This post is meant for those of my kind. To the ones who are not perpetually dissatisfied with the ways their lives and
careers are shaping up. To the rebels who don’t give a damn about what others might think about their attitude. To the
chilled out cool dudes and dudettes(yes there are chilled out girls too, I think/hope).
To all of us, defiant ones, who ask: Is it a crime to not be very ambitious?
I asked this very question to a very dear friend of mine. One who’s a zillion times more driven than I can ever be. I was
then in the mood for a heated debate. One which I would win by brute force. It was also a minor rant. Something that could be better framed as,”Why the fuck does the world look down upon those with modest aims in life?” The reply: No, it isn’t a crime. This answer made me lose my footing. I promptly changed the topic. In one of my very recent ‘introspection sessions’, I thought about the answer. And about what I would have said if someone ‘behind enemy lines’ had asked me something like,”Why the fuck do you think its a crime to be as ambitious as we are?” Certainly, my answer wouldn’t have been as short as the reply I had gotten. It would have felt good and satisfying to belt out a discourse on the importance of the ‘larger’ things in life and moving beyond mere career-enhancement. To add to it, I would have bragged to the other ‘cool doods’ about showing the enemy its place.
Now that many of you smarter peeps have begun seeing signs of me turning into a deserter, this is where you may stop reading. I, however, urge you to muster some courage and read on. For once, let’s quit being cowards and face the ugly truth. Let’s stop fooling ourselves into believing in the fake bravado we so often portray. Most of the times, our state of mind is nothing beyond a defense mechanism against not just the world looking down upon us but also us loathing ourselves and the difficult situations we put ourselves into, owing to our laidback lifestyles. Its far more easier to say,”Main karta nahin kyunki main karna hi nahin chahta” than to actually move our lazy bums and do it (BTW, this might also be true about our lack of success with the ladies 
). Also, if we move away from our blinkered thinking for a while and be just a little objective, it is not difficult to see that there’s nothing wrong with someone who works his/her ass off to do well. Absolutely nothing. It is they who are taking the pains. Not an ounce is inflicted on us. The root cause of us wanting to rip their heads off with hatred is by all means insecurity. Just because we aren’t willing to go the extra mile to stay ahead of the competition, we hate everyone who does. Deep within we are probably envious to an extent too. We still aren’t sure where our way of life will take us. It stings to see someone secure his/her future way before we even begin thinking about what we want to do with our lives. That is plain unfair. As someone pointed out to me, the guy you so hate might be wanting to be just like you. Its just the circumstances that have forced him into being someone he doesn’t prefer to be. Someone who NEEDS to be much more responsible than you.
I still maintain that there’s nothing wrong with us being the way we are. Precisely because that is the way we are wired (I
honestly don’t think being lazy is a vice). The least we can do is accept the ‘other’ kind. Let them be. It’s a free country!
And let’s be bloody thankful that we still have a choice to be the way we want to be.
Here’s to all the ‘maggu’ junta who might happen to read this… I NO LONGER DESPISE YOU AND AM SORRY IF I’VE EVER BEEN MEAN TO YOU. Cheers!
This is a short story I wrote as part of a creative writing assignment in an English literature course in college. I might as well revive my blog with this post.
The beans lay peeled and promised a sumptuous meal. Abebi skillfully lit a small pile of dry wood and rested an earthen pot full of water on it. She knew the men would welcome the meal after having spent the morning hunting some wild boar. Didn’t her father always tell her mother,” What good would a woman be without her gift of being able to reproduce and feed her man?” She then cursed Azrail for the second time since dawn. The first being when one year old Bujune bit her finger to wake her up. Abebi wished she didn’t have to act mother to Bujune. She was nine and it would still be almost five years before she would have had her first child. The Gods had been unkind to snatch her mother in exchange of Bujune. Her train of thoughts was stopped by the sound of footsteps approaching her hut. Were they back already? That couldn’t be. She listened intently. They did not sound like the hunting party. It was only one pair of footsteps approaching the hut and they were not barefoot. It was one person steadily nearing the hut.
