The story of a Life

When he was born, some said he was the product of love and the cynics called him the result of lust. But he knew he was merely the birth of two souls in one. Whatever you might think, or say, or even allow him to believe, he was created, given a form, and allowed to live. Creation has forever been a point of contempt for scientists and spiritualists alike. But he knew where he came from- thankful for his existence; and the mysteries of existence were not his concern, nor something he would ever learn or care for.

Unfortunate events, for no better words and lack of a genuine explanation, forced a new set of parent figures in his life. He wouldn’t really question why, for they nourished him. They provided him a life. Now creation and nourishment are two different things; yet life has no meaning without either. He obeyed their commands; forever he was indebted to their shaping him, his character and his being. He wouldn’t question their eccentricities. He would quell his mistrust and doubts; he reckoned that they were doing the right thing. If he questioned their intent, he would be questioning his self, his being and all that was him.

But time is a slave of no master. As he aged and the fleeting overseer took his guides, his masters, away from him, he was left alone, a destitute. Soon, it would be his time to go. His deteriorating health and a displeasure at losing the capabilities that he once prided, his youth, made him sick, irritable and annoying. It cannot be confirmed whether it was euthanasia or that he had no say in it, finally he was put to sleep. He was relieved from his misery, his life, or what was left of it, an existence that made less sense as each day passed. He was thankful for this too, for life had no meaning without death; he realized that creation and destruction go hand in hand. If the clueless scientists and spiritualists had to see eye to eye, even for a brief moment, it might be over this- the end.

His tombstone read out his name in bold and a eulogy paid as much respect to him as a dog’s life was worth. It didn’t talk about the parents that had given him birth, the society that had shaped his life or the benevolence that had provided him death. It spoke about his qualities, his traits, some probably exaggerated or even fabricated; nonetheless, it was one devoid of references to his creation, nourishment and destruction. It might have been a dog, the protagonist of this story, or any other creature for that matter. When his story will be told and retold, his life would probably be buried under rubble, just as he is now. But a question still lingers- was he who he was, by birth, by existence, or by death?

The Gypsies

He met a gypsy once; and instantly fell for her charm and grace. She let him know that gypsies can’t lose their heart to one place and she wouldn’t lose hers to him. He didn’t need her to state the obvious. He promised to win her over one day. 

She met a gypsy once; and she knew he was yet another heart breaker. He let her know about his feelings for her and said he was sincere. She didn’t need another man to lure her and hurt her again. She promised to break his heart before he played with hers.

Growing up

It had happened before. In fact, it has been happening all his life. Some people call it growing up and are awed by the miracle of this constant transformation. He plainly didn’t get it, or their apparent hypocrisy. Who in their sane minds would want to let go of a beautiful thing, for something so strange, the unknown, that only time would reveal, just a tad bit late.

It started even before his eyes had seen light. A mere egg and sperm had created life and set the wheels in motion. When he was fully formed, which now seemed a bitter joke, he was brought into this world, to face the vagaries outside the warmth and comfort of the womb.

Gradually, his limbs became stronger and he could move. It used to be easier and more enjoyable when people around him would do his bidding. Now they cheered for him to get up and take his first steps; people and their demands, he had to put in effort. In a year, they needed more than a pointed finger and a high pitched mumble. He had to learn to control his tongue and his wind pipe, to make strange sounds, which he later learnt, that only a part of the world’s population would understand. All his endeavors in learning and modulating his body, and there was more to come.

Eventually, he would start growing bigger; his body would grow out of clothes and his feet out of the shoes within weeks. He loved those clothes, and those shoes; but he couldn’t use them anymore. He would start losing his teeth and new ones would take their place - crooked and painful. Soon he would need braces to fix them. Nature was not the only force in his transformation; cosmetology and conformity were as much a part.

After several years of small transformations, he would wonder why he didn’t come with a manual. Now he had started noticing drastic changes. Some parts of his body seemed to grow plump. The distribution of hair on his body had changed so much. It was not just physiological, mind you. He now craved for new toys, the ones he had no interest in before. He craved attention and attraction from people whose existence he had once barely acknowledged. His thoughts and ideas would change; it was confusing, the pressure, the identity, and opinions, which would just hang in the air.

“When will this change ever stop?” he would ask himself. But he knew better. Once he had been a baby, an adolescent, even a teenager. In his middle age now, he knew that his body and mind would never stop changing. In fact, he had only seen what growing up was. He prepared himself for wearing down- another transformation they hadn’t warned him about.

The Pursuit Of Happiness

Happiness is like a wheel.
You keep moving ahead with glossy dreams of a destination.
As you get closer, more desperate you are to reach it.
And more tired as well, with all the distance you have covered.
Chances are, you are too worn out to enjoy your accomplishment.

Happiness is like a wheel.
There are spokes that meet at the center, yet following each other.
You keep trying to catch up with the next spoke.
But by the time you reach there, that spoke has moved on, and you follow.
Chances are, you never looked back to see the spoke trying to catch up with you.

Happiness is like a wheel.
You rotate round and around, hoping it leads you somewhere.
You keep kissing tarmac, and then assure yourself that you’ve seen the worst.
For every rash you feel, you are stronger and move ahead with hope.
Chances are, you’ll hit tarmac again and yet you keep moving and hoping.

