Inspiration : Tina Tarnoff
A lot has happened in the last 10 days. The whole country has been on a roller coaster ride as milestone verdicts from the Indian Judiciary popped out day after day. (For those of you who are not much into current affairs, let me brush your general knowledge a bit.)
The first sensational verdict was on Triple Talaq. The Supreme court struck down the practice of Talaq-e-Biddat, declaring it invalid and illegal (not ‘unconstitutional’ though). People roared with happiness on National television.
The next day, in a remarkable 9-0 verdict on the question of privacy, the Supreme Court declared privacy as a fundamental right, apart from being a natural right inclusive of sexual autonomy. This paved the way for the much awaited scrapping of the IPC section 377.
And then, a popular Godman was convicted with rape after a 15 year trial. The followers ravaged the city, killing more than 30 people and injuring hundreds. The atmosphere is filled with fear as the governments failed to protect innocent people yet again.
So it’s quite quiet here. Like the tranquilness before the tempest. The Love Charger Baba, as he is affectionately called, is to be sentenced today. Section 144 has been imposed in many areas of Delhi and I have already received messages from my classmates to not to attend college tomorrow. The Book Fair plan has been cancelled and I feel like little Anne Frank living off her last days in the secret annexe. The other day, a lot of buses were torched in Shahdara, and the Kota Guy sent me 5 missed calls before deciding I was dead. He was happy to get my room and was vividly imagining his life in there when I said hello to him.
“You are not dead yet? “He asked, a bit disappointed.
“I was at Rohit’s. Playing Mini Militia. ”
That’s just another story. At first Rohit was reluctant. His 512 mb RAM phone couldn’t bear the weight of Doodle army. So as we started to play, his phone gave up. I told him to uninstall Amazon for the love of God and clear cache while we played the game. He was so disheartened he uninstalled Mini Militia as well. Then we got it reinstalled and started playing and I beat the shit out of everyone. Rohit would often dangle about with the launcher and I’d kill him with a revolver. Flame thrower is my favourite weapon of all time. I’m invincible with that shit.
Anyway, I came back and the Kota guy told me about burning vehicles and swelling violence. I checked the news and it was everywhere. More than two dozens lost their lives because a rapist was convicted. Social media was abuzz with grief and rage. Sakshi Mahraj gave a stern warning to the Judiciary that if the decision is not corrected (reversed) there shall be more riotsand large scale violence. That’s my country, guys. Welcome to India.
If I have to be honest, I hate Godmen. More than that, I hate blind faith. But that’s the evergreen problem with humanity. Doesn’t matter if you are a caveman or a businessman, doesn’t matter if you wear hides or suit, doesn’t matter if you fiddle with stones or iPhones, you are always blinded. This is the reason such swindlers emerge and are able to carry out their evil plans. Then, there’s politics of course. It’s shit, actually. You’ll have to come to India to see it. Though I would suggest against it because you might get raped. We are an incredibly dangerous people. Our national capital is infamously called the “Rape Capital”.
What could be worse?
Accounts of a disaster.
My flatmate, the Kota Guy, is seeing a girl these days. Today they went on a date. Or whatever it was.
Let me give you a nice little prologue here. A few days ago, he dropped in my room and began telling me about this girl on whatsapp who wouldn’t blink an eye before forty billion Goodnight exchanges.
“I went to sleep at 4 in the morning. “He said. His eyelids were the first victims of a freshly brewing love story.
It reminded me of Heer, so I told him about her. No personal details, just the story. Five minutes into it and he was bawling with laughter. I narrate my tragedies very well I guess. It wasn’t even that funny, I mean you already know how shit happens, you just have to add humour to it.
“Did you get something in the end? “He asked, seemingly excited. He meant if I fucked her.
“We kissed. “I said, “on her ex-anniversary. ”
God! Is that even a word!?
He gave me a puzzled look, so I told him about the shit that happened on 19th February 2016.
He told me he was going to meet his whatsapp girl soon. And that he really wanted to fuck somebody.
“You could go to Qutub Minar. Nice romantic place. “I suggested, imagining Heer and myself plodding through the quiet graveyards.
“It’s very far. “He said the other day.
“It’s worth going. “I said, “You don’t have to worry. It closes at 5 pm. No safety issue. ”
He didn’t seem too happy about it.
“I’ve asked her for a night out. Chances are less that she’ll accept, though. “He said. “We shall go to CP, probably. ”
Ah, the CP. Such a shame people would choose those glitzy blocks in place of beautiful rotting monuments. I mean you can go have your pretentious little dinner in an air-conditioned hall with fancy tables and fancier walls, but you can never feel the love you do while walking under the bowers that have witnessed a million love stories for more than 800 years..
If I ever go out with a girl again, it will be these royal ruins where we shall head to.
