pasted or hung. K had resigned to this fetish of his father though more was in store for him. His father thought of upgrading the washrooms. New tiles were brought in to the replace the old ones. A white new commode with Hindustan written on it was to be the centrepiece of the new room. The changes in the washroom forced K to look for a new place to please himself. After all how could a man masturbate under the prying eyes of the gods?
The calendar had to be hung somewhere. In a house where gods occupied every square millimetre of wall space making house for another god was going to be as difficult as finding God himself. But K’s father was resolute.
Oh No,not in my room.K said.
When K was away,his father had a nail hammered into a wall in K’s room.Jim Morisson had an unusual neighbour in Bhagwan Gopinath-a chillum smoking and dreamy eyed Kashmiri saint.K was indignant. He wanted none of this but poor K .Poor K still wasn’t as Kafkaesque as his elder namesake. He did not have the courage to leave the comforts of his home and the protection of his mother. He had read enough not to be foolhardy. That night he did not play The Doors.He sung Yesterday instead.
He was curious about this new inhabitant. Bhagwan Gopinath- what kind of a name is that? K’s mother was a usual doting mom. She would do anything to please K as long as she did not invite her husband’s ire. She would placate him but that was no comfort. He needed a space to handle his cock without the ubiquitous overloading over. And it wasn’t just that, the very idea of an all pervading, all encompassing, giver of boons was repulsive to him. He could not reconcile with the thought that we must beg before someone whose existence himself was doubtful.
But Bhagwan Gopinath was still living. He could see him if he wanted. His mother said why don’t you go and meet Bhagwanji? What me and why would I want to meet a man who calls himself Bhagwan and yet smokes grass like any other rock star would. Is this Bhagwanji of yours a rock star of some kind, he taunted his mother. Trahe Trahe she said, and left the room. Despite her love for K, she hurled abuses and cursed him for being an atheist and a non-conformist.
He was happy she was gone. As soon as she left, K lit up a fag. He loved grass .He took a deep puff and let out a ring of smoke. The ring kept expanding and a halo was formed over his head. There were too many similarities, he thought. Both smoke grass, are high on life it seems, both have a cult icon image in the eyes of their followers, both have taken to unknown in their own ways. His fascination for this other Jim Morrison began to grow.