Happiness is like a wheel.
You stop at times to take rest, but you still have a destination in mind.
You are meant for momentum and you dread wasting precious time for rest.
You never truly rest, do you; physically you might, but mentally you are still in motion.
Chances are, you’ll never enjoy your leisure, forever thinking of your pursuit.

Happiness is like a wheel.
An axle drives you, and controls you, and defines your existence.
You are not of any use without it, and you still aspire to break free.
Your ideologies and dreams apart, you succumb to the power of the shaft and follow its command.
Chances are, you will follow orders forever and forever dream of independence.

Happiness is like a wheel.
Sometimes you move backwards, to reminisce, to retrieve your steps in a route past.
You now think of those times as happier ones and wonder why you moved ahead at all.
You are distraught now, and torn by the different worlds you are in.
Chances are, you will one day not be able to retrace your steps and those times will be long forgot.

Happiness is like a wheel.
But a wheel is only a wheel if it is shaped as one.
It is still an object that can take any shape the sculptor pleases.
You can turn it into a statue to admire or wind in circles trying to find more happiness ahead.
Chances are, you will never appreciate this fact and keep moving, unhappy in a pursuit of happiness.

Ghost

To say that he was in the celebration is an understatement. In fact, the event just wouldn’t be complete without him. He gave glam a new meaning with his presence. He was a part of every photo; but when the negatives were developed, he wasn’t seen in a single one. The photographer rarely ever is.

The Slums Appall Me

There were twenty one people in the room, ten by twelve. You could smell the liquor and tobacco in the air, that is, if you were able to breathe. Right outside, you would find a person relieving himself. If the hygiene in the room was questionable, the street in front of the house was strewn with litter, and even an old sofa that looked like it was dropped from thirty feet. You could see them cook, out in the open, relishing the late spring evening and the refuse they disposed right there.

The six storey building was no mere shanty. On the bright side, the house party had some colorful conversations. From freshman to post docs, they would eventually discuss the state of third world countries and those appalling slums. After all, the first world finds as much relevance in the topic as the third world.

Strange Friends, Stranger Companions

I walked in and looked around. The dance floor, the lights, the music- although a tad annoying to my sensibilities, and a whole bunch of people looking to have a good time- drinking, dancing, making out, or all of it. This seemed a cozy place for a not so silent night. I do have a reputation for enjoying my drinks and being clueless about the real social scene. For I rarely understand a complete sentence, a mere whisper muted by the loud music; and I take offense when people nod their head for everything I say- when I know that they wouldn’t have heard a thing that I utter beneath my breath, as I always do.

Now, the train ride back home was a different story. Rather peaceful in a bustling metro, yet conversations galore. I am not too fond of the public transit system; yet, the bane is a boon when you live on a budget and miles away from “the scene”. In any society of the modern era, the public transit is a strange melting pot, bringing people together- the ones who can’t afford an automobile, the ones who care for a green world, the ones who don’t like driving around looking for a spot to park, and most importantly, the ones who wouldn’t drive after a night out binge on the hooch. The last train on a Friday night finds the last of the fore mentioned as the majority.

Now, for people who don’t know me well, I am quite the introvert. Conversations are reserved for meaningful purposes and a club offers you very little in that regard. Of late, I’ve come to realize and experience the downside of the “expert syndrome”- not just a constant need to babble about your brilliance, but also a feeling of disinterest in most things menial and redundant. The “Hi”, “How is it going” and “How are you doing today”- the icebreakers and greetings that often run into the same loops- don’t quite entice me anymore. The train, on the other hand, offers tranquility, one of personal space and etiquette. One where you are not obliged to take initiative, nor polite conversations is really necessary.

The Slavic themed club seemed rather deserted when I walked in at midnight. It filled up to the brim by the time I gulped down my first drink. I was led to believe, that it is a rather European way, of socializing post mid night. I surely wouldn’t deny- I enjoyed my drinks, was on the floor a while, spoke to a few people.
“Hey, How is it going.”, she asked me.
“It’s good.”, said I.
“You shouldn’t mix your drinks like that.”, she said.
That was probably my first conversation in half an hour. Then we continued to dance. When I was hungry enough to eat a horse, and coincidentally, that happened at the same time when most people realized they needed to get back home, I made an exit.

“Donde esta aqui?”, he said.
“No foo, you just said ‘Where are here!’ It’s ‘Donde estamos?’”, said the girl.
“Yo, hombre. You tell her that I’m right.” And he glared at me.
I was the hombre. Well, I was once mistaken for the lawn guy, asked whether I was Mexican a couple times, and my friends do tease me a bit about it. A visit to Chipotle nearly convinced me of the Indian-Latino connection. But that’s a different story. “Yo no se espanyol, homie.”, I said and we had a good laugh. The rest of the ride, and after a long time, I enjoyed a light hearted 20 minutes of jibber.

I had been to the club with friends, and I was on the train with strangers. Strangely and trust me when I say it- the alcohol had nothing to do with it- I found better companions on the train ride than on the dance floor. I just might have found a better way to socialize, on trains, while I failed relentlessly over years, trying in bars and pubs.