Two months and a week

2oth April - 27th June

The laptop speakers feebly warble out an Elliot Smith song. He whispers, drug addicted and suicidal, and the fan cuts across the wet, heavy air in a slow, hypnotic motion. The chat window flashes desperately. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” “R U der??????” Am I? No. Certainly not.
The shirt clings heavily to my body, slothful and fattened by a diet of refined flour, sugar, tandoori chicken and twelve hours of sleep. I lie under the fan, on my bed, on my back and contemplate a life elsewhere, on a bustling train, in cooler climes, in better health, with better luck. I wish for a life contrary to this. But the moment of angst passes quickly.
The phone lies next to me. No space for new messages. Because I refuse to delete the old ones. Even ones like – “I’ll be there in fifteen mins”. Eventually I must.

I pick up a book. I read a page. It’s good stuff. I read another. And then someone asks me if I need something. And then someone sweeps the floor. And then someone needs to use the bathroom in my room. And then there’s a doorbell that no-one will answer. I give up.

Under the blazing afternoon sun, I visit my favourite old tea shop. It’s ridiculously hot, but I drink tea and smoke a cigarette. The old chap still remembers me. “Purane dost bhi nahin aten” he says. “Kaam kar rahe hain sab” I say. Sab, but me. I am not working. I don’t exactly know why, because I did get a job. I had an interview and the man said, you’re with us. But I’m not so sure what it was really. One never knows with these things anymore. “Market kharaab hain”, is all they say. Mere liye toh hamesha hi tha, I think. I think in Hindi these days sometimes. It’s a new thing. I always thought in Bengali or English, rarely Hindi. But I do. I was initiated once I stepped out of this red state. “Tumi Bengali na non-Bengali?” Amar shaala identity crisis.

I sink into the decadent richness of an AC car. I have a chauffer driven car here. I don’t feel anything of the outside. I slip on my i-pod. I’m happy. I shoot a warning glance towards a beggar who raps my window at a signal. Go away, like really. Stop making me feel guilty while you cast me a practiced stare of devastation. Your life, really, really must be horrible. Whether that kid in your arms is yours or not. Whether you are making a complete ass of me or not. Your life has got to suck. I know. But please go away. I can’t make a difference, because I’m lazy, resigned and kind of cold.
The phone beeps. It’s another message. I deleted some earlier. Message memory almost full. “Hey aren’t you town? Let’s meet up!” Let’s not. Let’s not. But I can’t tell you that. Then you’ll think I’m too goddamn snobbish to meet an old friend. It’s not that. It really isn’t. I’m just not ready to face the world just yet. That’s all.


I watch an hour of mindless television at three in the morning. It’s a Bhojpuri film dubbed in Bengali. It’s the same story everyday, with different characters. The acting is so bad, so bad, that you wonder if it’s bad enough to achieve a cult status. The sets kill you, the costumes blind you, the wobbly bellies of the hero and heroine dancing around trees and having awkward sex, makes you want to reconsider eating all that food before you retired for the night. Yet, I keep watching, emotionlessly, credulously. These are members of our fraternity. Someone actually made this film. Fuck.

In the morning, I get a call from a guy I used to know since school. He became cool and popular from being geeky and hairy once upon a time. I’m generally proud of him. He’s a smug sonnofabitch though, and has too many opinions. But he’s cute. I’d never fuck him, but he’s cute. And engaging. I can talk to him. So I pick up the phone. And he does a little drama on the other end. Like he’s a pulling a rabbit out of the hat. He’s sorry that we couldn’t meet before. So, he says, this evening, would I come to a cool party with cool people who smoke cool weed and have cool jobs and are the last word of coolness in everything because you know, they’re so cool? Would I? Wouldn’t you rather come to my home, and I’ll cook you chicken and we’ll have some cold beer and talk about stuff? Er, I guess not. Sometimes I’m plain boring. But power to my friend who’s in truth quite intelligent and sensitive and affable. He’s not really trying to fit in anymore. He’s the one people are trying to fit into now. What a cool moment for a guy who used to get teased at school for having tits and long sideburns once upon a time. What a cool moment.

Later on, I feel like a smoke. But I don’t do much of that at home. I don’t really dig the thrill anymore. And anyway, I can live without a smoke. I’m not as hooked as I thought I was. I have this semi panic attack sometime later, where I feel like the world is rushing past me, and I can’t quite catch the bus. Everyone’s getting jobs, having sex, traveling places, getting famous and I’m sitting and watching Bhojpuri films dubbed in Bengali. I’m too goddamn lazy to call back my employer and I screw up another interview which would take me to Bombay (but that’s okay, because that man wasn’t really cream of the crop or anything). But the panic rises, and I take out the panic in the form of irritability on poor, unsuspecting home folk. NO, I do NOT care to put those clothes into my cupboard. Lunch is over-rated. I want a scooter. I won’t call the boss. I want to go to Himachal Pradesh. I won’t go to the bank. I won’t answer the door THIS time. I have nothing to do at home. Stop blackmailing me emotionally. Nobody loves me.

Well why the hell should they? I suck. I completely suck.

I want to dig a hole and hide in it and wait for this crumpled ball of confusion to pass.

And then I’m online taking Facebook quizzes. What sort of a kisser are you? A passionate one: You know exactly what to do and you do it oh so well…Where did you learn? Damn – you got me there. I see an endless barrage of nonsense and send random messages to random faces that pop up on my left hand side. Just. I could go to an interesting site and jumpstart my brain into some activity, but I don’t. I go through a mindless treasure trove of “Those were the best days of our lives”, “I miss you guyzzzz!” “We luk so friggin’ HOT in dis pic!” and some are even witty and fun. But like Bhojpuri-Bengali films, I leave them all be. Detachedly absorbing everything in.

Once in a while I meet a friend or two I genuinely like talking to online. We rant for a bit, and then drift off. Maybe, I watch a film. Or read a few pages. And then I’m back to sleeping. Nothing bothers me particularly, even as the world around me collapses slowly. I flick channels. I tune out voices. I skip the editorial. My heart doesn’t break, when I don’t get a call I’ve been expecting. I make up and break up and make up again with the folks at home. I read another page. I cook a little. I have a dream at night. I read through my old emails and sms-es. I feel idealistic. I feel hopeless. Then I feel neutral. I feel wise and then utterly idiotic.


Miss Misery… Do you miss me the way you say you do?