Chutiya kid

Yeah, you read the heading right. This is a story about a pesky little pricky toddler that resides in my neighborhood. There's not much of a 'hood' in the matchbox-like buildings that we city-dwellers stay in, so let's just say that the kid comes from the house next door. Yes, I know what you're thinking, and yes, you're right, So cutting the argument short, let's move on.

My parents love kids. My mom does, anyway. My dad loves kids too,like most men do, just that we folks aren't too good at, err... well handling the shitty, poopy business, I suppose. Anyway, I'm just glad that mom and dad didn't let their love for kids overwhelm them. Else, I'd have an army of siblings or something. Then,our family would consume a lot more earthly resources, pollute more, shit more, bullshit more, and perhaps we wouldn't have means for me to write about how my family would have been, had there been more of us. Now that's one long, convoluted sentence!

Coming to the kid, this little pest is the first kid I've held in.... well, my life. Yeah. This shitty kid is the first one. What an achievement. For the kid, I mean. This is also the first time I've properly seen how proper, mature, maybe even sensible adults behave in front of a creature that can't even say it's own name. They all turn into mental hospital patients. "Goo Goo!", "Gaa Gaa!", "Say Paapaa!", "Say Mamma!", yeah right! I say tell the kid to fuck off! I'm sure the kid will find that more amusing than all the facial contortions that it witnesses on its holder's faces.

One day, my mom handed the kid to me. And I collapsed like a lump of loose sand. Mind you, this kid stares at me when I'm around him, which is part amusing, part scary, and part normal, given my awesomeness. But let's not get carried away, especially when I'm carrying the kid. Soft little shit-factory, this thing... How can a creature be so delicate, and so evil at the same time? True that the fellow's wide-eyed amazement is endearing and everything. His apparent innocence is cute and all. Also, he completely makes me forget about the gorgeous woman, that last article I've got to finish tonight, the fat car-servicing bill that I had to deal with, and the gorgeous woman. But then he shits his pants for no apparent reason, save for the fact that, well.... he just felt like taking a shit! And after the shit, he HAD to puke all over the place!!! My bed! Goodness! What was I thinking?

So yeah. I like kids too. Kind of. Maybe. Cute, cuddly, completely clueless. The best bit is you can tap them on their head and run away, and they can do shit about it. Except maybe cry. Now that's awesome!

Got me on my knees

Ever not so often, you come across something that leaves you gaping at the sight in front of your eyes. No, it may not be the most beautiful thing. It might not even be the stuff that rots you with lust from the insides of your being. But the way the sight unfolds, is what becomes the definition of a dream come true. It's this kind of an entity, or the mere thoughts of it, that leaves you revitalized after a 14-hour long day, begging you to put that last ounce of your existence into the thing you want to tell the world about the most.
I am no expert on the matter that I'm about to write about. But I know one thing for sure. You can't have these things grow on you. Because your desire, or lack of it for such a sight, is always a binary reaction. It is either I, or 0, right from the moment you set your eyes on whatever this magical form of creation is.
After my first encounter of this first kind, all I can remember is searching for my jaw, that had fallen into outer space on the other side of the planet, diametrically opposite to the point on which I stood.  The only question in my head was... "Why the fuck do I find this woman so irresistable?". Right now, my only issue in life is that I can't find my lower jaw. So eating food is a bit of a challenge. But how do you create such a work of art from mud and sand? Or is the material on these masterpieces of some different kind? Maybe, I am putting some beings on a pedestal. Because then I think, don't these creations take a shit? I mean, if they don't they'd be constipated. No? At least by definition? Then you put them on what? Laxatives?
Oh wait! Is it like they don't fart? I've heard that if someone says that he/she doesn't fart, either the person doesn't exist. That, or the person in question is a stinking liar! But no one has officially claimed that they don't poop or fart, or piss, or get pissed off. I have no Idea where the last two came from.
Hey wait! You know what? Amidst all this visual drama that your puny brain floats through, there's always this ding-dong-bell chap who comes along, and completely tramples the shit out of you. And all the while, when you're being trampled, all you wonder is.... What the hell is going on? On one end, your heart can't keep from fluttering at the amazing sight. On the other hand, you're getting your arse whooped for free, and goodness knows for what.
Can't things be a little simpler? Straight forward? Perhaps they are, and it's just my convoluted vision of the world that blinds me. That sounded like a bloody redundant sentence, the last one. There's another issue with asking for things to be simple. Your parents teach you lofty bollocks like "Never ask for stuff to be simple! You must be tough..... yackety yackety yack" and shit like that. And as a kid, you think, "Boy! Hardships! The way dad and mom talk of it, it must be fun! Some kind if ship that's been hardened or something!"
Hardened, my.... never mind.
I get a little exhausted of this gorgeous creation floating in my mind 28x9. See? I've even lost count of my days! No more dreams that I wish I could turn into reality. Actually, I want a lot more of these dreams that I could turn into reality, What a dichotomy! You want it with every ounce of your soul, then you shun it out of some misplaced ego. And the next time you want it, you want it a lot stronger than the last time you wanted it. Then again, you screw up with your words, and it all turns into one BIG pile of bullshit. Your words, your thoughts, intentions, all of it. How do you fix this?

