Morning Glory

Ah, She gazed at me with those exotic hazel eyes cloaked beneath a veneer of drug induced abandon. As she danced on invitingly, her pretty ,short , black dress sashayed just a little with her seduction laden moves. It was quite a visual treat that added that extra zing to my first Pernod of the night. It was hard not to spot her presence highlighted by the skanky 30ish chain smoking divorcee in the red dress with a shiny watch holding a glass of Tom Collins,with the tanline on her ring finger quite obvious, was dancing maniacally next to her. It made this hypnotic beauty just a little more intriguing, like adding an antonym to your definition makes it appear a tad more lengthy, a slight more sophisticated. They maintained a sense of equilibrium on that dance floor of anarchy. I had a comfortable panoramic view to the pandemonium. Seated on that cushy bar stool I could observe the exotic beauty towards the far corner.

By now we both had locked gazes and her dancing invitations were picking up rhythm. As I knocked back my 4th Pernod, the distance had become quite unbearable. I guess she felt it too for I noticed her dancing her way towards me, Not wanting her to stop dancing as by then I had become quite addicted to her rhythmic sways, I made my way through the seething mass of humanity. We quite bumped into each other somewhere in the middle I think. The last Pernod must have done away with most of my inhibitions because I soon got my groove on. The music, lights and people around me were just complimenting our small promenade. Just as we were about to take it to the next level, she started backing away and a few moments later she had disappeared back into the crowd. I looked for her as desperately as a smoker looks for a match so needed for his morning smoke. After a couple of rude bumps and being shoved back and forth by semi-fornicating couples, I found myself face to face with none other than the red dressed skanky who had turned the focal point of her moves towards me. Well this was no time to engage her, I quickly darted her and made for the corner where I first saw my by now long lost lust. Squeezing through two serenading lard tubs I finally reached the corner. And there she was dancing with an another guy. The whiff of the Pernod spilt on by my epileptical neighbor brought about this clarity experienced only by alcoholics in between drinks. She was a tease!! By god and I had not seen it coming. I had fallen for that hook ,line and sinker. Recovering quickly, I held my place just long enough for her to catch my gaze.

Then made my way back to the cushy barstool. It was time to resume some much missed drinking . As I sat down & ordered my 9th Pernod, I saw another small parting in this sea of people and lo there she was again. Gyrating wildly and losing some much exhibited self control. Sadly she had taken it on her ego that I had not stayed to watch the show. So she had brought the show to me. Continuously dancing with random guys never taking her eyes of me. But I had learnt my lesson. Once a tease, always is. Just to drive my winning stake, I made my way out of the pub and to this club across the street.

As I entered this new nocturnal institute, I started noticing a lot of familiar faces of the night. There was the guy with the mermaid tattoo who was sitting next to me at the bar, the two beer guzzling whales, the ever-young 50ish couple, and even that old 60 something perv I had spotted near the ladies room. So I wasn't the only Einstein to crossover . Apparently just about everyone had had the same idea. Further inspection of the place made it quite clear to me that the dance floors were quite uninteresting yet. So I settled down onto another cushy barstool and ordered my 14th Pernod I think 15th, no am sure it was my 6th, and that was when I saw her, dancing solitarily, this wonderful beauty of a mature bearing in a beautiful red dress, clutching a glass of Tom Collins. It was almost a crime that she was alone. Well I could remedy that. I made my way for the second time that night, dodging arms, legs, heads and any other human body parts that drunk people usually sway around. And there I was face to face with her.

Without saying a word I started to dance with her. I could'nt make out her expression though. Maybe it was just the smoke arising out of the ashtray on the table next to her playing tricks on my already hazy eyes. We danced for quite a bit. And then she leaned in and whispered something quite inaudible in my ear just as we were approaching the speakers. Like any seasoned clubber I just nodded and smiled.

As she led me on by holding onto my arm out of the club. Something shiny caught my eye, I glanced the time in her wristwatch. It was 5:30AM. It was going to be one hell of a morning.


Cast in this episode:-
The Tease:- Reality.
Red dressed Divorcee/Beauty:- Imagination.
I:- Us.

The Beggar, Bum and your Best friend

If hangovers lasted a year, We all would be teetotalers. Unfortunately they don’t. So the teetotaling vow, after last night, does not last beyond the cocktail lunch. If ingratitude lasted for a lifetime, we all would be ignorantly blissful. Unfortunately it doesn't , so the last person's ingratitude , doesn't stop you from falling a sucker to the next person's crisis. Most of our fellow humans are afflicted with the fatal indisposition of moronity. Its like we thrive on repeating the same mistakes over and over again. I speak about wading back into the same gutter of selflessness over and over again after being bitten, trodden on, nearly drowning in the filth of compassion. Ever tried giving that poor beggar kid some food? Patching up your best friend's love life? Help that old lady carry her grocery bag? It’s a thankless effort. And more often than not, you usually get spit in your face or kicked in the balls. The beggar kid will usually sell your vada pav back to the vendor to buy his daily crack shot, Your best friend will get back with that girl's sister and accuse you of trying to take her side and quote you "undependable". That old hag will claim you stole 2 bars of her mysore sandal soaps & a pack of ladies razors. These assholes know there is always another sucker like you round the corner . Unfortunately you don’t stop even after taking such flak.

