The Proper Way To Die (Part 7/7)

If you haven't read the earlier parts or if you just want to refresh your memory, here are some links:

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

You need not read them if you don't have the time; this post is almost unconnected. But it does help to read what went before this, to better understand what I have written here.

8. Epilogue: Stranger than Fiction

Well, there you have it - the proper way to die according to Essay Tea.
It feels good to finish this. It feels right. These are all things I've thought about for years. Over those years, my opinions have changed, the details have been refined and the mood has matured, becoming less melodramatic, more subtle. But the overall theme hasn't changed, my ideal death hasn't changed, at least, not in the essentials.
Writing this required a good long look at death and what it means to humans in general and me in particular. In the process, I've come to an interesting discovery: I'm not as scared of death as I used to be. I've reconciled myself to the fact that I won't be around forever, that a day will one day come when my energetic tongue and faltering pen will both be stilled. In that time, the consciousness that was me will disappear from existence. Everything that seemed important uptil that moment - earning money, eating, being liked, being loved - all of it will cease to matter. And I'm okay with that.
I think that's partly because I've finally written this down and shared it with a few people. Now I know that even if I die without doing all the things I wanted to do, saying the things I wanted to say; even if I don't die in the proper way, people will know what that proper way was. And in a way, by talking about it, I've done all of it. So I can die relatively peacefully, at least more peacefully than if I hadn't written this. So what I'm trying to say is that death doesn't scare me, but dying does. Just before I die, I want to be able to die without any major regrets, if nothing else. Dying with the feeling that I've wasted my life is a thought that terrifies me. So terrifying that the silence of death seems like a blessing compared to it because at least it puts an end to that kind of pain. 
Writing this brought out a lot of things I've been meaning to talk about - the Make A Wish Foundation, Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy, All Things Must Pass, Poe, epitaphs, funerals, Douglas Adams, bucket lists, the afterlife, capital punishment... the list goes on. I shared videos, generated a meme and went from black humour to utter sincerity to morbid masturbation to anticipatory planning to rage and contempt and now this. I didn't mean for this to happen. This post was just supposed to be about an ideal death. All these digressions were all just... random by-products. And that, of course, is what this blog is supposed to be about and what it has never been until now.
But one last thing before I end this. I've been presenting a rather idealised scenario where I have perfect control over my death. but the inconvenient thing about life is that, most of the time, you have no control whatsoever. People die everyday. How many die as they would like to die? A very small number, I should imagine.
So since I've already talked to you about the proper way to die, dear reader, let me now cover the other side of the problem - reality. In doing so, let my words take on the ring of truth one finds in the words of prophets. Let me be free from unnecessary embellishment and present a fair, credible account of my death, if I can.

