A Love Story? – Chapter Fifteen

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So, do you ever feel like that there was more to your life than the reality you are living now? Yes, I’m talking to you again, my silent friend. Did you? Well, I do and I’ve felt that way for as long as I can remember. What if I had a higher calling? I like the sound of that, “Higher calling.” How hard it was for me to write the first page that I ever wrote. You won’t believe how many times I procrastinated. And the reason was always the same, I was afraid and almost always I would end up giving writing before writing anything. We all have that basic human instincts, fear, doubting ourselves, it’s our inner struggle to fight and overcome those basic flaws and be the person we want to be, we choose to be.

I write when words seem more justifiable. I used to write, this little notes of things I couldn’t scream out loud. Pieces of paper holding my most intimate secrets and my deepest desires. Random lines to jot down thoughts that made no sense. Random words to digress away from alienation, lines I liked to believe were poetry. I know better now. For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to be a writer. But I struggled. I’m not a good story teller, I never was. Hell, I cannot even sell you my name. There are just so many little things going in my mind at any given occasion, I could never give one thought my undivided attention. I seemed to be living in my own world most of the time. In case you’re wondering that’s not a bad thing. It’s one of the qualities I pride myself for.

I guess it made sense, to give a voice to all little random rambles I made against the society. I guess it was inevitable that a heretic like me was bound to be a journalist. Talk about irony. I chose journalism because I believed in free speech. I believed that we, as citizens of a democracy, had the right to say our mind, we had the freedom to express our thoughts, we had our freedom of speech. How wrong and utterly stupid was I?

We live on the corner of city, a two story house, it’s not a mansion but is enough for a family of three. And in the far right corner of second floor, you’ll find our little corner of solace, our bedroom. Well, it’ll better be labelled as a study, you know. Call it our study, man cave, library or fortress of solitude, it will still stay the same, four walls painted in white, overwhelmingly white, a bed, a coffee table, a study table filled with newspapers, cabinets filled with books, sketch pads, dozens of paintings, half-finished canvases, charcoal sticks, oil paints, paint thinners, brushes, both used and unused, a 12×20 room where me and Radhika are always at peace.

If by some chance you stumble into this little room, all you are going to find are books, books from my field of work to the field of work which piques my curiosity most, to English literature, mostly fiction. Some hand drawn portraits of me drawn by Radhika, some landscapes and one big abstract canvas tacked on left corner of wall I never really understood.

For someone as meticulous as me, my bedroom does looks very messy and that’s because I don’t read one book at a time, I read multiple, one chapter from each, you see it keeps my mind engaged, dulls the boredom of life. I was never a firm believer of whole “Waiting your time, holding your ground” type of guy.

Every inch of the desk was covered with Post-it notes, legal pads, neatly printed lists, psychological textbooks, framed pictures. On top of the mess was a half-completed crossword puzzle. The alarm clock was riding a pile of folded newspapers and Sixty seventy broken pages filled with odd lines I might’ve called poems.

Brian Cox once wrote in his book “Wonders of the universe” that consciousness in many ways is harder to comprehend than the mere emergence of the seemingly infinite stars. I believe those pages were my attempt to comprehend my consciousness.

A coffee and shower can do wonders. I know what you are going to say, let me save you the trouble my silent friend. I am a caffeine addict, go and search a rehabilitation centre for me. I had left my father’s room almost twenty ago and once I settled down in my bedroom, my headphones blaring slipknot at full voice, I thought of finishing up the article I had to give Kabir for first inspection.

“Undo these chains my friend, I’ll show you the rage I’ve hidden, perish the sacrament, swallow, but nothing’s forgiven, you and I, can’t decide which of us was taken for granted, make amends, some of us are destined to be outlived. Step inside, see the devil in l.” And then you, my silent friend, ask why do I like Slipknot so much. If these lines do not explain that, then there are no words an average journalist like me can state to change your opinion.

