I was supposed to be wandering the college corridors in search of an ever elusive identity, I was supposed to be a down trodden first year made to do the dirty work and ordered about the place (which I assure you I fully am), I was supposed to find guitar strumming Dylans on staircases singing my hearts blues, I was supposed to hear heated arguments over Dumbledore’s homosexuality, what freaking ever…yep all that was supposed to happen, instead – the slow tumble of absolute nothingness, of the ability to stand on a road and say – ok buddy, where you want to go now, can take a lot away and give to you even more.
What are you doing with your life? They all seem so fond of asking, even me – in my moments of deep self loathing I come so close to throwing myself out of my room. But it came to me like a flash (this is a lie, just taking autobiographical liberty here), I, the great mighty Naita, the nameless one, the tormented nobody would…write! O yes… I stood on top of my table, flourished my cape and shouted to all the pictures on my wall – I would write! I expected fireworks, balloons popping; confetti from the skies, an orchestra playing their strings off, cheering and thumping on my back but all I got was a cold Slim Shady stare from a five year old poster.
Ah well, quod erat demonstandum. I have a problem with writers though…and words. What is this Kafkaesque? What in the world does that phrase mean…yea sure I get the whole illusion, everything is unreal bit but STILL, it’s so overused, misused and especially used by people who haven’t read Kafka (a group I proudly claim membership too). Didn’t think this would happen but it’s thrown around even more than the word imperialism by them communists.
But like that chap Dupree and my old friend Shai recommended, I set out to find my Naita – ness, (doing away with the ‘a’, because, yup – you guessed it – I have problems with that letter) but the more I looked, the less close I came to it. The more people I met, the more I stuck to the ones I already knew and so on and so forth…it’s sort of like getting onto the metro at c – sec, that way when the hordes push and rush at Rajiv Chowk you go haha, I got here first, now you stand…like looking at your love struck-forced-into-a-corner,-tied-down friends and being glad you’re on this side of the fence.
Then there’s the tirade of rickshawallahs, stepping out of the metro station is sort of what being a celebrity must feel like. They start thumping their seats as if they were waiting for you and only you to come out. What’s with the thumping though? Come on mine May–dum, my seat is louder than his….and the Scotland Yard version of reaching college itself…car, bus, train, rickshaw, two legs, no coffee = what? The day’s just beginning?
Ah the woes of a writer…it’s totally thankless, totally pointless, totally ignored. If in a state of delirium you happen to mention, oh I like to write – the usual response is WHY? No really, I mean why? To which you go…hmm…I don’t know really, just like to – well, that right there is the end of cool, that’s just not acceptable around here…
And among writers themselves, it gets confusing when you constantly oscillate between an inferiority and superiority complex, the ones below you are so far down, it’s like trying to make out the sheep grazing in the fields from atop the Kilimanjaro…as for the ones ahead, it’s a role reversal. Where’s the proportion to this place? Can I suggest something as scandalous and inviting finger pointing, joke cracking and case taking as a writer community? No? Stopped laughing? Ok then…moving on…
Ah it’ll pass they all said, don’t worry – writing’s just a phase, you know like acne… but any pimpled fellow who’s worth his big boils of puss knows what I’m talking about – the damned thing doesn’t leave you. Go away, I’m constantly yelling, but my fingers refuse to stop typing out this nonsense. The good news however, is that no one is forced to read it hence NO one reads it. This in turn if a double edged sword, killing two birds with one stone etc. because while I can type away to my hearts content, your peace of mind isn’t disturbed either and this paper looks really nice at the bottom of the dustbin…no really I use it for that myself – so I can only imagine what you must use it for.