Feeding My Brain-Fish

It’s been a very long time since I last updated this blog. So much has happened in the intervening span of time that I feel compelled to describe it all in detail. Yet, whenever I set out to do so, the words fail me. I suppose constantly having to justify my choices in real life has made doing the same in cyberspace seem needlessly tedious. So that will have to wait for another time.

For now, I feel unusually fecund. Creatively, not biologically. A host of things to write about are swimming around inside my head like goldfish in an aquarium, their pouty faces begging for sustenance. Excuse me, for I must feed my brain-fish lest they die an untimely death.

I just finished reading a newspaper article about Carlos Santana which led me to dwell upon the plurality of music. No two people can possibly have exactly the same tastes in music; of this I am convinced. If they do, then music itself will have entirely different meanings to them. Musicians feel this exceptionally so. The evolution of a distinctive style is what every musician strives for. While some believe in hooks and riffs, others may prefer dreamy soundscapes where no two vistas seem the same. Personally, I like my music deceptively simple. Music that affects you on a primal level on first hearing but which on repeated hearing unveils layers and layers of complexity. No, I’m not into heavy metal. I can appreciate the technicality, but the genre often seems dead to me – needless posturing and mechanical flourishes that try too hard to be something they’re not. I prefer harmonies over screams and guttural growls, slide guitar over shredding. That is not to say, however, that I can’t get tired of one when it is used gratuitously or be unusually affected by the other when it is used innovatively and tastefully.

When it comes to lyrics, I feel there is no real hard and fast rule. So many people write abstruse lyrics these days. Lyrical complexity is most certainly an ideal, but at times songs seem uncomfortably pretentious – a stringing together of random images. When the effect intended is one of chaos and unpredictability, these songs work, but when people claim that those same random lyrics hold a deeper meaning which they themselves do not feel compelled to analyze, it just seems fake. It seems like lazy writing, writing meaningless verse to shock or impress. An I Am the Walrus, I can appreciate. A Black Hole Sun, to a lesser degree. Whatever happened to beauty in simplicity?

I cannot read good books without feeling intimidated. A failing, but one that I can use productively. Such moments of inferiority compel me to improve as a writer. Evolve, or face extinction.

The cold is miserable. I do not like it. How can I enjoy life with a blocked and chapped nose? It is impossible. Yet for everything, there is a time. Without the monstrous discomfort of winter, perhaps my beloved summer would lose all meaning.

I keep trying to write about something, but it slips away like a greased orb, a simile I have borrowed from another writer, I am sad to say, but of which I am not ashamed – it is so apt.

Would human flesh taste like lion meat? I would say so. We are not so different after all.

Death erases many a grudge, smoothens many a rough personality and consolidates many a career.

Again! It slips away from me.

Time slips away so fast, leaving nothing in its wake but an overwhelming feeling of shame and regret – so much left undone!

There is no greater tragedy than when a brilliant idea disappears without a trace. But perhaps that is necessary too. Perhaps what seemed astounding in the heat of the moment is later found to be dull and inspired. Perhaps thoughts never disappear; perhaps they merely withdraw into the vegetation of the mind, eluding the questing gaze, fattening themselves on the kelps of the subconscious and re-emerging unrecognizably changed, like a camouflaged catfish in an enormous aquarium.

I had intended to end with the previous paragraph, fittingly I thought, since I revive the fish metaphor. But look! Fate, or my mind, or both had other plans! Contrarily and perversely, my missing thought has resurfaced and now I must put it down posthaste – to hell with aesthetics!

Why does the word ‘woman’ have so many associated connotations while the word ‘man’ is so sterile? ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ is filled with so much pride and power! ‘I am man’ pales in comparison. Man means only humanity. Woman seems to represent a whole different species. Of course, this is how patriarchy functions, creating stereotypical gender roles and universalizing the interests of the male, but I can’t help but feel the male has lost so much in doing so. Someone once wondered at the lack of literature on male sexuality. That would be because it never seems to be a concern to us. So overrepresented it is, we feel no need to dwell upon it. Sadly, this only perpetuates a masculine stereotype of machismo and stoic dominance. My kingdom for an alternative masculine model!

