Boys

Three boys and a bigger boy sat under a tree on old newspapers. The bigger boy spoke of flash bulbs and lights and shapes and sizes and bigger men. He spoke of the work before the calm flute gives way to the raging guitar. He spoke of ‘the warm thrill of confusion’ and pleasure better than good sex. Three boys listened to the big boy with quivering eyes.

Their conversation continued through different bends and turns. They got news of another boy awaiting them elsewhere, where they should have been, but they were not. They continued to weave through their words. Sitting positions changed. And many cigarettes were smoked, for they were old enough to smoke, and many a drink of tea were downed in traditional earthen cups.

One boy sat on his hunches and was getting excited. The other was lost in thought. The third kept humming ‘bring the boys back home’. It played loud and clear in his head and he could not express the swell in his chest as the choir raised their voices, a toast to despair.

As they spoke of tragedies and portraits, their eyes settled down in monologues. There eyes spoke with fervor as their mouths ranted on their hearts. They had hearts. They were goods boys. The bigger boy spoke the most revealing paths and ideas, entrapping the three boys. And the bigger boy showed them why they were still boys, and they knew that he was not so big. They were all running and chasing and escaping from their boyhoods; and they were not really little boys, but they were boys.

The boy lost in thought placed his arms on the shoulders of the third boy, and fingered his lips. The other boy awaiting them was getting impatient, for he was only a boy. It had started drizzling. And the song still played loud in the third boy’s head.

‘bring the boys back home’