Generation Hex

The problem with our generation, I think, stems considerably from the fact that we all are constantly seeking so much attention. All of us, busy complaining all the time. About how that relationship didn’t work. Or how that friend wronged us. Or how the job sucks, there is not enough pay to match our potential. Or how the iPhone keeps hanging and the Wifi keeps failing. In line with Andy Warhol’s prediction, everyone keeps demanding their “15 minutes of fame”, and every day, at that. Absolutely no one is content in being the ‘Mister Cellophane’ – the invisible, inconsequential personage. The very fact that I am sharing this update on a social networking site right now delivers pretty much the same message. The problem, however, doesn’t stem only from this exponential increase in the demand for attention. It stems more from the fact that, while we keep asking for the limelight to be thrust upon us, most of us are so attention-deficit. Most of us have so little time for others. To listen to the stories of others’ struggles, to celebrate their victories in ways other than ‘Like’-ing their status updates, to tell them we are there, should they need us. In short, most of us do not have the resources to supply to others what we demand for ourselves- attention. In a market, where everyone is a consumer, and no one a producer, it is only economically rational that there shall be a breakdown of market machinery, because demand is exponentially higher than supply, and thus, the worth of the commodity destroys every price-barrier. And thus, this constant clash of interests. The constant bickering and nitpicking and lower levels of Gross Economical Happiness. The tragedy? For once, there seems to be no economical solution.

Story Of A Boy

He went to school,

And wore green socks,

And played in the rains,

Chasing grasshoppers,

Crying for candies,

And his parents loved him,

And they loved each other,

(Kissed each other everyday),

And his brother loved him,

And his new bike,

And his teachers,

Maybe even they loved him,

And he loved the music from

The bagpipes in the mornings,

And Crickets in the evenings,

And his mother sang him

To sleep, every night,

So there he was, with his

Toys, and Peace, and Love

And Hope.

And then he grew up,

He still went to school,

And he wore blue trousers,

And he played in the rains,

Chasing the schoolgirls,

Crying for a cigarette,

And his parents loved him,

Tho' they knew not,

Of the cigarettes,

(And they no longer kissed

Each other everyday),

His brother had, the past year,

Crashed his car, and died.

And the schoolgirls loved him,

The teachers just seemed tired.

But he still loved the bagpipes,

But even more now, the guitar,

Which he was learning to

Play, and his mother,

Didn't sing to him each night,

Only she cried a lot,

So he hoped to make her happy,

And become a doctor,

So he had lost his toys

But he had his Love, and his Hope,

But a little less Peace.

And then he went to College,

Studying History,

(MedSchool was tough to crack)

Studying about Tea Parties in

Boston, and about Mandela

And Gandhi, about Peace

And Love, and War(s)

And he wore skinny jeans,

He still loved the rains,

Although barely ever did he

Play when it did rain,

And over the telephone,

His father did say he loved him,

And his mother, well, she 

Couldn't really speak,

And they never kissed anymore,

Because she was there no more,

The professors had no time,

To love their students,

But he loved his guitar,

And he played it in the evenings,

And he loved the girl,

Who would play the violin,

Who he had met first,

In the Friday music lesson,

And he loved the weed,

And the psychedelia,

And he loved to kiss her

Under the star-lit sky,

So there was a lot less

Love, a lot less Hope,

And certainly a lot less Peace.

And then the next winter,

He wore black cardigans

To college, Black matching the

Darkness in his mind,

And the dark and unusual

Rains of December,

And his father rarely called him

To say he loved him,

So he cried a lot, because

There was no Love to be found,

Neither was there any Peace,

There were drugs,

Lots of hallucinogens,

And there was the Darkness,

Looming large over the corridors

And the stairways,

Loneliness lining every corner,

And every tree, and every

Alley and Hallway,

Ever since he had

Caught sight of her with

 The other boy.

So there were music lessons

On Fridays, tho he never went.

There were still Crickets

In the Evenings, tho no more 

Love, or Hope, or Peace.

And then graduation,

Out of college, which he might

Have attended, but now he

Wore blue long-ish robes,

As did all the other

Inmates at the rehabiliation.

She had come by once,

With chocolates in her purse,

And pity in her eyes,

Which he might have noticed,

If he wasn't trying to bite

His fingers off his hands.

His father would have come too,

But he had had a stroke,

And was now paralyzed,

And restricted to bed, and

A world of bedsores, and

Imminent Death,

So now no one loved him,

And he loved no one,

Not History, neither medicine,

And sometimes,

He would try to sing

Himself to sleep, but

All he could manage to do

Was cry a few more 

Drops of the toxic tears,

And where was the Love?

And where was the Hope?

And where was the Peace?

Now all of those things,

Were silver-lined memories,

Of the songs his mother sang

To him, when he went to school

And wore green socks.. 

Of Farewells and Monkemons

Well, it is nothing new for me, really. Change town, change school, change friends, change everything. And just when the new structure stabilizes forming a roof above my head, the bricks near the base are pulled out only to have me witness the complete crumbling and falling apart of that which had begun to feel like home to me. Move on, this chapter is over, find a new home, write a new chapter, life goes on.

This is the end of another chapter. Once again, it is all too difficult to give up, and even the thought in itself is haunting. Everything is happening at such a pace, that the inevitability of all these changes and the irreversibility of the consequences is hardly sinking in now. The support system around me has begun to give way, brick by brick, and I must prepare myself for yet another fall.

You guys know for me you guys exist  in every little by-lane, every dingy nukkad, every shopping mall, every movie theatre, every restaurant, every festival, every experience in this city. And to survive the city, without you all, is going to be *some* task.

I don't know how to round this off. You all know who you are. I am selfish. And I'm not willing to let go. I will miss you all. :( 

Ten Things I Love About You

I love how you gently tap one of your feet on its side while sleeping.

And sometimes, while trying to fall asleep.

I love how you, in a bus, keep your phone inside your bag for safekeeping,

Yet your wallet, out of your pocket, does peep.

I love how you, without discernment, nibble on every piece of midnight junk,

That inside your ever-dismaying refrigerator, you find.

I love how you emote out every single spoken word that forms a song,

While singing it out, out of tune, yet I want to hit ‘rewind’.

I love that childlike innocence in your huge eyes, even more so when

They widen, at the prospect of a new mischief,

I love it when you hug me tight, when the darkness around the edges

Of your bed is still lighter(in shade) than your inner grief.

I love how long your hair grows, how absolutely dense, cascading down

The contours of your face, briefly shading your eyes.

I love the lost look on your face, when you dream of the elusive love,

When it rains new vigor and new ecstasy from the skies.

I love how gentle and meek and kind and well-behaved and concerned

You are about your friends, of who you have a lot.

But above all, I love how much you love me above them all,

Know that I too, love you timeless, You’re my sole immortal thought.

LolWUT?

Somebody residing on the International Date Line has visited my blog.

My dead blog seriously just became cooler.

Yo! Phoren Guy. Gracias!