You know, say whatever you want to say about Slipknot, their methods, their masks, their mindset but you cannot deny the quality of songs that they have created, no matter how fucked up you think their themes are. Iowa, scissors, people = shit, you know, even I agree with the last one.

Let me tell you a little fact about me, when I travel in the metro and by any chance you look at me, you’ll swear to good I’m having an epileptic seizure. I’m a metal head, never been ashamed of that, why would I? So I headbang. What’s so weird about that?

Anyway, I ended up booting my laptop, sorry, starting my laptop. And it took its sweet time to show me it’s beautiful blue screen, asking me to enter the password for the account of Atul Shah. Once we were past the formalities, my dear windows finally showed me it’s beautiful desktop screen so that a menial human being can finally create something beautiful. Hmm, my dramatic explanations. I finally opened the word document saved on the home screen titled, “Roshana’s story.” Would you like to know the wallpaper on my home screen? Well, don’t sweat too much, it’s a solid fill of black colour. Man of simple taste. So I started the document and started reading the words I had last added,

“We are creatures of selective deafness, we practice the age old saying of ignorance is bliss more than anything. We bliss ignorance, somehow afraid that if faced, the demons of society, somehow it’ll all crumbling down on us, breaking us out of our little glass shell. We all fight our demons every day, hiding in ourselves, crawling into the darkness. The point is not about beef. The point is not about Muslims. The point, at the very root of it, is about freedom of choice. You can eat chicken, you can eat lamb, and you can eat fish, even if you are a Brahmin, all in name of urban life, all in name of new millennia, and even in name of growth. Yet when it comes to hypocrisy, you people still live in dark ages. In this country, killing a man will cause you less trouble than killing a cow.”

For those of you who do not know, Brahmin are considered to be the purest blood when it comes to Hinduism. I read my words again and again, pondering over my mindset when I wrote those words. After the day I had, I didn’t needed another revolution, I didn’t wanted to be a part of a conspiracy, so I did what any sensible man in his right mind would do. I deleted the paragraph. Freedom of speech. What a big bloated statement.

Slipknot’s Custer started playing and I just started thrashing my body and air drumming. “Cut, cut, cut me up and fuck, fuck, fuck me up.” Oh, how aptly those words resonated with me in that moment.

It seems as if I’m dragging it forever, doesn’t it? Well it had only been twenty six hours by then. We do strange things for the people we love, don’t we? After all, we do lie to them if we believe it’ll hurt them less. I believe, being a pessimist and a realist are the two sides of the same coin. You cannot have one without the other.

I’ve a strange obsession, if I have a new interest and there is something about it that I don’t know, it makes me feel like my life doesn’t matters at all, I know it seems stupid but that’s the way it is. My obsession is the driving force behind my thirst for knowledge, I need to know something about everything. I like being at the centre of conversations and the only way I can do that is by knowing about the topic at hand.

Everyone believes me to be an erudite, a sensible man but no one knows how broken I actually feel. My search for absolution. I can give advice, I can listen but I do not feel I’ve anything to share, maybe that is what eats me from inside. Maybe I need to scream. Maybe I should just shout. Scream as loud as I can. Curse whomever I want to. But just once, only once, maybe I shouldn’t hold back my anger.

As I’ve said it one too many times, emotions are entirely subjective and so are perceptions. Based on our psych, we end up defining evilest actions as necessary steps for the betterment of society and the noblest one as the work of devil. Broken perceptions. And if you can see through the veil of social chagrin, you end up being a misfit. Let me be proud, for I am a perfect misfit.

I told you about Murphy’s law, didn’t I, my silent friend? So, I finally thought I’d give my anger some guided calmness and write something good, something revolutionary. I’d write the review for latest released movie. So, it made perfect sense when my system froze and the dreaded blue screen of death (BSOD) came blaring on the screen. An unexpected store exception, that’s what they called it. How apt, it was unexpected. Either way, Murphy’s law, I was angry and I ended up being furious. I know how dreaded my words will sound if I tell you how I ended up feeling as if there was no meaning to my life once my laptop crashed. The fear of missing out. Have you heard of it? Well, we can come up with trendiest abbreviations for our shortcomings. FOMO, that is what it’s called. Apparently, we are so involved in this rat race of a life that we have forgotten to just take a step back and breathe the moment. Don’t worry, I won’t judge you. I feel the same.