I don’t really blame you. Selfless acts are deceptive fucks. They seem like a sure thing. A ticket to redemption. When selfishness becomes your way of life, You tend to search for opportunities to be selfless because its forbidden by your life's code of conduct. It stokes your rebellious urge. We have always heard selfless acts are always rewarded. The whole thing is a sham. We start seeking this unknown reward with absolutely no idea about whether you are going to like what you get. Its like playing destiny's version of Surprise Shanivaar on one of the regional channels. I have always hated surprises. It undermines your ability to respond. The rewards for selfless acts are usually like the offers at big bazaar. Like a bag of cookies worth Rs.30 is now going at 28.50. They do give you cheap thrills. You somehow think that doing one selfless act you can undo all the nasty things you thought you did and yet you always come out more shittier than you did going in.

You tend to feel this way because you enter into this swamp of selflessness draped in a clean fabric of guilt and a few minutes in you realize you wore the wrong dress for this show. Because once you get into someone's problems it gets too unpleasant in no time. And if you dont get out in the right time you will be injected with that person's frustration, helplessness and misery. Its your own guilt that drives you to charitable acts. You could be guilty about anything. You could be guilty about your deeds in the past, you could be guilty about your position in society, you could be guilty just about being so lucky in life. Its all like a symbol of non-acceptance. You may not be able to accept what you did in the past, you may not be able to accept the position society has given to a person like you, you may not be able to accept why destiny chooses to smile on you while it continues to frown upon your brethren. You often might think I should help that bum in torn ,dirty, smelly clothes because I could have been in his place or worse yet I might end up there. Here you're just not accepting who you are or who you want to be. Guilt and compassion have been sleeping together since time immemorial. It’s their bastard child that has led to many a great falls. But lets spare the history lesson.

I don’t hold anything against helping someone out. The entire problem is do these people really want to be helped? Because most people are quite addicted to their misery. The just don’t want to let go. Be it the beggar kid, the bum, or your best friend. No comments about the old lady, she just wanted some excitement and a story to tell to her satsang group. The people you see everyday with problems don’t really want help, they want your ears, time and sympathy. No problem with that too. If only you don’t become the object of their frustration. They start associating you with all the bags of emotional shit they have dumped on you and you know what, after a while it starts getting heavy.

You cannot help a person without leaving a mark upon yourself. It could be a brand of pride, or a scar of satisfaction. If you really do feel like helping someone. Help yourself.

The Torments Of A Fulfilled Life

There are many things I long for but there are far more greater things I don’t want. Surprisingly, I guess the rocky foundations of life are steeped deep in an abyss of reverse psychology. We always keep getting things we don’t want . For example, If you assert you don’t want to lose your hair, you can be pretty sure that within 3 months you're gonna need a lot less shampoo. I know you're not asking to be fucking Goldilocks but you sure don’t want to be the "22 year old bald guy" either. Similarly, I really do not want a fulfilled life. It’s a stage where you have achieved everything you have ever dreamt of. It’s also the stage where your dreams die. It’s the time when the demons you fought are no more, so you turn on to your comrades in arms who aided you in every battle of your life. You begin by quashing hope. You commend that by plundering ambition, burning down inquisitiveness.

All that keeps you company then is the hajmola like sourness of recalling all your past follies. Hajmola tastes shitty but that doesn't stop you from consuming a dozen. Dwelling on your past mistakes is very much like sleeping with your ex. Its tempting, wrong and definitely regrettable. There is no fucking way you're going to sleep with her and forget about it the next morning. She revives your old demons but with hope lying in the dump, there is not much of a chance you're gonna make it.

Remembering your past mistakes reminds you of all that you lost in order to win every war within yourself. It renews old fears, agonies and brings along a shitload of misery. We all are educated to chase this predicament. Taught to find our way to the center of this maze. Thus we fight our way to the center. Most of us luckily never make it. But the unfortunate few that do realize pretty darn late that the center is a very lonely place. That they were better off fighting rather than be in a place where you have nowhere else to go. They are engulfed in a hollow despair of triumph. Winning is highly overrated. So is losing. The grass is always more greener than the other side. Its always is better to walk on the fence. That way you keep falling on either sides. Do so leaving some tussles for later. When you have no other shit at hand, you can pull these parasites out of reserve. Good luck with that because, There's always an asshole around the corner ready to give you a hard time.

I can't help flinching from the idea of a perfect life, perfect world and any other such fantasies. There are many things that can be perfect but life is definitely not one of them. The fulfilled life is an end to your problems, a beginning to your torment.