First things first, I won't be informed about my death. Death gives no proper notice. It creeps up on you like your shadow, so close at your heels that you forget it's there until you turn around and see it stretched out on the ground before you. People don't die with a bang as often as they do with a whimper. My death then must be unplanned and like the one foretold by Eliot for Tulliver: it "was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under thickening shadows."
I will grow old in a house not unlike the one in which I write this - not a palace, not a hovel. I will be in a line of work that I enjoy but complain about; that keeps me up late at night and takes its toll on my health. I'll scrimp and save for something whose name I don't know but until the time that I do, I'll be frugal. When I die, all that saving will seem pointless because I'll have never put that money to good use.
I will read a great many books but not as many as I would like to. And I would have understood and appreciated fewer still. 
Slowly, everything that I'm proud of will disappear, every mild irritation of today shall become like a curse - my hair will turn grey and fall out leaving my head as bare as it was the day I was born; my smile-lines will deepen and become wrinkles so deep they look like scars; each one of my teeth will fall out and I will be reduced to wearing ill-fitting dentures that continually slip off my pale, occasionally bleeding gums; my already weak eyes will fail me and I will stop reading; my already weak ears will fail me and I will stop listening to music; my already weak memory will fail me and I will not recognize you; my long nails will be trimmed short - so will my beard; the hair that once grew on my head will sprout instead from my ears and nostrils, rendering those orifices incapable of functioning properly; I shall be beset by boils and warts and corns and coughs and trembling; I will shrivel up like a raisin in the sun and my limbs will be like dry sticks; my ribs will be acutely visible, as if they were trying to rip through my skin and jump out of my chest - that is, if I haven't already developed a paunch; I will get diagnosed with diabetes, high blood pressure, all those tiny little ailments that can become life-threatening if ignored - consequently, my diet will be restricted and I will no longer relish my meals. Instead, I will be reduced to munching bland, flavourless food preceded and followed by pills and tablets. It won't matter that much though - I'll have lost my appetite long ago. My meagre strength will fade away rendering me almost immobile. One day, I will go to the bathroom without my walker, slip and dislocate my hip. It will never heal. I will be confined to my bed, occasionally making forays into the outside world in a wheelchair but gradually becoming more and more confined to my house. I will need to wear diapers and I will need someone to feed me. I will retire and my hours will stretch before me: long and empty. I will not understand new movies, new music, new books, new people. I will watch TV all day except there will be nothing interesting to watch so I will watch less and less as the days go by. I will write a few short stories, maybe even a few books that will be published and earn me a pittance. Every year I'll get some five hundred odd rupees as royalties. Otherwise, I shall live on my pension. My writing will be appreciated but not loved. It will not crash and burn spectacularly, it will not go unnoticed until some time after my death when it will be raved over, it will not make me famous. It will be complimented politely and then fade away, the last remaining copies left in libraries where they will be issued every other year or so and that too only to be scribbled in and to have pages torn out of them. Soon, my hands will start trembling and I will stop writing.
I will develop a taste for tea but have no one to drink it with. Friends are all well and good, but they outgrow you and move on after a while. I will remember my teacher's words about how friends for life are mythical creatures and will muse, not without some bitterness, on how true his words had proved to be. Oh, some people will visit me now and then. Some friends I'll probably make in my colony for lack of anyone else to talk to, who are just as old and decrepit as I am and just as needful of company. Family members - occasionally. 
Will I have a wife? Children? Will I die alone? Will I marry only to let my violent streak overcome me, lashing out at my wife in revenge for my own failures until she leaves? Will there be children that she will take along with her who will grow up away from me and without any fond memories of me? Or will I be infertile? Or will I be happy for a short while with a wife, the love of whom once passionate will slowly dim into that comfortable but dull bond characterized by petty arguments and disagreements that a misguided few call a happy marriage until my wife dies and my children move away? Will they bring me to their home when I'm doddering, out of some sense of duty? Will they let me live out my days in a quiet corner unattended to by anyone who isn't paid to do so? Will they talk to me in a loud tone and with slow, easily understood words as if I were a child? Will I have entered my second childhood, so much sadder and crueller than my first, cruel and sad enough as my first may have been? Will my mind, my reason, my intellect, my sense of humour - will all these abandon me? If they did would I still be alive? Or would I just... exist?
There will be birthdays. Mine as well. As I grow nearer to the centenary, the parties will become more and more lavish. But I will be beyond enjoying them. And I will die just short of reaching that milestone.
What last companions I have will start dying, one by one. So will the relatives from my generation. I will not be the last, but I will live long enough to feel the pain of seeing them go, one after the other.
It will be winter. My coughs will grow louder. My trembling will become violent. I will be rushed to the hospital over and over again and leisurely brought home again, over and over again.
Then, one night, while everyone is asleep, I will die. It will be painful, agonisingly painful, and unbearably slow, but I will be too weak to cry out. I will lie awake, clutching my breast, unseen by all. My breathing will become ragged, then slow.
In the last instant, I will look back on my life and I will have regrets - so many regrets. But I won't be able to do anything about them. Because my one chance at life will have been spent. I will slip into the darkness with tears in my eyes and then I will know nothing.
The next morning, I will be found and people will console themselves by saying I died peacefully, in my sleep.
I will be buried. The funeral will be a quiet affair. No songs will be sung. Well, maybe a few hymns. Probably not any of the good ones. Amazing Grace, maybe. There will be no grand speeches. Even if there are a few, they will be made by those selected for their proficiency with words, not for any particular bond between us. I know not many people will attend. My relatives are either dead, dying or were never born. My friends will have forgotten me. 
The next morning, there will be an obituary in the paper. If I'm lucky, maybe a short write-up as well. My friends will see them and feel bad about not spending more time with me. Then they will feel good about feeling bad and will forget me again. Some people will not know about my death until years later when they randomly think of me for no reason. They will either learn of my death and make appropriate but false noises, or they will forget to enquire and go back to their everyday lives.
My books will go out of print. All the stories people have about me will be passed down and then forgotten. My descendants, if any, will also eventually forget me. They will have no more memory of me than I do of my great-great-grandfather whose name I don't even know.
I will be buried with a plain marker. The most minimalistic of epitaphs because, as with my will, I will not have written my own epitaph - not because of superstition, but mere prosaic procrastination. 
When I was ten years old, my dog died. We buried her in the only pet cemetery in the city, far far away. We promised to visit her and plant some lemon grass on her grave because she used to love eating lemon grass when she was alive.
But we never visited her grave again. It's probably been emptied of it's contents and re-filled by now, for want of space.
I still feel guilty about that. It is only fair that I should suffer the same fate.
And so, slowly, my name will be effaced from this world. No one will remember it. 
It will be as if I had never existed.