The idea is fading. Put it down, fast!

Women accuse men of so much. So much repression, so much evil has been done to women by our very hands. Yet why do I generalize? Who is this ‘us’, this ‘them’? Are we not equal? Ah, the learned ones say, equality need not mean absence of difference. We are equal but different. This seems unfair. Why complain of the evil patriarchy has wrought while talking about girl power? It either creates further division and vindictiveness or lessens the true cruelty of a patriarchal society. If patriarchy is truly repressive, should not women be stunted by generations of its existence? Even as I write this, I am aware of the flaw in my logic. If stunted, affirmative action is, in fact, the need of the hour. But need affirmative action be at the expense of another? Common sense would say yes. But there is a difference between upliftment and pettiness. But see! Even these words of mine will be criticized and called chauvinistic and regressive! Why should I be prevented from airing my opinions and judged in this way if I try not to do the same? (I’m usually very diplomatic – but to hell with diplomacy! For once, let me be a Chughtai – let me be brash and opinionated and embrace the consequences)

Why must all men be vilified for the crimes of those who are long dead? Patriarchy still exists, no doubt, but please do not tar all men with the same brush. Not all of us believe in dowry or rape women or sit in the seats reserved for women in the metro. Some of us are as angered by sexism as women. And we still feel hurt when a joke aimed at a woman is censured while similar jokes mocking men are praised as progressive. Either allow both, or frown on both. That is equality!

It is finished!

Postscript: I’ve been working on a very long blog post that is nearly finished and will probably have to be split up into multiple posts. It’s going to get very morbid, but bear with me.

Paint and Turpentine and I

Turpentine, O Turpentine!
How I recall this scent of thine
Which oft into my nostril would
Creep from yon newly polished wood
Along with Paint, thy cousin fair,
When fresh, whose fragrance too was there.
You hail fresh starts and ventures new;
To my cold casket from the pew,
Always together were we three:
The two of you and one of me.
When I was but a newborn child
And carried home in arms so mild
And tender, what should boldly wait,
But of mine home, the painted gate;
And inside: tables, polished, gleaming,
Silently heard my shrill screaming.
Unfamiliar with your scent,
I wept until my tears were spent.
But soon I grew to love thee, Paint
And Turpentine, even when faint,
I would rejoice when you were there,
Which, since forever in repair
Was my house, I would always find
You waiting only to remind
Me that though mortals always fade,
Your musk forever will pervade
All houses, halls and institutions
Like the one where all my tuitions
From the tender age of five
Till eighteen, when I learnt to drive,
Were given to me that I may
Become a learned man one day.
And still, today, thy gentle vapours
Will remind me of the capers
That I had while still a child
Whose curiosity ran wild
Except when I would kneel in church
As Jesus Christ, from his high perch,
Would send your scents from far away
To me as I would kneel and pray
Because he and his giant, sainted
Cross had just been polished, painted!
As they were when I stood standing
Right before them, smiling, handing
All my love trapped in a ring
To my bride whose bright, shimmering
Tiara, veil and gown so fair
Could not with her pure heart compare.
And Paint and Turpentine, you seemed,
(Or perhaps 'twas something I'd dreamed)
To stand by my side, silent, beaming,
Proud to see the child who, screaming,
Was presented to you all
Those years ago inside that hall
Where now I took my soul, my wife,
So that we might spend our new life
For what seemed like eternity,
But in years was but forty three,
Until far from me she one day ran
With an older, bolder man;
A beau who unlike me succeeded
Through his courtship, unimpeded,
To forever with him keep her.
And so she left with the Reaper,
Leaving me alone again,
In my large mansion by the Seine,
With tables made of gleaming pine
And you, Paint and dear Turpentine,
For we could never have a child,
To which we both were reconciled.
But as now I was left to potter,
How I wished for son or daughter
To remind me of my love
Who now looked down from up above.
Who knows how long she'll have to wait?
Not very long, because my gait
Has turned already so unsteady
And my organs all seem ready
To relax and stop their working
And so surely, there is lurking
He whose kiss, though cruel and cold,
Had turned me into a cuckold
And he shall take me to his hollow
Peaceably, for I will follow,
Meekly led by his thin hand,
To yonder silent, frozen land
Where I shall meet my turtledove
And with her look down from above;
Down at the hall that once was mine
At you, sweet Paint and Turpentine.

