The beauty of deadline
Everybody leaves. Eventually. None of us are here forever ; a strain of truth that binds us in brightness as well as darkness. Just that we are prepared for certain farewells while we are taken aback by others. No wonder ‘shocking’ is a word we must reserve for the dead or the deadly. Anything less of a pedigree has to be a wannabe attempt at grabbing attention. For instance, if an earthquake doesn’t kill anyone, is it shocking? Yes. Because it didn’t kill anyone. A strange ironic case, yes, but our existence itself is built on irony. We miss people when they are gone while making little of their presence. We don’t want home-made Diwali sweets when the festival is on but start longing for them three weeks later. We are strange creatures and it’s not at all shocking how we’ve come this far.
Hello is for winners and goodbye is for losers. Namaste to those conscious about spreading germs via hands. Sayonara to those who appreciate Japanese culture but are wary about its glaring xenophobia. Using the appropriate salutations makes all the difference: expecting others to blend in is always going to take more time than you blending in with them. This is what I’ve learnt from reading more and traveling less. But then, you can only envy the folks who are perennially traveling the world without making even 10 gm of an effort to learn 15 words from the local language.
A perfect farewell, like words of God, doesn’t exist. It can only be felt, not arranged. One can witness this grim reality in work environments, where colleagues are gathering around a stupid cake. The whole exercise is filled with awkwardness alongside an unhealthy serving of clumsiness. But we do it because we do a lot of shit in the name of corporate tradition. We dearly call it the farewell cake as every cake ought to have a name of its own: birthday cake, anniversary cake, etc. And then, to cheer ourselves up, we’ll make the escapee deliver a lame speech, which nobody is interested in listening to in the first place. The poor fellow (or fellowess or fellowessness) will muster some words up and blurt something without saying anything. It ends with a round of applause. Chances are these motley group will gather later after work somewhere for a drink or two. And since we are chasing perfection here, the person leaving the organization shouldn’t show up at his farewell party. So that they can already learn to live without him (or her or them).
By the time you find yourself in your deathbed, you will have learned and used thousands of words in several languages. So many words, so many scenarios, so many usages, so many interpretations. Yet, there will be no word that would be more powerful than your name. It is and will always be the most resounding (no pun intended) piece of music for your ears. One word encapsulates your entire journey. Yes, there will always be another Rahul (or Aayanaaa, if you were born in this century) but your name will stay right at the top of the chartbuster. Which is also the reason why I insist on using names while greeting — it’s my moral duty to remind you of your existential crisis. Hi this. Bye that.
Drugs come in all shapes and taboos. We are all addicted, yet to different sources of excitement. Some are lapping up on love whereas others can’t have enough of wealth. Different games, similar results. We receive a high when we achieve something but at the same moment, we are aware of the downs. So, we keep going, hoping to set the routine into play. To-do lists. Bucket list. Blah list. Only to maintain the generous flow of interest in our own lives. It’s not that we are going to take the house or the car with us when we die. However, challenges up the accomplishment quotient for us and we strive harder to feel a release. Sometimes, we do get lucky and last long enough in those moments. Most of the times, it’s fleeting. Got a BMW? What next? The rush comes and leaves. And taking all these perspectives into consideration, I’ve concluded that nothing can beat the high that comes with a great idea. The beauty of creativity is it rewards itself.
Whenever some idiots ask why do we care about the historic structures and monuments or why can’t we just let them ruin out their course, I am filled with despair. This special group of individuals believe so much in modernity that their heart doesn’t beat for the heritage. Apparently, we should focus on the way forward and not obsess with our backward lane. Which is a fair point unless you overlook the whole cycle of time: there is no future without the past. Humans, unlike other species, care about leaving stuff behind so that those who follow can hold onto the threads of civilization. A shark’s baby knows exactly what it is when thrust out into the ocean. A human child doesn’t enjoy this privilege from nature. Which is where heritage enters the equation and helps us step forward. Without those weary buildings in our rear-view mirror, we would be facing a blank desert ahead.
Exactly two years ago, on his way back from his evening way, my father-in-law was mugged by two young men. They stopped and checked whether he had cash on him. Failing which, they took off with his cellphone. Needless to mention, the poor man was rudely shaken by the unexpected turn of incident. He went home quietly, didn’t mention anything to his wife, had dinner and tried to sleep. One can only imagine what all thoughts must have traveled through his head but over the next month, he slowly started losing his identity. A man otherwise known for his grooming stopped caring about his facial fuzz or the greys in his hair. It took him awhile to come out of that startling episode and return to his normal self.
Nothing works like a deadline, right? Wrong. I am supposed to submit a story to a publication and the last day of entry isn’t far away. I’ve been musing over all the possible avenues I can take to spruce up a story worth sending across. There are so many options in my mind worth exploring but when the fingertips hit the keys on my laptop, not much add. If you’ve been an avid reader of my blog — yes, I am talking to all six of you — then you must have acknowledged how all my stories have a twist. Yarning a straight story isn’t for me. It needs to plotten up or down in the end. With my temporary writer’s block, I can assure you one conclusion: there will be a plot twist either in paper or in real.
“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”
“Somewhere dreaming about early retirement.”
“What about 10?”
“Still dreaming.”
Our adopted old son, Ranga, who happens to a Haryanvi street dog with a south Indian name, has become our retirement guru. While leaving for work around 7.30, my last view before closing the door is his lazyass sleeping on the sofa. Here is a guy who hasn’t interacted with another dog in over 3.5 years. Which translates to zero sexual encounters, zero litter record, zero territorial gains and zero ambitions. He doesn’t even lift his hind leg while peeing. His aim in life is to be with us inside the house and run to terrace as much as he can, either for a quickie leak. Not very long ago, he used to run on the ledge with no vertiginous issues. There was a time he loved watching the sunset too. Oh, he used to bark at the corner of the house for no reason. Ghosts, maybe. I don’t know of any other dog who do/did any of these. Of late, he enjoys waging war against house-flies in the drawing hall and pigeons in the balcony. Perhaps when the administration took away his balls, he made a promise to himself: he will seek contentment and nothing else. Looks like he is winning by beating Larry David at retirement goals.
On a Friday evening, the so-called sane sehri janta wants to avoid home as well as office, leading to the exploration of nightlife. Good alcohol, better music and great food complete the triumvirate required for such outings. Over time, these folks mature and start cutting their losses — both monetarily and momentarily — and prefer having gatherings at their apartments. One such gathering happens at Vivek’s place at least once a month and I am an active member there. Why? Because I ensure everybody is talking and sharing stories, their experiences, without worrying about lack of audience or surplus of judgement. Instead of watching something on Netflix, we talk. There was a time when I used to rush back home by 10-ish and now is an era where I can keep talking, and listening, even on the wrong side of midnight. Call me old-fashioned but there is always something new to hear from the same old friends, provided you are paying attention.
