Ink Idle

Dusk brought with itself a slight drizzle. Shimmering under the amber streetlights, the road was bustling with the sounds and harrying of people and cars. It couldn’t have been a more characteristic summer evening on a Sunday. This town never sleeps, as most travelogues mention. It rages on in varying measures all through the day. At the heart of the town, lies this square which serves as the main link between the residential and commercial sectors. An amalgamation of expectancy and annoyance keeps the spirit consistently buoyed as cars sweep by in their aerial lanes, while pedestrians and cyclists take the roads. The sidewalks, a concept of the past serve as parking spot for some of the cars whose drivers are headed for the market. A novel rule to only allow business vehicles in the market keeps the commotion in control.

By the road that led to the residential blocks, were a series of pubs lined beside and above one another. The college students used to humorously call it the spirit grid, and the name caught on. Spirit grids soon came up all over the town and no one was really sure which position in the grid was the most profitable. So, a couple of inquisitive journals ran statistical survey to determine which position in the grid was the most likely to earn more customers. The spirit grids would usually consider of twelve pubs or resto-bars in a four by four matrix. Regulations prohibited construction of buildings with asymmetrical structures and somehow, no one breached this particular setup. Ironically, it was also observed that the distribution of pubs and resto-bars in a grid was a primary factor in attracting customers to particular grids barring the locals. Grids with pubs on the periphery and resto-bars in the centre did not succeed. Not only were they frequented by students and young couples, but the bifurcation of the places of fine-dining and drinking seemed to put the drinking habits of the citizen under scrutiny. Even in this modern world, people judged others as systematically as before, and the people being judged seemed to care about their image. A society that could not live for itself, yet.

Instead, it were the grids that followed no pattern did better. The citizens would hop from one place to the other without prying eyes being able to detect their intentions solely on the direction in which they went. When that fact was established, it was time to see where the customers really went. Sadly, this study provoked the fragile self-belief of the citizens so much that instead of prying on each other, there was a loud gaze of caution and fear of being included as an observational subject in the study. Soon, the researchers gave up and went to one of the spirit grids to have a drink.

Among them was the perpetually tired protagonist of several tales, Vyom Dutta. A journalist by profession, but as the cannon tales explore, he dabbles in so many activities that it is often forgotten that he is a journalist. However, there is a plan to explore that side of him in a detailed manner when time permits. He had excused himself from his colleagues and taken a seat by the bar.

“Cold beer,” he said to the bartender, signalling at his table to add his tab on them.

A cold beer on a drizzling evening is nothing to write home about. In fact, the protagonist should be ordering a whiskey or perhaps gin after a cancelled project. He should then get wasted and find inspiration staring at the moon while standing mournfully on a bridge. Fortunately, for all cliched purposes, Vyom did not care. His thoughts were on his wristphone.

**Message from V**

“Red Lobster has moved.”