Anyway, my flatmate did go on a date, that’s what I thought when he left the flat. I had already given him a few do’s and don’t’s, and he had repeatedly said he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
“Tell me, Barbossa, how can I ask for sex on the first date? “He had asked. I imagined him in a little box on Republic tv, already branded anti-national and anti-women and anti-matter and anti-whatever by Arnab Goswami.
I was sick of writing assignments so I thought I should have some fun. I googled dating tips for men and sent him half a dozen screenshots and links.
Then, I went back to doing my assignments.
He dropped in in the evening, and said,
“She almost saw that shit. ” referring to my messages.
“How did it go? “I asked. He began looking for a word to describe the experience, however, couldn’t come up with anything satisfying.
“I saw the tips. And I realised I was doing exactly the opposite of what men are supposed to do on dates. ”
“Did you crack some jokes? “I asked.
“Yeah. Lame ones. “He said.
“Like I told her have you ever wondered that CP sounds like ‘see pee’? ”
He told her what!
“Oh my God! That’s terrible. “I said, shell-shocked.
“That’s what she said. ”
“I mean it’s so terrible that..that…ughh it’s not even a joke, it’s a joke’s death. “I retched and laughed for a solid 15 minutes, wondering if the girl would ever go out with him again.
“The worst part is that I had practised that joke. ”
“And when she asked me if I played sports, I told her I play chidiya ud. ”
I nearly fell off my chair laughing. I wanted to ask him if he got laid, but I thought I already knew the answer. He laughed too.
“What did you guys talk about? ”
“The same shit as yours. About her ex-boyfriend. “He said, “She kept telling me about this ex-boyfriend of hers she was very good friends with. They dated for about 3 years and stuff. Then she told me about this cute boy she dated yesterday. ”
At this, I sprang off my chair.
“Dated when? ”
“Yesterday. She said he was a cute boy. “He said.
“Oh my God. “I looked at him with wide-opened eyes, “I thought nothing could nullify your lame jokes but this so does. ”
I asked him if he was sure they were on a date and he shrugged his shoulders. Poor guy! Now I knew for sure they didn’t fuck. Had the Kota Guy followed my advice and took her to Qutub Minar and saved himself from being an unfunny comedian, he would have definitely scored. Hell, I had sent him stepwise guides to approach a woman. There was guaranteed success at the end of it. People don’t listen to my advice. Disappointing people.
“After a point, I didn’t even know what I was doing. I felt like a dumb person. She said she had never been to CP but she kept showing me the shops and lanes. Starbucks, Cafe Coffee Day, big words. Those fuckers charge 40 bucks for water. Can you imagine? ”
I could. Even though I am generally poor, I am familiar with the 40 bucks water thing.
“I ate chicken, though. It costed 260 bucks. “He groaned.
“It was bad I suppose. ”
“Barbossa, I will have to work on my jokes. “He said. “Chuck it. I will ask her directly if she is interested in fucking. We had a little sex chat, by the way. ”
Okay, that got me hooked. I asked him to elaborate the whole conversation and he said,
“She asked me if I knew they played porn at Rajeev Chowk metro station a few months ago. ”
I puckered my face to show my disgust. That’s not what you call a sex chat. Hell, that’s not even an information. That’s…that’s just shit.
I wondered if I should suggest him a cigarette date, but then, decided against it. Some things are better kept secret.
(Have I ever told you about this world-famous cigarette date I went on?)
Anyway, the date, or whatever it was, was an epic disaster. And as my flatmate confessed, the chicken was more pleasing than the chic. And also, if you’re really interested, he did not get laid.
sarahah and stuffs… 😑
When I imagine my Facebook wall, I imagine diversity. I imagine a Hindu Extremist screaming for a Temple, I imagine Cricket fanatics fighting over the greatness of Dhoni and Kohli, I imagine a new unfunny Sarcasm post, I imagine my friend’s girlfriend’s feminist and why-you-should-consider-yourself-lucky-if-you-are-a-Bengali posts. I also imagine Shashi Tharoor’s jibes, Kumar Vishwas’s poems, Leonid Afremov’s landscapes, all painting my wall in a mural of diversity. I love variety. I love the whole color palette, and not just one.
So when everybody went crazy and started sharing sarahah.com posts, it pissed me off. If there’s one thing I hate about social medias, it’s the Indonesian Forest nature of this medium. Light a match and acres shall burn. The diversity of my ecosystem has been compromised because of this godforsaken app. And what does it even do? Well, it lets you message people anonymously. Or so they say. I don’t know why anyone would say anything to anyone anonymously, unless you are discussing Formicophilia or something. Some people say it’ll urge people to confess, but I’d rather stick with the school of thought that says it’ll encourage cyber-bullying. Not because I have really done a case study on this, but because I don’t want it to disrupt my peace.