Wheelspin, an SUV and screeching tyres.

Aimlessness, It's the stuff of nightmares. Why? It tucks you to bed at 11.30 in the night, so that nightmares have more time to encroach upon you. It will wake you up late, make you press that snooze button to further the time you can be haunted in sleep. And it won't even end there. The days too are a bit of an issue. You see a thousand things, each of which are rooting  for your energy. And hence, your ways meander. And then you get lost. And finally, that's what she says. Although I have no clue who 'she' is. 

It's been an enigmatic limbo, this last one month. The eyes go shut, but the lights don't go out. I wake up upside down, wondering where in hell I am, what it is that I am doing. Is there more to things that I see? And how many things there are that I don't? And yet, when I ask myself "Toh phir PROBLEM kya hai"(Then what's the problem?), I can't seem to come up with a pinpoint answer. 

A little on the word 'problem' here. I recently met a friend whom I hold in high regard. During a random conversation, I uttered the big 'P' word, Problem, that is. My friend's bewilderment at my utterance left me a little amused at first. Then, he said something that felt like a blow to the head. "There's nothing called a problem! It is always just a matter of two states of mind... WHAT IS, and WHAT WILL BE." 

Your 'what is', your current state of dilemma, and the 'what will be', perhaps a position when you no longer have your issues unsorted. The concept feels a lot less daunting instead of one big, heavy word 'Problem'. 

Anyway, moving on to issues of the existential angst inducing kinds. Being perversely persistent is a bit of a drawback. That's because you never really know whether to stop or not. Actually, stopping is completely out of the way. More so if a shitty SUV driver tries to cut your lane, that too when you are sitting in a puny little hatchback. Here's what you do when you're stuck in such a situation. Check if the SUV's windows are heavily tinted. 

If they are, you change your lane, let the SUV chap do his thing, and drive away as though nothing happened. 

If the windows are not tinted, and there's a half balding bloke behind the wheel of the SUV, follow these steps...

Pull up next to the driver. Hurtle curse at him till the time he starts crying. I bet he'll regret his decision of buying an SUV which he thought would solve his mid-life crisis. And then, you hurtle away, leaving the aforementioned driver in your tyre's smoke.

Talking of cars, if you're into that sort of a thing, 'The Stig' should be a familiar term. Ever seen him get off the line with tyres screeching? It's not that hard to do, you know? You can even do it on the most basic of cars. Even the ones that go slower than a horse. Another thing. How much horsepower does a horse have? I'm sure it's more than one. 

About spinning wheels when starting off the line.... First gear in, a little power, leave the clutch as swiftly, yet smoothly as possible, while simultaneously POWER POWER POWER!!! Just be a little careful when leaving the clutch. You do it wrong, and the car will jerk 3-4 times and come to a halt because you stalled it. Idiot! By the way, that will also be the end of a potential burnout. Another thing. In case you do get off to a jerky start and the inevitable stall, you're going to laugh your pants off 

a) out of sheer embarrassment

b) Because you realized that 'embarrassment' has the word 'ass' in it, and you feel like one. Especially after b),

c) Visualizing the car and yourself jerk, the whole sensation by itself is, well hilarious. It's like a car having an orgasm which failed midway. Sucks for the car.  

And we started with aimlessness, I suppose. 

Discovery

How weird is it? You wake up thinking that today will be the last of many things you loved, loathed, ignored or worried about. Strangely, after a 14-hour long day, you're still alive, a little less kicking, but still pretty much at square one.

You still wonder why she applies such copious amounts of eye-liner. You still think it is irritating to walk at the same pace as the cacophonous music that some idiot is playing in his car on full blast. You still abhor the bugger who drives on the dividing line between lanes. And the sight of a Maruti Swift Dzire is absolutely puke-worthy. By the way, you still have only a vague recollection of the blur that the day was. All you know is that it was a blur. Blurred misty by one face that's screwed up your dreams! Mummmaayyyyyyyy!!!

I'll tell you a thing or two about dreams. It's not a good feeling to wake up in the middle of the night to the thoughts of the same 'thing'. Don't be presumptuous. I'm not talking about a woman. But boy, she makes breathing a daunting task!

Chuck that, at least for now. I discovered that a small engined car will drink the daylights out of a petrol pump if you switch on the AC while driving. Also, it just kills the engine, using the A/C on a sub-1-litre engine powered car. It responds like it wants all the cars in a 1km range of you to overtake you, run rings around you, and then overtake you again. Yeah, even I thought that's not possible in city traffic. Sadly, it is. First-hand witness, sir.