Perhaps now you can understand why I'm so morbid, why I obsess over death so much. What I've just described wasn't fiction. It happens every day to millions of people. It seems odd that such a precious thing as a human life - something that can mean so much to some people; that can change the course of human history; that can bring so much joy and so much sorrow; that can work so much good and so much evil; that took so long to grow and blossom and flourish - it is truly odd that such a wondrous thing can just disappear so quietly without widespread lamentation of the fact that this unique consciousness that entered into the world has now left it and left it in sorrow and shame. That which should be marked by pathos is marred instead by bathos. And this happens everyday. 
No, this isn't fiction. This is the truth. And the truth is much stranger than fiction.
So that's why I do what I do. Why I try to be nice, to be a good friend, to forgive and forget. It's why I try not to complain too much or lose my temper too often. Why I dream and write and try to make people laugh. 
Because all I want, more than anything else, is to be remembered. I want my death to be noticed, if not by strangers then at least by the people I once loved, even if that love should have disappeared long ago. 
All I want is for people to mourn for me when I die, not just for a day, or a month, or a year. I want them to feel my absence, to feel as if something has disappeared from their lives, that the world, in some way, no matter how small, has become a slightly sadder place.
All I want is to be missed. To have my absence felt. To be remembered.
The sad part is that even though that's what my goal is, I never seem to come any closer to it, no matter how hard I try. My proper death is still a dream; my real death is still looming large - not a tragic death, but one that makes my life look like a sad joke. 
Is it any wonder then that I imagine nobler deaths for myself to escape the quotidian? That I take refuge in fiction? Oh, that I may die like Jean Valjean or like Sidney Carton! But sadly, I don't live in a Romance. If I did, I would die as soon as this was published and this whole exercise would become so much more meaningful, so much more... poignant. 
But, as I keep reminding myself, I live in the real world. And the real world is strange. Often unbearably dull and depressingly prosaic, but infinitely strange all the same.

RIP Essay Tea.   

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.

Boogie Nights in the Mithai Ka Dukaan

Hey, everyone. For reasons I'd rather not divulge, I won't be putting up any fiction for a while. However, that doesn't mean I won't stop posting altogether. About an hour ago while I was heading towards the market, I was mulling over a few possible blog posts. I'd formed a couple of them in my head when I saw something that made me stop and take notice.
It was your average neighbourhood sweet shop. Jalebis being fried in giant vats. Lots of people milling around. Sweets which have probably had enough flies crawling over them to erode all tastes except insect feet, all neatly arranged in gleaming steel trays. A steamed corn stall manned by the usual red-uniformed dudes. On a side note, why is it that all steamed corn outlets everywhere have the exact same flavours (Classic, Masala, Pepper, Chinese and so on), the same colour scheme (TGIF red and white) and very similar names (Hot & Juicy, Spicy & Sweet, Sweet & Sour, Hairy & Mildly Discoloured... okay I might have made up that last one)? Anyway, after squeezing my way to the back of the shop past a tray of what looked like tiny translucent bits of snot/petha bearing a label which called it 'Chana Murgi' (despite the fact that it had absolutely no chickpeas and sure as hell no chicken) towards the kaju burfi, I found myself staring at a rather large, very shiny, spinning disco ball.
Take a minute. Picture it in your head. A mithai ka dukaan. With a disco ball.
For those of you who don't know what a disco ball is, it's a large-ish spherical ball, suspended from the ceiling and encrusted with small reflecting plates so that when it spins, it reflects tiny moving rectangles of light on the walls in a manner which was, no doubt, all the rage around the time Saturday Night Fever came out. You've probably  know what I'm talking about. Here's a picture:

I should probably mention here that although I've seen disco balls on TV, this was the first fully functional one I'd ever seen. There is one in our school auditorium, high above the stage and never turned on, occasionally turning when a stray gust of wind manages to sneak up there. This one, however, was spinning like a ceiling fan. But that's not the best part. Here's the best part. It was almost completely surrounded by mirrors and CFL bulbs with the result that it reflected as much light as is physically possible onto a portrait of the deceased original owner of the shop, most likely a close relative of the current owner. I kid you not. You have a large portrait of an old, white-haired man, adorned with a pink and white, tiny mirror-dotted mala  he probably wouldn't have been seen dead with when he was alive but ironically is doomed to wear perpetually now that he actually is dead, condemned to stare at a relic from the 70s till kingdom come or the MCD bulldozers, whichever comes first. A relic that spun as fast as if the old man's immortal soul depended on it. 

I stood staring at it for a couple of minutes. Later, I realised that no one else seemed the least intrigued by it, its incongruous monstrosity notwithstanding. That made me wonder. Were they just being polite? Had they seen it countless times before, in which case why the hell hadn't I? Or did they actually find it completely normal to come across a disco ball as an accessory to the portrait of a dead man? I also wonder where and why in the name of all things holy the proprietor managed to get a disco ball. Chances are some shady knick-knack dealer convinced him that it was a genuine Hanuman Suraksha Gend and that the faster it spun, the happier the late Shri Motilal Mehta (obviously not his real name), recently deceased, would be in the great beyond. In fact I'm convinced that's the case. I just can't imagine someone walking into a store and saying, "Bhaiyya, woh ek bada sa disco ball mil sakta hain, Papa-ji ke picture ke liye?"

And so let that disco ball spin in the mithai ka dukaan. No doubt because of it, the soul of Shri Motilal Mehta (recently deceased) is boogieing down in Heaven as we speak.