Top Ten Terrible Pick-Up Lines

(Partially inspired by The Woman At The Cafe)


The night is dark with limitless possibilities. Yet you stand isolated, alone, lurking in the shadows. A place in the corner, camouflaged by darkness, the light avoiding you as all else has.
You sit and you watch the throngs of people, other people, other lives, brushing against your own. But only at the edges. They seem not to notice you, as if the untold envy in the chamber of your heart is pulsating for all to see, a dangerous glow, green and frightening. No one approaches you and you approach no one.
Until you see her.
At first a face and then a vision. Her form bathed in the light of the heavens, though you know not whether she stands so illuminated in truth or merely in the depths of your desire. You blink. The world disappears, then reappears again, still gloomy, still desolate, still crowded. And in the crowd she stands, still glowing.
Longing wraps itself round your cold and shrivelled heart, extracting who knows what essence from that organ, for what love it once held has long since bled away. Yet it bleeds fresh for the first time in eons and you realize that this night is different.
She is not the woman of your dreams. She is more. She is real.
You want her.
You need her.
You never want to leave her.
Yet suddenly you remember that even to dream is futile. What would such an exquisite creature want with someone like you?
Your fancy leads you down the path of parallel universes. You see yourself getting to know her, the sound of her voice, like a brook bathing pebbles, the taste of her ruby lips, like nectar and cinnamon. You see the joy that has eluded you for so long, the companionship you thought you would never know.
And then you see her leaving like all else before her, leaving naught but a memory of an angel who touched your life, oh so briefly, yet leaving in her wake the wreckage of a man who thought he was already destroyed.
You sigh with regret as you come back to reality. You stand up to leave when all at once...she looks at you.
Was it the lovelorn sigh that drew the attention of those breathtaking orbs or did she feel it too: that electricity, that anticipation, that feeling of completeness, the knowledge that the other half of your heart lies waiting nearby?
It doesn't matter. She looks at you and she sees you.
Your first instinct is to hide, lest your bitterness and yearning and envy and despair, the monstrosity of your soul lay itself bare and scare away this vision who stands before you.
But you stay still. You let her see you.
And then...she smiles and walks away. She sits at the bar and turns imperceptibly yet surely towards you.
Your heart leaps! She knows! She sees and she doesn't care! Suddenly you have the key to your lost future in the palm of your hand, the drawbridge has been lowered and the invitation extended!
Suddenly, the darkness lifts. You see colours like you've never seen them before. They smile at you too, friends revealing themselves after so long. In a daze, you make your way towards her. The crowd parts like the Red Sea until suddenly, you stand before her, her suitor at last.
But then (alas!) your tongue stumbles and your mind grows still. Your throat is parched and your palms are moist. You don't know what to say!
What words can exist in this imperfect world that would capture the extent of your love for her? What words can tell her what she means to you as they should, as they must, lest the fire awakened afresh in your spirit and in the depths of your soul find no utterance and burn the core of your being to a cinder as if it had never existed?
What words? What words?!
In your madness, you despair and once again your mind leaps ahead.
You see yorself ten times over, the heat of your passion magnified tenfold and where once there was a goddess stands now a pantheon! And you watch as each one turns towards its respective suitor and raises an eyebrow, questioning, yet inviting.
You see yourself, ten times, search for the words that would attract her, inflame her, reveal your ingenuity, your wit, your love, that she may love you as you have loved her.
And you watch ten times over as you lean in towards that delicate ear.
And you whisper:

10. "Honey, you must be an angel, 'cause it smells like something died in here."

