Thrilled

I am extremely, inexplicably, absolutely thrilled..

Alright, not completely without a reason. Though I turn an year older in a couple of days, and get deeper into the nonsense of adulthood, I am totally thrilled.

Lets see, I’m heading to Goa today, they are playing an enthusiastic rustic rhythm on the office radio, my fingers wouldn’t stop drumming against my messy work desk, my press conference is going well, and for the first time in weeks I have NOTHING to do. At least nothing I need to close before I head out of here. Sigh! There is something about happiness. Especially the all-pervasive sense of ecstasy and optimism that keeps all problems at bay or at least insignificant for a precious few moments.

What do I do now? I remember one of my ex-colleagues telling me that a good worker creates work when there is none. Should I think of something to do? Look through my weekly plans and try to get ahead of them? Should I introspect and look for some mind-blowing ideas for the next quarter? What do I do???

I could actually make another trip to the tea corner and grab another therapeutic cuppa. I could also take another long, unhurried smoke break. I could upload fresh pictures on my facebook profile and throw some imaginary sheep on my friends…what do I do? Maybe I could call up an old friend and chat away for a bit. Or I could dream of the intoxicating beach for a while…sigh..I don’t feel like a slave to ambition today. I’m thrilled.

Who is accountable?

My Sunday evenings are fairly identical. I always do the exact same thing for months together, every single week, till there’s a slight change in how my week decides to end itself. I wake up late, have late breakfast, have late lunch, catch up with the flatmates, make tea, dream about the possibilities for the day, call up old friends, make plans to meet ‘one of these days’…all in the slow motion state, lavishly smothered with luxurious sloth.

And I end up going to MG/Brigade EVERY single time, irrespective of the earlier plan.

Not that I mind, as it always means cheap shopping and cheap beer when I have the cash, and people watching over lukewarm coffee when I don’t. It is as good as it gets…pretty predictable, pretty dull, pretty much my Sunday. Last evening offered an unpleasant twist to my complacent weekend.

Now, getting a pre-paid auto rickshaw back home is mundane business. I stand in a long queue, get a slip, scribbled with my address and fare in English scripted in Kannada, hop into one of the yellow & black & rather noisy 3 wheelers and light up an introspective cigarette to keep me company. Until last evening.

My friends and I got the regular slip from the booth and got into an auto. He drove us a few metres when his vehicle broke down…fair enough…we walked back to the booth and asked for a fresh slip. We get into another auto, who didn’t want to travel till my area of residence…instead of mentioning this to the cop manning the booth, he decided to drive us a few hundred metres, and start demanding for double the regular fare.

We, of course, refused and walked back to the booth and complained to the traffic cop. What did we expect? Not much; some accountability, some sympathy, some pro activeness in ensuring we get another (willing) auto back home.

What did we get??…denial, ridicule, rude behavior and an extremely patronizing attitude by the cop, who did not even have the authority to take control of the situation. In fact, the auto-drivers waiting around offered to help us out. When we asked for a complaint register, the cop flatly told us to take a hike, go to the police station and stop bothering him as his job was to only scribble pre-paid slips! He was telling me that he, a traffic cop, who is supposed to ensure safety on the roads and fairness in public transport was spineless when it came even lodging a complaint, forget about doing anything about the situation.

Disgusted with the system, I decided to hail an auto myself. Once I got in, I started to think how insignificant and how simple the episode was, and how easily it could have been handled. Worse, I started to think about how it would have been if I was alone in the auto and the chap had decided to throw me out on a lonely street. What if something had happened then? Who would have been accountable? What is the point of jotting down the auto number, time and destination if a traffic cop doesn’t take responsibility for even a small issue such as this? What if I were molested by the auto driver, or raped or murdered or mugged? Would I still have the pre-paid slip waved in my face with a look of derision?

I’d left Delhi and moved to Bangalore with a sense of slight relief. Thinking, rather foolishly as I can see now, that indifference has not permeated the citizens here yet; that I would be safer here, freer here.

What a rude realization.