But I have other issues to worry about too. Like knowing when to talk, knowing what to talk, knowing when to make a bum of yourself, when not to, and finally, and most importantly, when to shut the fuck up. The last bit is an art form. To the effect that it is more important than all the rest. 

Now, there's another issue. I learned about it a while back. It is one of those concepts that you know very well about, but are yet aloof about it terminologically. The term is "Staircase wit". It's the shit that strikes you after it hits the fan, metaphorically speaking. Or even literally, for a matter of fact. Quite obviously, it's not a pleasant experience. What makes me wonder is why it's termed 'staircase wit', and not 'you-will-know-you-got-fucked-after-you-got-fucked wit'? It's a bit in your face, the latter one, I suppose. Hence the subtlety, and consequently, the stairs. "Damn! I did not see the stairs. So now I have 3 cracked ribs, a broken hand, a fractured foot, a retarded brain, and a pack of french-fries from McDonalds up my arse. Yum-yum!

Something

There's not a lot to say, for I'm lost for words at the sight each time. It feels like electricity coursing through every cell. Frantic, freezing, and utterly debilitating. And I wonder to myself, what is it that my sight beholds? Why is it that I choke for air? Is what I see fantasy? Or is it another one of those inexplicable things? Those which words aren't worthy of describing? Or is it a big frog stuck in my throat? RRRRRIBITTTTT!

I won't describe the contours, the curves, the waves, that come crashing, each time, pulverizing any, and every ounce of sanity. The voice inside shouts so deafeningly hard, that you can't hear it any more. It's not a screech. It's not a roar. It's a call that knows no language. A call to hold the eyes of another in yours. A call for those secret glances, that one would wish were more audacious. Those which make the rest disappear, so that I could be shameless as I can be. This way, I can see through walls. Through barriers, and through the cloud of "what another would think".

The only line that keeps ringing in my head is "I'll boombox Careless Whispers out of your window!" I wonder why I'd think of doing that, especially since the chap who uttered the lines got shot right up his Main Street. Maybe watching Deadpool was a bad idea.

Coming back  to the soft, rounded contours that seem to flood my imagination from dusk to dawn, actually, only when I'm feeling crazy(which is basically all the time), the sight of my boss comes to mind. And then, I think I'm supposed to get back to work and not sleep for a year. Woah! Woah! Woah! I was thinking about something fantastically beautiful. How the fuck did that happen? The whole bossy scene?

But yeah, every time I witness the sight, I feel dyslexic. Arms and legs flailing, with me standing like a heap of er... muscle, bone and very little fat. Damn, ladies! I'm sexy! And yet I am reduced to vapor. Poof! Nothing more, nothing less. Just a thing I wish I could explain. Sadly I can't. 

Feeling mad

I thought I'm going to die today. No, I wasn't about to fall from the edge of a cliff, or a building. A car wasn't coming hurtling at me. Neither was I hurtling inside a car towards a truck. I was just doing my thing. And then, she walked in. After that, all I could hear was BOOM..... BOOM.... BOOM.... BOOM.... A mad rush of blood to the head with each heart bear. And boy have I not felt so overwhelmed in a long time.

I see her almost everyday. Well, almost. And there's little that remains for me to tell her, sparing a few explicit details. But not that I've left a lot to her imagination. But yet, there are a thousand things i could say, a thousand things I want to say, none of which make an ounce of sense to me. It's just ramblings inside my head, things I wish she could see for herself.
But all these rampant, helter-skelter thoughts, and any sort of brain activity seizes at the sight of her. So much so that all my senses can feel is my fragile little ticker exploding like a nuke in my chest.

No clue how it got this way. And how wishful thinking hopes that the stupid woman feels even a trickle of what you go through. That mad urge to look into the other's eyes for an eternal second. Those round eyes. Her wavy hair falling on cute, mouse-like face. The way she repeatedly jerks her face to move them away, how she keeps playing with her locks all day long, her incessant throat clearing. And all I hope is that she sees my check-mated condition. That I am helpless, completely unguarded, decapitated by her sight, or merely her presence.

But then, ego comes in the way. My ego. And then I set out to justify my balls. What a futile exercise. Beside, in the process, I put myself in a worse position than before, trapping myself more, more, and even more in a place from where, recovery almost sounds impossible.

Now, I can' t even shamelessly gawp at her. I fear. And so, I hate myself. What if she's given her heart away? Can't I get back the last few months? To fix my stupidities, my follies, and all that makes me feel like a complete bum. Get hold of a free slate somehow?
Another voice shouts on top of its lungs, chuck it! Keep moving. But stubborn is the foolish mind. Overtly optimistic.about things that may have little prospects, or maybe some. Maybe.
An arm's stretch away feels like a light year for now.

Then I realize, there's no point of me losing my peace of mind, as my worrying, or not worrying isn't going to change the situation. Well, that's true for everything in life, isn't it? But for now, that mad heartbeat is definitely an experience I wouldn't mind dying to feel once again.