 9. "They say there's a fine line between beautiful and gorgeous. Well, when I look at your face, trust me, all I see are lines."

 8. (sings) "You say it best...when you say nothing at all. So shut the fuck up bitch and listen to me."

 7. "Give me all your money! No, I'm kidding. Just buy me a drink. Now."

 6. "Has anyone ever told you that your lips make you look like Steven Tyler?"

 5. "Soooooo, I ran over this squirrel on my way over here. It took a while, but I finally got the furry little     bastard. Wanna go take a look?"

 4. "Yo momma's so ugly that even if she married Brad Pitt, all her kids would end up looking like you."

 3. "Knock knock."
     "Who's there?"
     "Knock-knock."
     "Knock-knock who?"
     "Knock-knock"
     "Will you stop that?!"
     " Sorry, I just really want to knock you up!"

 2. "Love me. Looooove meeeeeee! LOOOOOOOOVVVVE MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!"

 1. "Say hello to my little friend!"

Ten times you watch this sick charade play itself out before your eyes. Each time, the words that you utter grow coarser and coarser, the random by-products of an overtaxed mind. You cringe and you weep with rage at each new iniquity until the last one causes you to scream. In all these visions, unsurprisingly, you muse with disgust, she grows cold and distant and once again leaves your pathetic life, back to whichever Paradise from which she originated.
Then you return to reality and she looks up at you, her expression quizzical for you have stood there for a while, saying nothing, lost in what may happen, what must not happen.
And then you sit down facing her. And you hear yourself say:

"Hi, I'm Armando."
"Hey, I'm Kiki."
"Hey Kiki. Listen, I'm sorry to disturb you but there's something I need a little help with."
"Ohhhh-kay?"
"See, I have this blog. It's called Are You Passively Observing The Random Canvases At The Cafe?"
"Long name."
"Tell me about it. You should check it out sometime. Anyway, I've been thinking of putting up a post listing the ten worst pick-up lines I could think of."
"Sounds funny."
"Thanks. So anyway, I made up ten terrible pick-up lines, but I have no idea how to rank them. So when I saw you here, I thought, well, here's a girl who's probably heard a lot of pick-up lines, you know? Because you're so beautiful. No offence."
She laughs.
"None taken."
"So I was wondering, could I perhaps read these out to you and could you, like, rank them for me? Just give a number for each one between 1 and 10, 10 being not too bad and 1 being absolutely despicable."
"Sure."
And so you take out the notepad you carry with you all the time and tell her what you said in those ten visions. This time, instead of leaving, she's amused! She giggles at a few of them and by the end, she's clutching her sides, laughing. The laugh is just as you imagined it, full-bodied yet innocent.
And for each pick-up line, she gives you a number between 1 and 10.
At the end of it all, she asks if you have any more.
"Well, I do have one, but it's not as funny as the rest."
"Well let me hear it."
"Okay. Here goes - 'Hi, my name is Armando and I'm making a list of the ten worst pick-up lines ever. Could you help me rank them?' What do you think of that one?"
She smiles. This one is different. It slowly spreads across her face and her eyes grow dark and mysterious.
"That one's not too bad."
"So a 10?"
"Better. In fact, if someone used that one on me, I'd have a tough time playing it cool, you know what I mean?"
"I think I do. Well, thanks for all your help. I've got your scores written down here, your ten...uh... numbers."
Now you lean across the space between the two of you. And you ask her:
"Are there perhaps ten more numbers you have that you'd like to give me?"