The happy part of me

About 21 years ago, something really drastic happened in my life. I was barely an year old, and just coming to terms with the fact that I probably wasn’t the best thing to hit the world. I could feel it. The world was coming to an end; the centre of the universe was shifting, from me to this stranger my parents were still guessing the gender of. My mom was about to have a baby and I was supposed to love it. I’d always hated lack of options.

I do not remember the fateful day but I’m told I wasn’t a keen participant in all the excitement. The baby was born, I was suddenly entrusted with the responsibility of setting an example and my mom spent all her energy shutting up the whiny, awkward infant. I wasn’t too fond of her and was desperate to escape to this wonderland called school.

My oldest memory of my sister is that of kindergarten. I’d suddenly discovered the power trip of walking into lower KG threatening to punch anyone who messed with her. Such joy! I suppose the whole protective instinct took off thereafter.

As we grew a little older, she took on a new role-that of a student. A rather inquisitive 5 year old, I had a personal logic for everything and an answer to every question insufficiently justified by my father. I’d felt extremely obliged to pass on all the knowledge to my clueless younger sibling, giving her enough scope for ridicule later in life. She’d stand up for me and my stories, thinking Akka (big sister) knew it all.

In the past 21 years, she’s been my best friend, my biggest supporter, and my (extremely soggy) crying shoulder. She articulated my life; broke it down to simple things and helped me live each one differently, completely and gratefully. Some bonds hold you back but this one holds me together.

Mona makes my life beautiful, happy, silly, musical, noisy, passionate, hopeful, dismal, crazy, demanding, unjust, justified, colourful (if you can call black a colour)-all at the same time. Mona is more than just my sister. She is the happy part of me.

And Mona will kill me for all this mush.

Reunion-shy

I hate reunions. No, I do not mean the part when you get all excited about seeing old faces.

I hate what follows. The tedious rut of omigaad-youavenchanged- OK, I somehow don’t like to think its expected that time/old age would’ve forced me to lose/misplace/redistribute my lard and the crop of zits wouldn’t be so red/yellow/oozy anymore and that I have probably gotten acquainted with good taste and some good money. Seriously, what did you expect???

What’s even worse is the frenzied catching up. Xyz broke up with abc, fyu finally got engaged/married/a boyfriend, mno is in prison and a million other half grilled gossip about people far away and long forgotten, except in the company of some expensive liquor and some pressure to relive the good ol’ times with even older company..wtf

What I hate the most is the sinking feeling you get when you realise that even under the guise of old jokes and sepia memories, it is all so pitifully, obviously, different. I loathe the attempts at revival, of attempts at resuscitation of a life gone by. Whatever happened to dignified death?

I like to think that reunions are memory’s way of getting back at us. How else does anyone avenge fierce interpretations of the stranger images of past seeping into present? Or maybe reunions check our ability at small talk on a familiar ground. Maybe its all a conspiracy by the beer majors to ensure the college chug-ers always have enough reasons not to stray far into the seductive realms of overpriced poison.

Maybe I’m a cynical fool with enough technology to rant about my intolerance to small talk and make it sound like its not my fault.

My next post has got to be positive.

Writer’s block

I’m sitting and staring. At people around me, at the mirror, at the blinding lights passing by through my head, at the empty coffee cup sitting quite smugly on my work desk, at the to-do list…and at the two odd lines my wasted day has meekly offered as an ode to a rather mundane existence I trudged by today. Opening lines have never been so earnest. God help me.

I’m looking for some inspiration, to be able to jot down a thing or two about the evolution of my day, my past week, a significant thought, some memory, some plans, anything…

I do see something though..a seventh line trying very hard to fight for what the first started, something like a good friend doing his job-listening, pretending interest, pretending empathy…fighting just to keep pretending the pretenses…nice…i feel much better now

Perhaps I should go home- procrastinate some…maybe I’d have a better day tomorrow, maybe words will flow, maybe I’ll write a book someday, maybe I’ll help a blind man cross the road, maybe I’ll spill coffee on myself, maybe MS word wouldn’t stare back at me…challenging my intentions

Tomorrow, I will try again..I’ll scratch the surface again and again, till it turns red with vain attempts, and then some good ones..

Just maybe.