Raabta

The Organization Man is unquestionably loyal. He works for his company's benefit. He believes hard work is fruitful and at his core, he's a servant to his boss rather than to himself. William H. Whyte shall always keep me questioning my own loyalty. In his book, The Organization Man ('Corporate Majdoor'). 

Welcome to Fr. Agnel, we're all retarded here! The Grinch sniggers something about passion. He reminds me about how Sachi in all his might skipped a meal for six months to buy a guitar. He lost so much weight that his parents chided him that they'd have paid for it if he asked. (They wouldn't) Similarly, he isn't forcing himself onto engineering. He's going to skip placements and dream of creating worlds. Worlds that would baffle Tarkovsky and Kurosawa alike. He tells me about how the Japanese lie. They lie through their teeth about their rock-a-by history concerning Empire of the Sun. They shiver in the shadows as they portray an image of wealth, leisure and censored pornography. Cartoon women and cutie-pies. So that the world forgets about their battles. It's like learning a language, he tells me. Learning a language gets you closer to that culture. You treat it as your own. You inherit language and subsequently the culture. Or in some cases, the culture integrates the language within your bones. This is why you watch films. As a cultural study. You can inherit a culture of a film within three viewing. The first time you watch it, watch it as you watch any film. The second time, watch it with only visuals. No sound. And the third time, only sound. Within these three times, if you can tell what the conversation is about when you're only seeing the visuals. Or if you can visualize the conversation only by the tone of the dialogue. Then it's a good film.

This is the bare minimum. I say. Yes it is. Then how come only so few suffice? I know, he begins but they don't suffice. Films create their own language. Their own culture. The language that cinema speaks can only be heard and translated thoroughly by a few. And do you think you're one of them, Mr. Grinch?

I'll never know for sure. But I'd like to believe I am.

Nehru and the Driver silently wither within their own worlds. One with a vengeful vigil. The other whittles the words in his mind. The part of me that romanticizing about the arts doesn't measure up.

The Grinch is a lover at dawn or at night. During the day, he minces his words. He doesn't speak with heart. Long drives conjure the high and low memories. This is why he sings the loudest among us all.

His voice always sounds the worst as well. But he cares so little about being heard. He just likes the way the words sound to him. He's the one to urge me to fall in love. Fall in love he says. For these are the days that must happen to you. Else, you've lived half a life. Half a life is what most Indians live. Nehru says he'll always live a half life. Because the other half his family will never accept. The Driver bloats about and says half his life is driving. The other half he can't give away to another woman. (He has a woman but) He can't love because he has a love. And it is, to drive.

I can't begin to fall in love. There is so little imagination in me. There isn't much to dream except cold cubicles and gray corridors. Little computers giving information and takes life support. I'm on my bills and taxes, there isn't much to love about parking space. Will I even have my own? If you have nothing to call your own, are you even yourself? Or are you the space that you occupy? Which space is you? 

Is it the one on your phone? The virtual space that tells everyone who and how you're living your life? The lies that you're selling about yourself to those who have the least investment on you. You're banking your honest self on the validation of the few who don't even know what Kubrick says when he's speaking the language of cinema? Is that how lowly you think of yourself? 

Are you the space you occupy in the office? While you toil away in your paid agony as your dreams are mushed in the nearest tree-shredders. Your ideas growing stale and stinky day by day because the space you occupy is so dull and plain. Is that who you want to be?

Are you relationships you? The girl you text on the internet believing to be your own true love. Has she seen your naked self? Even if she has how many layers of filters do you have between you and her? I'm not talking about mobile computing terms. I barely care about the SNTP and HTTP protocols. Are your friends you? The definition of the self can be told by the five people closest to you. But do you even realize who you're close to? Are you even telling anyone anything truthfully about yourself at this point? Or just washed up lies about who you want to be?

We're on our way to pick up the Limp Noodle a.k.a. the former athlete. Or the one whose parents had a divorce on Monday afternoon. Mr. my-father-had-to-leave-since-mom-found-out-about-his-other-wife. Is it ruthlessness or ruthful nature of the statement that hold you aghast and reading in terror of the syllables crawling off your mind as I type away in this machine box? We still had the capsule of the Rs. 25 CHIKNI we carried in the car. The Driver's father believed it to be a drug, then he tried it. He quickly realized that it is. Chikni is addictive. It's a boost of dopamine when you feel your brain numbing from all the strain focused on getting that next sneeze out of your system. 

We get Limp Noodle in the car and as we drive away we're in line to be stopped by the cops for a breath analyzer test. Although, we haven't drunk anything except a couple bottles of Sting or Charged. We are bored. The four of us snort a line of chikni in line for the meeting the cops. By the time, we're leading first, we're about 4 sneezes in. So it's right at the beginning. The Driver almost sneezes onto the tool. Scared of being sneezed on rather than sanitation of the equipment, the cop takes back the breath analyzer and we're asked to move forward.

The Driver stops the car about 2 minutes away while we sneeze out all our lot and clear all snoozes of all the irritant powder. It's a blessed 2AM morning and the Grinch is thinking of you. And only of you.