Papa Pilot

This happened a long time ago. Two years ago, to be precise. I was bored and decided to try my hand at limericks. So I started scribbling little scraps of doggerel on my partner's (Rudraksh Banerjie, man, I am really promoting his blog!) notebooks. While some might get pissed off, he was actually pretty amused. So I started putting them up as Facebook statuses. Now, I don't remember exactly how it happened, but Akshat Bahl, another friend of mine started contributing as well. We started competing. I'd put up a four line stanza, he would comment on it with another and so on until finally we had a ludicrous, disgusting, juvenile, hilarious (at least, we thought it was) poem. I soon forgot about it.
A few days ago, Akshat dredged up this story-poem from the sands of time, inspiring me to post it here so I'd never lose it again.
So here it is...enjoy!

Oh, and I have no idea why I chose to call the protagonist of this epic Papa Pilot.


EssayTea     : Papa Pilot ate a cat today
                       Felt a little hungry, but it's okay,
                       'Cause he puked it out a little while later.
                       That's the last time he asks ALF to cater.

 Akshat Bahl : He doesn't know how to fly,
                       His voice will make you cry,
                       He's a funny old crappy chap,
                       Don't laugh at him or else he'll give you a slap...

ET                : Papa Pilot got arrested for DUI.
                      The cop took pity on him when he saw him cry
                      Tore up the ticket and started walking away...
                      ...Papa Pilot ran over a cop today.

AB               : All he could do was run,
                      Some gangsters considered it kinda fun,
                      After he whopped the cop's ass with a bang,
                      They took him in his gang...

ET                : But despite all his efforts,
                       Papa Pilot wasn't a thug;
                       The truth is he couldn't even harm a ladybug
                       Because he knew that crime doesn't pay.
                       So...hey wait a minute... didn't Papa Pilot  run over a cop yesterday ?!

AB               : It's a funny story, he lost his mind:
                      He broke into a bank and a penny was all he could find.
                      The people laughed at him,
                      He walked out of the bank with Tim...

ET                : But Tim was a backstabber; he betrayed his new friend.
                      Papa Pilot swore a vendetta against Tim until the end
                      Of the world, the universe, space and time  
                      Or maybe just until the end of this rhyme

AB               : A never-ending rhyme is what i call it.
                      I dont think anyone can stop it.
                      Other people should read this crazy rhyme.
                      Instead of wasting their time,
                      Let's chuck the rhyme and go back to Papa Pilot.
                      His balls were bursting and he couldn't find a toilet...

ET               : So decided to man up and ignore that need
                      Because he really needed something good to read.
                      Something insightful, amazing, something he could read in bed.
                      But then he thought, "Screw it!" and went to the toilet instead.

AB               : He wanted to pee but shit while standing instead,
                      He couldn't find his way to the bed,
                      His room was full of stuff you know,
                      His water didn't come in proper flow...

ET               : But let us move away to a less unpleasant scene;
                     Papa Pilot trying his very best to go green.
                     He reduced his carbon footprint, put up posters all o'er town.
                     But then he rammed his car into a tree,
                     And knocked the tree down.....crap!

AB              : Crap happened when he tried to get out,
                     He was stuck between two branches with a bird's egg in his mouth,
                     He was dumb; I think he knew it.
                     A man passing by said, "Gosh! That ass blew it!"

ET              : Such a sudden change of scene left Papa Pilot confused.
                     This wasn't the kind of world to which he was used.
                     Beaten, humiliated, unsure of himself, in despair
                     Papa Pilot hung himself with a noose made from his own hair

AB              : Now that he is dead,
                     I hope this poem you have read,
                     I think we should end this rhyme,
                     Bye Essay Tea, see you next time...

ET              : And so we bid adieu
                     To Papa Pilot and me and you
                     Perhaps we'll meet him in another life
                     Perhaps one day, he'll have a wife...