From AIB to stupid friends of mine, from hot girls to intellectual ones, everyone’s hooked to sarahah.com. Everyone’s asking everyone to go drop a question and know them inside out. What the hell!
Recently, I’ve observed this tendency of social medias. The tendency to make things viral, the tendency to make momentary crackerworks. Fire, explode and extinguish. Poof! Right from the sky you drop, a single speck of dust, a tiny grey ash, you float, struggle for flight, yet another ascent, but you only fall…. This is the dark truth of social media, and the only thing it reflects is our nature. The people who’d stick to anything fancy. The people who’d share the same shit over and over and then forget all about it. Of course you can’t keep all the junk inside your mind, but you don’t have to swallow the junk in the first place.
Ughh. What I’m saying is it’s fine for me if sarahah.com makes you wet in the groin, everybody’s got fetishes, you don’t have to fill my home with those stuffs. Just post your normal bullshitry. Don’t ask me to message you anonymously and ask for something. Because there’s nothing I can’t ask with a face that I can without a face.
Alright. I think I should go on a vacation. Damn social medias.
Beautiful idle thoughts…
I had scarlet marks on the shoulders, so I wondered if I should be worried. The reason I was reminded of those was that I was half-naked, sweating in my chair, observing things so that my brain doesn’t collapse into dysfunction. The fan had stopped due to power cut and my Samsung Galaxy J2 had almost slipped into unconsciousness. It was sweltering hot and I started following my sweat beads out of boredom. Then, I noticed the marks. Red as molten prenatal daggers. Then, I decided to use up the remaining 11% of my phone’s charge and as I was flicking through the web, I googled my symptoms.
Five signs that you have cancer – It said.
It’s still okay – I thought, at least it’s not in my testicles. Yet. I don’t have a problem with cancer, but I’d rather not have it. There’s nothing romantic about cancer unless you’re kissing Shailene Woodley in front of 50 people in Anne Frank’s house.
Talking about cancer, my mother would probably take that deal. Once she got a 6000 buck test and the reports declared – everything‘s normal. She was so disappointed she went for a second opinion which costed another fortune and gave the same result.
She then called Goldy’s dad, who is a chemist but who my mother has more faith in than she has in a doctor, and asked if there was, by any chance, a teeny tiny possibility of her having a disease. He said no, but my mother insisted so he asked her to take pomegranate juice twice a day.
“Didn’t I tell you? There was something wrong with me. “She told us later.
Anyway, I dismissed the very possibility of cancer. Why?
I read horoscope. There are only so many things you can do while taking a dump. I used to listen to radio, but since the birth of jio, I usually browse through news and stuffs. I read horoscopes too. Horoscope of today, of the year 2020, and which career suits my personality, and if a Sagittarius, by any chance, is the ideal match for a Capricorn. It never mentions death. Never says – Blah Blah Blah, and oh, maybe you’re dying today. It talks in hints. A few years ago, the newspaper horoscope asked me, for a whole month, to be careful on the road. Then, there was this Facebook post that promised to foretell exactly how one was going to die. The person had to type his name along with a few random letters and post it as a comment.
When I did it, it suggested accident as the cause of my death.
I have been so careful on roads since then. I avoid busy roads and walk on the extreme left of the footpaths. Sometimes you’d even find me in the hedges by the sidewalk, hacking my way through, plodding carefully to avoid any truck that might be running in the bushes. With trucks, and Salman’s driver’s car, you can’t take any chances. A National Highway runs through my city and the newspapers often publish the reports of entire huts getting trampled by insane trucks, killing everybody inside. Imagine you are cooking Biryani in your home and an 8-wheeler drops out of nowhere and squashes you like a lemon. That’s a nasty way to die. At least you get to see a hospital in cancer, and your body remains intact, in a single piece. As my stars suggest, when I die, I’d probably be lying in pieces, bloodied and cold.
So I had to dismiss cancer.
When I decided I didn’t have cancer, I felt kind of lonely. I am so single that even a disease won’t go out with me. Roads reminded me of Heer, and something crossed my mind, and this was the funny thing. I would always ask her to get on my left when we were walking. I thought it would be safer for her. The bikes would often graze my sleeve, and I’d almost wet my pants, but I’d keep her on my left anyway.
Things you do for love!
Thinking of her made me even sadder. I needed to eat. When I’m sad, I eat in tonnes. I wanted to be locked with food, and AC.
I was drenched now. Delhi is a shitty place, I tell you. And if you ever build a house make sure you don’t build it like my apartment. The heat was unbearable, so were the memories.
I thought about Doctor and all the possible dots on earth where she could be. I was bored so I typed her name on Google and clicked search. It talked about the word origin and its meaning and NGOs by her name. I memorized the names and purpose of a few organizations.
Things you do for love!