Fragments of a time, spent.

Standard

Whenever I even start thinking about writing something and actually somehow make myself believe that the act of arching myself over a pillow and typing down the celestial magnitude of thoughts that tickle the posterior of my nerve endings would even be a fair proposition, I always tend to log into my Facebook account and ponder over my profile pictures of previous years and try to approximate an estimation of the popularity that my name and image encompassed, by counting the number of likes each profile picture boasts about. It somehow relates to my shameless and narcissistic desire or maybe fetish, to think and gauge the impression I have on my fellow humans at the end of a day, and how it would help me with incessant literature. Would I look cool, intelligent, mature enough? Would I give forth a successful act of being the Beta (as the panther in a group of lions and tigers as someone fondly acknowledged me a few months ago? It all feels so petty.

My purpose of writing is to list the thoughts inside my brain in an order of first-come-first basis, if anyone reading this gets a question instilled as to why the heck did I even think about writing this junk before starting the stuff I was supposed to do. 

I was talking to you, friend or acquaintance. I’m lost again. I forgot what I was supposed to start.

Ok. Prithviraj Shetty: The guy has got Mikael Akerfeldt’s cough somehow stuck inside his mutated voice box. I was scheduled to perform 21 Guns with him in the NGO program but couldn’t go forth due to a crowd only too stage starved, our representative fretting over the fact that no one was looking at him (nihilism taking over me again) and a teacher’s pet who was too eager to get back into the driver’s seat even if it meant going back to our rooms and getting off on our meta morphed visions of erotica that we had harnessed into our subconscious for the day, and then going to sleep. Pardon my language.

I somehow realised that performing a punk rock song amidst a mob of differently abled Marathi people was a fair plan but on a path away from being remotely satisfactory for us. I knew it but was too engrossed on impressing this nice guy and generally being a clumsy idiot.

Prithviraj however got to know it only a few minutes ago. This set things into a different and slightly more of a monotonic perspective.

And I think that people were fairly impressed with the showmanship which makes me feel almost absolutely nothing thus contradicting my previously mentioned intent. It’s more worthwhile to feel happy about the faces you meet. It gives you a twisted form of peaceful solitude inside your mind when it is ensured that you are in nobody’s thought at the perceived moment. Sounds like vegetables.

To feel enabled.

The things I experienced at NASEOH cannot be typed on a whim. I will remember the old woman with the strength that resembled of the ones that brought the shades of glory to our country,  from its enslavement. It felt as if she had sacrificed her solitude in an attempt to merge into some collective entity. To be chained and connected to something greater than the reach or magnitude one encompasses alone actually acts a harbinger of youth and exuberance to oneself, as evident in the freshness in her face and eyes. When I saw her, she felt weightless as if she had never been bound to the forces that made us heavy yet timid. The way she walked and the way she spoke. It was like she had become the cause and the cause had become her, running through her veins, making her more alive than almost anyone in her age. The representative guy, as my nihilism proves to be worth the burden, asked her if she wanted a few kilos of sanskari aashirvad spat over our heads. I could only revel over the way she, with her slow grace made him realise of the sheer intensity with which he had voluntarily asserted himself as an ignorant unfortunate. Oh, the metaphors they manifest.
The bespectacled kid with his rheumatic glassy eyes pouring the lemon yellow boiled aalu sabzi freckled with fenugreek (methi seeds) then forgetting entirely about his chappatis to watch us with an intent so penetrating, that it made me sad. It was almost as if he was watching us with the sole intent of dreaming. As if we were characters from a television. I left that room with a feeling that we somehow as a collective society will always be lost to its meaning. Will the kid grow up to even measure up to fathom the feeling of ever being in love?? Will he be loved back?? Will his family loose patience?? Will he even live to be that old?? Each of us knew in the core that these kids shall never feel the things that we had the luck of writing in the storybook of our lives and those which have been flushed down through the commode that we have been making since the day we set forth, as a person certified to be carrying no disabilities, into this terrible place of sorrow dabbled with streaks experiences that make us forget the waters we tread in.

Friends

The show was soul filling to an extent. The only notable things were the smiles, grins and laughs that we managed to transmit from our poker faces into them. To see them dancing like soft mad children smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy. Seeing them live and actually rejoice about it. 
Subs-tract the feeling of achieving this feat on your own or on behalf of the group and the residue that gets left comes close to the definition of happiness, I suppose.

Salman Khan fan.

I change my mind-set on a whim. So do not mark me down as someone being too morose. Cheer up man. Read some Camus. Be like Hritik Roshan for god’s sake. He’s happy if nothing else.  

All I want to say is-

If you want to experience people without a shroud over their personalities, visit an NGO like NASEOH. If possible, try to attain this union that promises to make us all at peace.  

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s