A Quick Peek Into My Inferiority Complex-Ridden Schizophrenic Mind

Are you sure this is a good idea?
Sure this is a good idea.
It doesn't matter, it's a necessary idea.
What exactly are you talking about?
You know very well what I'm talking about! Everyone's blogging! Everyone!
Nice going, Captain Exaggeration.
Hey, that rhymed!
No it didn't.
IT DOESN"T MATTER! They're all doing it! I should be doing it too!
Who the hell are you talking about?
All of them! Rudraksh is. Ujjwal is. Keith is. Amogh is. Hell, Nippun's got regular posts on Speaking Tree!
So what? Good for them.
But I'm the writer here! Me!
Woah, get a load of Mr. Full Of Himself.
Why exactly do you keep making up these stupid little titles for people?
I don't make them up for people...just myself.
Yeah but, let's face it, it's getting kinda crowded in here.
That's what she said.
Shut up. I agree.
So do I.
Fish.
So do...what?
Who said that?
Who said what?
I said "What?". Who said "Fish"?
Who said what?
Fish.
Yes, that!
Who said "Fish"?
Which time, the first time or the second time?
The second time.
That was me. I was just telling you what he said.
What who said?
The guy who said "Fish"
WHO THE FUCK SAID "FISH"?!
WILL YOU STOP YELLING?!
Sorry.
Better.
I said it.
Said what?
Fish.
There it is again!
Yes, I said it the first time as well.
Why?
Just messing with you guys.
I'M GONNA MURDER YOU!
Technically it would be suicide. And what did I say about yelling?
What's all this?
...
Oh shit.
Everyone shut up.
You know very well that I can hear you.
He's right.
Dammit.
Were you guys talking to each other again?
...
Were you?
<cough> Well...
WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT TALKING TO YOURSELF! STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF! WE DON'T DO THAT SHIT!
All right, all right, you don't have to yell.
We're sorry.
We'll shut up.
Good.
...
Is he gone?
I think so. Quick! Press Publish Post before he gets back!
Can do.
Fish. 

