We do what we do—for the most part — what we like doing. Or at least think that we like doing. We may crib a lot every now and then but we’ll continue doing what we like. It’s not entirely our fault if we don’t know the difference between these two options. Capitalism likes to call this piece of distraction a job. If you ask me, which you shouldn’t, I’ll call it a choice.
If you notice, in a majority of cases today, we are often stuck in a routine set by others. We go to school because there is already a teaching system in place. We go to office because there is already a rewarding system in place. Whether we agree or not, these systems aren’t going to change anytime soon. They will painfully evolve though. And it won’t matter—to the system at least — if you don’t go to school or don’t have a job. The club will carry on regardless. But to an individual, having a choice is usually burdensome, not a matter of respite. Similarly, having a job is usually a matter of security, not joyful.
The reason we are discussing the necessity of doing what we like here is because every single action has a consequence. We might assume that XYZ is a means for getting MNO but there could be a greater equation in order; something we aren’t mentally equipped to understand until it’s too late. Taking all possibilities into consideration, perhaps, in a parallel universe, you are not paying for the choices you made. Imagine being in a place where you took all the correct decisions, all the right turns, perfectly in conjunction with the million hopes from your future, and then emerged as an extremely enriched (not to be confused with wealthy) person.
Sounds great, right?
But such things generally happen in alternate realities. In the chaotic universe we inhabit, we not only end up doing what we dislike but also stay blissfully unaware of the reasons why.
Not very long ago, I mused on the possibility of me turning into a radiant positive person, who is full of sanguine thoughts and benevolent views. A kind of sentient being who doesn’t wear the crown of judgement and doesn’t let his morbid thoughts smear somebody else’s sunshine.
Plot twist: I can never be that person. My bitterness exceeds me.
That confessed, I can never be a stand-up comedian either but it’s something I feel I’ll be amazing at if I were in to it.
For example, here’s how my set will go:
Hi. My name is Shakti. I am from Bombay and I don’t think I am funny.
In fact, I am here to prove that I am not funny in three parts.
As a kid, I thought my grandma will be around forever. She used to tell me stories about birds that could talk and rabbits that left our planet to settle on moon. Since she knew so much, I simply presumed she must be very, very old. After first learning about dinosaurs, I remember running back home excited to ask her whether she had seen one.
Fast forward a decade and I find myself as an engineering student. I loved the idea of becoming an engineer someday but I hated applied math. My ma once asked me whether I am doing fine at polytechnic. I said, “Yes, great.” She had no idea that I’d scored 0 just a week prior. That was the only time I came close to achieving perfection.
Fast forward another decade and here I am a journalist. Somebody high on principles but low on savings. I didn’t care what my engineer friends were earning as I was quite happy to make my dad happy. If my byline didn’t show for more than 2-3 days, he’d call me to ask what happened. For him, money was secondary. Good name was everything.
Like I said, you are not laughing because these snippets are meant to make you cry. And I am not a comedian.
Stand-up comedy isn’t for me.
I do sit-down tragedy.
And that’s when the crowd will burst into a laughter never heard before.
Now, let that thought sink in.