Caught by empty words
Kids don’t grant their parents enough credit. Parents don’t give themselves enough credit. The funny part about this value system is it’s endemic in the non-human societies as well. The elephant’s calf, who once hung onto its mother’s tail and fell asleep while walking, doesn’t share that bond as the years pass by. Similarly, the lion’s cub, who depend so heavily on his father to teach him the ways of the jungle won’t look out for him after reaching the top of the pride. Goes without mentioning, these are the unwritten laws. And for the most part, parenting is a thankless job. As is the case with most things humane, any given equation can be balanced out with the introduction of death. Once people die, particularly out of decay, they are enthused and enshrined in the finest manner. A demise of the youth doesn’t merit such a level of maturity. Understandably so because parents learn through their children their significance as well as their insignificance. After a point, it’s a waiting game for the siblings who are grown-ups now: Let’s see who dies first and who grieves last.
Some of us talk in our dreams. Some of us walk too. With our eyes closed, we enter a different world altogether, a world governed by weird rulelessness. Fish can fly here, wild animals don’t chase you, ghosts are predictable and the birds can carry you on their backs. In my experience, the most memorable dreams involve water. Could be a puddle or a pond or a lake or the ocean — anything with water in it. Very recently, I saw a dream in which I could talk beneath the river. Apparently, I was screaming in my sleep because I thought I’ll have to raise my voice if I wanted myself be heard submerged! Anyhow, none of my exploits can match the realness of my friend’s unique stretch of dreams in which somebody would throw water at her face and she would wake up instantaneously.
In your 20s, you genuinely believe you won’t die. In your 30s, you can’t wait to die. Experts have well-defined terms for different stages of life but if you ask me, I’d say being alive is a momentary state of distraction. You wake up and you think of the many objectives that you’ve set for the day and you hope to achieve them before you come back to bed. Being on your own is seldom a part of the plan. Even on vacations, you end up being with others to escape the other others. Thus, what gets neglected here is the idea of self. Or the bigger question, who are you?
There are some things you’ll never forget in life. The first time you fell in love. The first time you fell in lava. The first time you fully understood the line that separates innocence from worldliness. You grow, you change, you grow again and you change again: your firsts neither grow nor change. One of my fondest firsts belong to the pubescent epoch of 9th standard. I was in the local swimming pool at Chembur and I heard a kid call me — “Uncle, bachao! Uncle, bachao!” He was a cute little sardar boy who clearly hadn’t learnt how to swim properly. Moustache was barely sprouting under my nose and I was as shocked to hear that word being used for me as he must have been in that moment of helplessness. He was drowning — at least he thought he was — and I will never forget that moment. In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t save the kid.
There are many words that need to go out of circulation. In my august opinion, ‘proud’ tops the list. I am a proud this, I am proud that. Since there is no set criteria, can we at least do our groundwork before claiming the crown? What exactly does it mean anyway? Particularly when there is a distance between “proud” and “proud of”. You are a proud Indian. How exactly? You are a proud Hindu. What did you do for Sanatana Dharma that you are so damn proud of? You are a proud Muslim. Why, for Allah’s sake? Being proud of something by sheer coincidence of birth is nothing but an infantile attempt at adding meaning to your existence. You can do better. You must do better. And then be proud of it.
Unless you are living in the Himalayas totally disconnected from our petty civilization, you must be aware of what happened in Amazon. Well, the lungs of our planet was on fire and we were safe to presume that earth might die of cancer. Obituaries are already in order. Millions of wild creatures perished in this man-made inferno and my heart weeps for them. I personally don’t care about our wretched species. We deserve the worst climax, for all the iniquities we unleashed on the speechless for centuries without a break. If we are truly lucky, we’ll be gone soon. After all, the problem isn’t that the end is near. The problem is it isn’t near enough.
Love keeps us going. Even a soul drenched in hatred loves something strongly enough to continue his forsaken parade. Yet, we are far away from loving wholly. When we love each other, what we mean is we love parts of each other. I love you but I don’t like you entirely. I am not really fond of your antiquarian personality, your pet peeves or your annoying habits. Barring which, I love you sans terms and conditions. I can only hope you love parts of me too.
If you haven’t watched Mindhunter series on Netflix, it’s time. No spoilers, it’s a study of the insane. People who appear normal and smart but have committed some of the most gruesome (in recorded history) crimes and are fully aware of their deeds too. While watching the second season, it occurred to me: What do serial killers do to relax? Kill more people maybe? A game of chess? What is it? So many questions. I hope they address them in the next season.
Growth, as I’ve repeatedly mentioned in this blog, is a made-up word. It’s a euphemism for those who aren’t brave enough to admit that they work for money. Instead of saying “my salary is low”, we’d say “growth nahi hai” — which is, in all fairness, a sad manipulation of vocabulary. To put an end to this sham, may we reach a point in history where everybody is confident enough to hit the G-spot in their career without having to resort to the G-word. I could be getting ahead of myself but I genuinely pray that ‘growth’ metamorphoses into something more tangible in the not-so-distant future. To give you context, in the 18th century, the word ‘poop’ meant farting. In the 20th century, it was promoted to the joyful act of defecation.