Life Is A Drug

God, I hate New Year's. If you're a regular reader of this blog (as if) and if you're a perceptive person, you would probably have guessed that I seem to hate almost every major holiday. And you'd be right. Whoopee for you.
Seriously though, I can't remember a single New year's Eve where I wasn't depressed. I don't remember who originally said this, but it's like instead of celebrating the birth of a new year, I mourn the death of the old one. But that isn't true either. The truth is that when the clock strikes twelve (I mean this metaphorically; there are no chiming clocks at my place) the only thought in my head is: good riddance! Every year seems worse than the last. This year/last year was no different. I was so pissed off I contemplated killing myself, something that's pretty much become a bimonthly thing with me. It was then that I remembered this train of thought I had been following on another such day of depression. It started with me contemplating suicide, then remembering how people always say that people who kill themselves are weak-ass pussies who can't face their own problems and so they choose to run away from it. That always pisses me off because I believe they should be treated with sympathy. All they needed was someone to talk to. I don't see how anybody who didn't try to stop them has any right to criticize them. As a matter of fact, it takes a lot of guts to stab yourself or jump off a building or whatever because you never know whether or not it's going to hurt. I could never do that.
So then this idea pops into my head. Actually, it didn't just pop into my head, it slowly grew into an idea but since I can't remember how exactly, I'm just going to say it popped into my head.
Life is like a drug.
Or, to be precise, happiness is like a drug.
Or, to be spot-on accurate, happiness is the high that you experience as a result of, and, interestingly enough, that becomes the impetus to continue abusing, the drug that is life.
Let me explain.
Why do junkies get addicted to drugs? Because it gets them high. And obviously, this becomes the reason for their further use of the drug.
Now what is the most important part of life? Different people will have different answers: love, money, success, breathing, etc. But when you really think about it, all the answers are just different names for the same thing: happiness.
Whatever we do, we do it in the hope that it will make us happy. The reason we don't all say this is because we all have different ideas of happiness.
Just like a junkie. They use different drugs, we have different ideologies. But all of us are looking for and hoping for just one thing - that high. Happiness.
So much so that that's all we live for. Almost anyone will tell you that life is not fair. In fact, life is just a huge bucket of dog shit that you're sticking your hand in because you know that you dropped your engagement ring in there somewhere.
Let's stick to one metaphor.
As I was saying, there are a lot of bad things that are just a part of life. In fact, if my experience is accurate, most of life is either boring, sad or cruel with the occasional ray of sunshine that is happiness.
We know this. But we don't care. All we care about is that ray of light. We'll put up with all the shit because happiness is worth it. Or so we say.
If you're a non-smoker, you probably don't like it when people around you light up. You've smelt cigarette smoke. It's disgusting. You know what the long-term effects of smoking are. Reduced stamina. Having difficulty breathing. Emphysema. Cancer. It isn't pretty.
But here's the weird thing. You know it. And so does almost every single smoker on the planet!  And yet, they won't stop!
"Why?" you ask, "Why would someone do something so stupid?"
And the answer you get is always the same.
It's the high.
Most of the time, a junkie knows what he's doing is bad for him, bad for his body. TV, radio, the government, school, they've all told him the same thing. Don't do drugs. And yet, he will take another puff, he will snort another line, he will pop another pill.
Because he lives for the high and ignores all the shit.
Just like everyone else.
We live for happiness and we'll put up with whatever life throws at us to attain it.
In time, the one-time drug user becomes addicted. He needs his daily fix. He can't quit.
Are we all that different? We don't want to kill ourselves because we love life too much. We still have so much left to do. So much happiness, so many highs, that we haven't experienced yet.
The junkie learns to equate the high with the drug. Meanwhile, the rest of mankind learns to always look on the bright side of life.
In time, the junkie might introduce his friends to the drug, to share his experience. Part of it is so that his friends can be introduced to what he thinks is the best thing ever. Part of it is for his own benefit, to have someone he can talk to, trade tips with, share the experience. He might even become a dealer, but that's less likely.
The rest of us turn our noses up at them and then try and make our friends happy. For their own good and also so that we can be happy together. We give to charity, we spend time with friends, we write things or sing things so that we can feel that warm, fuzzy feeling while at the same time enabling others to feel it too. We share the experience.
But then something goes wrong. The junkie's body gets used to the drug. His receptors grow immune to the chemical messengers they're constantly being bombarded with. And soon, the high just isn't as intense as it used to be. The junkie now needs larger and larger doses of the drug to experience the same high that he experienced almost instantaneously during the early stages of his addiction.
Once again, we can draw parallels.
Have you ever noticed that the things that used to make you happy when you were a kid don't do so now? A sunny day, a holiday, winning a game, getting an A, eating your favourite dish, seeing a butterfly, looking at clouds, watching an aeroplane fly overhead, watching a cartoon show - these things don't mean as much to you as they used to. You start taking them for granted. You start looking for bigger things: a job, success, money, a girlfriend, a husband, a car... bigger things. You do this because these days you're happier with a new mobile phone than with a visit to your grandparents.
You've become cynical. You've become used to the drug.
At this point, the junkie is right in the middle of his addiction. He needs more - bigger doses, better trips. He does whatever it takes to get his daily fix. He blows all his money. He might even do something stupid like rob a store or kill someone. But it's all in vain. The high becomes more and more elusive. And his body is starting to feel the effects of prolonged drug abuse.
What happens when a person goes through a mid-life crisis?
The person realises that s/he isn't as happy as s/he imagined being when s/he was a kid. So s/he does something immensely stupid like leaving spouses, blowing money on unnecessary material goods, generally making an idiot of him/herself. But it's no use. None of it helps.
The junkie's hands start trembling. The non-junkie gets arthritis. The junkie gets diagnosed with horrible, potentially fatal diseases. So does the non-junkie. The junkie might choose to quit and experiences an extremely painful and harrowing withdrawal syndrome. And just as the non-junkie withdraws from the world as s/he approaches death, his/her body also starts falling apart.
Life and addiction have the same end. Death.