I do not know why I’ve this relentless fear of missing and falling behind. For once, I’d like to just stop and breathe the moment too. See, I could have thrown my hands in the air, in utter despair, pulled my hair in disbelief. I could have just simply went to bed. If there’s a god, he had just given me the middle finger. But no, I ended up writing on my smartphone. See, there are other uses to it too, well at least for me, I’m not very versatile when it comes to social media. Never understood the point of it.

Either way, I started typing and I didn’t stopped for maybe twenty minutes, it definitely felt more. My fingers just went crazy on that glass screen and I wrote, “It’s all about context. You possibly couldn’t have the faintest idea what it is to be like me. That’s my frame of mind how are you going to impersonate that, you couldn’t. So it’s all in the context. You might believe it is the person’s fault after all, you know the only way to HIV/AIDS is by being unfaithful, so maybe it is God’s way of punishing the unfaithful and dishonest people. You might not be wrong, I guess. But, um, uh I had something, I, uh, believe me I had something to say about that. Seems like you will be right after all. It is the fault of the person who got HIV/AIDS.

But what about the wife of an infected husband or maybe the husband of an infected wife or just forget that, what about the children born to infected parents. Are they being punished by association? What kind of justice is that?

I don’t know, I honestly have nothing to say about that. If there is a god, if, that is one sick game he is playing. I read a quote somewhere, not a quote, it wasn’t, it was anger and pure despair, I hope many of you know about the holocaust. That is an interesting name, holocaust, sounds very doomy and maybe it was doomy after all. So Jewish concentration camps, a lot of people still don’t like to talk about it, it makes them questions their faith, maybe in humanity or god, I don’t know, I possibly couldn’t, remember it’s all about context. Why so much pain and misery? Forget about the constant filth soup we live in everyday life, but random events like that, or maybe not so random after all. Enough of my rambling, there was a line written in one of the cells, it went something like this, “if there is a god, he’ll have to beg for my forgiveness.”

Well a lot of you would be all how dare he say that, but I am hundred percent sure or maybe more than that, you are currently sitting in comfy bed, AC on full blast, enjoying your pure piece of filth reality TV. I’m hundred percent sure. After all, you have the habit of being on your knees begging him everyday for all that comfy filth. Who the fuck am I to judge, I’m also writing this surrounded by comfy filth.

But atleast I don’t say that God gave me everything, after all, what kind of God gives cancer to children, or HIV for that matter of fact. Only a narcissistic, evil, so full of himself God can do that. Now, say all your prayers, after all we are going to burn in hell for this, me for writing it, you for reading it, punishment by association.

So, I’ll quote, sorry I’ll relive that anger, of that Jewish evil ungrateful man and I’ll say if there is a god he’ll have to beg for my forgiveness. Without God everything would have been so simple, or maybe it would have all the same but we wouldn’t blame someone who can’t even be proved, whose existence is doubtful, for all our misgivings, for all the evil that we do, for all that is wrong with our world, maybe then we would end up taking responsibility for all that we do. Maybe then we will finally see the pain that we instigated in others.

Maybe then we’ll end up being humans.”

**

via Daily Prompt: Delivery

Well, in case you, my dear readers, ask what was the context of “Delivery” in this chapter, there wasn’t any. While I started writing it, my laptop crashed. So, I wrote this entire chapter on my smartphone. See, I write what I know. So, here I am, delivering on my promise of a chapter a day.

Hmm, either way, this one was my 99th post and I’ll be publishing my 100th post tomorrow (You know, post a day blogger) on 30th day of my blogging. So, I’ll be doing something interesting. I’ll bring to you an interview with a narcissistic piece of shit. Stay tuned, dear readers.

24 Replies to “A Love Story? – Chapter Fifteen”

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