The ragged curtain that hung at the entrance of the hut was gently lifted. Abebi looked up, curious. The harsh tropical sun announced its presence from behind the silhouette of the figure, standing still. The sunrays made Abebi wince. The intruder gingerly stepped forward into the hut. The curtain dropped behind him, shielding the room and her eyes from the harsh glare. Abebi could now see him clearly. The sight made her hair stand on end. Her heart pounded against her little chest. This was the second time she was seeing a white man. A thousand memories flashed in her mind in that moment. Not one pleasant. Just weeks ago, her father was livid with ‘outsiders’ killing elephants near their tribe’s settlement. He had described them as being a band of black men as themselves, being led by a white ghostly man. Wanting to stop their rampage, Abebi’s father had set out with his primitive arsenal of a bow and a few arrows. Unable to contain her curiosity about the white ‘ghost’, Abebi had sneaked out of the hut and followed her father. She trembled as the memory of events which followed sucked out all hope out of her. The cruel smile of the white man after having shot a hole through her father’s chest had haunted her ever since. Abebi’s worst nightmares had the man pointing at her face, the tool with which he had shot her father.
Abebi stumbled backwards as the man advanced slowly. He smiled. Abebi grabbed her brother and held him close. Too close. Were all evil men white? Were all white men evil? Abebi found the answer as the man pulled out a gun similar to the one which had claimed her father’s life. Only, this one had a wider nozzle. This probably was because there were two people to be murdered instead of one. The water in the pot boiled. The only sound in the hut was made by the restless water pumping against the walls of the pot. The ‘ghost’ raised the gun to take aim. Abebi shut her eyes tight. Strangely, all fear left her. She felt liberated.
CLICK. A very distinct click. A burst of light penetrated her eyelids. Abebi felt no pain. The transition was supposed to be quick. Abebi felt all earthly worries escape her. Through shut eyes, Abebi saw her mother and father beaming at her. Bujune lay sound asleep against her mother’s bosom. Weightlessness. Azrail had been kind. The burning wood crackled and Abebi opened her eyes. Something did not seem right. The heavens weren’t supposed to look like her hut. What was the ‘ghost’ doing here? Abebi’s parents had disappeared. Bujune felt heavy in her arms. The white man’s gun had a scroll rolling out of it. He pulled it out and examined it. He had satisfaction writ all over his face. He held the scroll up for Adebi to see. She saw herself, frozen in time.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Azrail – an African God associated with death
Alternate title – Black and White
Its 8am…an earthly hour by my standards. It is the time when I am lost in deep, blissful slumber. That is when my cellphone rings. I don’t remember setting an alarm last night. Those who know me even a little bit know not to call me up at this early in the morning. The caller seems unknown. Its the first time I am seeing this number. Must be a friend who’s got a new SIM to chat with his/her partner. I bless the telecom companies who’ve come up with wonderful schemes for the young Romeos and Juliets. I receive the call …………..
A shrill, loud, blood-curdling and to top it all…a female voice(my apologies to all the lady readers 
) greets me with, “ Kya aap apni purani ringtone se chhutkara paana chahte hain? Dial kijiye ****** aur paiye latest Bollywood ringtones bilkul muft. Isse accha mauka aur kahaan? Jaldi kijiye, offer sirf aaj ke din valid rahegi( from that day onwards, i got such a call EVERYDAY). Call charges ‘sirf’ 6 rupaiye prati minute…After this Himesh Reshamiya starts howling into my earpiece…I have had enough already and I end the call.
In the midst of my silent cursing, my cell buzzes off and I realize that a ruppee has been deducted from my balance. These guys know I am ‘roaming’! My resolve to cut the next call I receive from these pricks is broken the same day when the guys call me again using yet another number… 
Recent Comments