I thought all of this through when I was pacing up and down the children's playground at school, alone with my thoughts. Some of it came to me as I sat here typing this. But that very first day, after that break, I told my friend, Rudraksh Banerjie (check out his blog here) about this. He listened in silence, then nodded his head and then asked me, "Why don't you put stuff like this up on your blog? I have a friend who I want to hear this."
I told him that's what I intended to do. But I never got around to doing it. A few weeks ago, he mentioned me in his blog. I thought that was really sweet of him and wanted to repay the favour. That's when I remembered my promise. So I typed this out and now I'm posting it.
Let me mention here that in my current state of mind, I am by no means pro-suicide. I think it's a waste of  human life.
But sometimes, when I'm really down, my mind starts running along these lines. I thought it would probably be healthier if I expressed these feelings.
Because every so often, I'll truly and honestly believe that life is a drug.
The sooner you kick the habit, the better.
  

The Last Day

Well, today was the last day of school. It's weird. I'd always had a rather cynical view of how I'd feel when this day came around. I thought I'd be annoyed by everyone talking about how much they'll miss school even though if they had a choice they would still leave. I thought I'd play my part and then laugh when I was alone. After today though...
It started off normally. One of the other sections had their last assembly. It was pretty damn good, finishing off with "Papa Kehte Hain". One of the guitarists, a friend of mine had borrowed my guitar which I had fitted out with what I'd like to call my jugaad strap - a laptob bag strap hooked onto a long blue shoelace-like cord tied around the head of the guitar. I'm still pretty proud of that.
Anyway, that assembly talk gave us a real inferiority complex since we hadn't done as much. I started falling back into my familiar black mood. A crow narrowly avoided shitting on my head which was all for the best.
Afterwards, there was a flurry of activity - people writing out their speeches at the last minute, the order of the speakers being thrashed out and final song practices. Finally, we all headed downstairs where we had a brief respite from this feverish preparation. I hung out with a couple of friends of mine and we took some really weird photos of each other. I had decided that I was anything but photogenic, so I made the most effed-up faces I could. Then came  the assembly.
It started off well. The speakers spoke well, everybody was listening. Every now and then, I would throw in an entry from my list of the Top 10 Things We'll Miss About Bosco. I'd only put it together the night before, but it went down well with the crowd.
Next, we came to my good friend Avranava's rendition of Breathless. Two words. Fucking awesome. I had the privilege of being his guitarist for the day. It was just one chord (E Major) but I just couldn't get the strumming pattern right. When we performed it on stage though, my timing was spot-on. Unfortunately, the amp stopped working, so you couldn't hear me play. Oh well.
We got a huge round of applause, but it seemed to loosen up the crowd. They started talking amongst themselves and as a result the poem written by one of my best friends got drowned out. That sucked.
The ending though was memorable. We sang "500 Miles", our class teacher's choice. We were apprehensive about doiung such a common and simple song at first, but the fact that everyone was familiar with it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. We wrote an extra verse, threw in some embellishments when it came to the vocals and I sang a bridge I had written all by myself. The climax was a repeat of the first verse with me exhorting everyone in the hall to sing along. Since they all knew the words, we truly brought the house down.
The huge round of applause we got surprised us. We thought we would suck, to be quite honest. But some people said it was the best assembly out of the lot! That was a really heartwarming experience.
We moved to the junior assembly hall to stuff ourselves with food and then danced the day away with DJ Babdoo (don't ask). A friend of mine took pictures of his friends on his tablet and then turned all of us into zombies. My effed-up faces came in handy there.
The best part was everyone scribbling on each other's shirts. Old jokes, farewell messages; it was definitely the highlight of the day. I got my shirt pocket torn off and danced an Irish jig in the middle of a crowd of bhangra boys. I loved it when I heard people I didn't even know used to be friends writing on each other and then saying "Tujhe abhi bhi woh yaad hai?" It felt good knowing that they remembered all those memories. And it was kind of sad that they didn't talk about all the good times they'd had more often. 
It was a great day and I look back on it not with cynicism but with understanding. I know now that it's not about missing school; it's about the way you say goodbye to your friends.
It wasn't maudlin, but it wasn't an excessively exuberant occasion either.
And it was the perfect way to say goodbye.

If you miss the train I'm on
You will know that I am gone.