Narcissistic Opinions: /peri pat eh tic/ noun

There were days longing for something I didn’t understand properly. I don’t think I do now as well. I don’t even know what I was searching for – something along the frame of utter senselessness of existing, of being someone or something.

Along the shores of Dar es Salaam, there is a strange ennui. I can feel it in my bones that it is different. Very different than that of Kathmandu. I didn’t know that ennui’s could be different. It all seemed the same. Suffering, that I can understand. It can come in various shape or fervor. I am used to it. I understand it even though I don’t need to. But I have vanities of my own. It is relative. When a group of convicts passed the work site of a Nazi concentration camp, they were envied upon by the Jews. Because they probably had toothbrush, a comfortable bed with mattresses and knew the whereabouts of their family and relatives. They knew who were dead and who were alive. Such is suffering. But ennui,  I do not understand.  It never ceases to amaze me, the weariness of which comes in different flavors and knowledge. This is a new revelation.

I was subject to some unsavory scrutiny by a stranger yesterday. He judged me based on my voice and the facial features. I don’t know why, but I didn’t like it then I normally should. Not that he adjudicated entirely wrong but he did it so improperly and with a vehemence. I should have been used to it now. But something violent stirred in me too. Perhaps alcohol on an empty stomach. I pacified the passion within me with some instant meditation – a bat was flying over our heads and I tried to catch a glimpse of its features while on flight. I put on a poker face and somewhat took in remarks with some sense of dignity. For most part I managed to ignore but I had to say something to make him think of his flawed ways. And when I was about to commence on this noble act, I suddenly felt that that I’d rather should not. I should give him more confidence my being passive. I should play the long game. I should make him suffer more. He was somewhat full of aversion towards my kind – which he also misjudged. And not trying to correct him would be his punishment. His continuous and mindless hatred, an uneasy soul and mind was my revenge.

A rich and mighty Persian once walked in his garden with one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just encountered Death, who had threatened him. He begged his master to give him his fastest horse so that he could make haste and flee to Teheran, which he could reach that same evening. The master consented and the servant galloped off on the horse. On returning to his house the master himself met Death, and questioned him, “Why did you terrify and threaten my servant?” “I did not threaten him; I only showed surprise in still finding him here when I planned to meet him tonight in Teheran, said Death

Freedom is a curse, decried Sartre. I look at the blue horizon where ocean blue meets the sky blue. I am free to do so – to think about my emotions deeply, to translate it into something I could feed off, to listen to it and not act on it, to remain in a perpetual gloom because of misinterpreting it or simply to stare into it without a thought. To interpret Sartre would be too easy to understand him. Because when we writes, everyone understands it differently. So that’s easy. I wouldn’t want to understand him in my own way. But he doesn’t provide an answer too. He’s a thug. He’s a messiah. Who cares. It’s one’s choice to do so, that he agrees too. I think I will stick with Carmona here: “ Once thrown into the world, man is responsible for everything he does…The most priceless possession a person has is his power of choice; it is also life’s greatest shackle”.

END. 

 

The Kathmandude

I have returned to the city I always abhorred. Houses, everywhere and anywhere. Contracted and wrung between each other. Like the residents living a life nigh void of expression.  If foreigners want to know the people of Kathmandu well, all they have to do is observe the housing, dangling electric lines, patched roads and menace the pedestrians create. People, idiots, lunatics, killers and rapists all living under a same rummage and scavenging of others souls. All feeding in psyche of others,  nourishing and stuffing themselves with love that was never theirs to savour. It is ironic that Kathmandu is called the city of gods and there are gods, innumerable and unlimited. Pagodas and stupas, glorious and pieces of art, all paying homage to the gods who have long abandoned this unyielding land where toils are chastised. Only the people haven’t marooned them, the eye of Buddha has witnessed it all.

Ghostly reveries  engulf my consciousness as I  enter the city and all roads lead to perdition. It doesn’t matter where I go and if the end meets the means. I take a stroll down the uncanny streets, it strikes a chord to me and I audibly say to myself, ‘….someone should just take this city and just… just flush it down the fuckin’ toilet’.  This city needs a beat down, heist, a confusion, a desolation, an atomic bomb that doesn’t go off so easily. A better class of criminals, necessary evils. Love is born from the bosom of vice. Such love doesn’t exist in vain, they persist and transcend humanity. Maybe Kathmandu needs a authentic and callous villain so that heroes may be born.

That Eccentric Guy

He took a long, cold and  solemn look at the sky, almost insipid yet a pursuing deep look for answers. He knew it was futile but still, time and again he ruminated.  It consumed every piece of him, the cruel anguish, placid exasperation, uncanny crawling of this crisis into his head, only epiphany remained. He was already accustomed to this self defeating behavior but now its growth halted and he felt restless. It always amazed him how he could feel, the sorrow of living could bring happiness, the melancholy of which could be gratified and cherished. It was almost enchanting, the glorious blaze of life he had discovered and could not share with anyone. It seemed crazy and like a dream but it wasn’t so. He was living the dream. The dream of happiness, almost perfect.

No one could reproach him of this obstinacy, to conclude everything about life in such melancholic manner.  It was his way of living a life. It wasn’t a virtual life of anything yet something seemed wrong to the audiences. Everything always seems wrong to the audiences, the critics of our lives and it is sinisterly accepted fact that we should behave, think and feel about the world, the same way as it has been generally established.  No wonder we have a hypocritical perception on life and god.

The thing about happiness is that it doesn’t last long and till it lasts we tend to overlook it. But, on the contrary a neurotic never neglects it but instead, lives it to the fullest as a hedonist would probably do. He was living his dream life, like a fearful convict on the run, the supercilious nature not allowing to leave such irrationality, the life of which we seldom encounter and even if we do stumble upon, we ignorantly fail to notice. It was almost if, for such folks, god created life.

Now, the sky looked tedious, almost lifeless. The birds resembled nothing more than mere bodies with wings and the clouds were not obscure anymore. There was nothing amusing about the sweltering nature of sun and human ingenuity didn’t interest him. He had grown weary of his own emotional conundrum, he was tired, the lassitude engulfed his soul, draining every energy he had. He looked like a communist who now knew it was impossible to idealize further and thus retiring into solitary, unyielding life. He had outgrown his own jarring emotions and anomalies.

He wanted more of it but it sunk in instead,  he became what he detested, the soul of it, which, he hated the abhorrence now faded and more exasperated he grew the less it dandled. This taciturn man couldn’t pertain himself over his own ideals and ideas while his expostulations, mostly monologues were all in vain. His actual self now swerved from his ideal self and against a new found delirium.

He had become a conformist.

 

A Sister & The Grave

‘What is it that you dream about?’, she grew melancholic. Is it the moon and the stars, or is the languid and the epicurean masquerade to which we so much confine ourselves, said the sister. ‘A gleaming epitaph or a modest burial? Do you think about transcending the cosmic or incarcerating yourself in the commonality of our spirits. What is it? Dear brother, which is it?’ She ceased to speak, her venerable tongue. The night was deep. It was silent, almost uncanny while she could hear the distant clamour, a celebration. She didn’t know what was being celebrated but she grew content. Maybe a birth, a marriage proposal or a graduation, she didn’t care. All that concerned was something was celebrated and it was enough. She cherished the mere sound, the buzz, however blunt. To encumber oneself in the levity of common folks gave her great satisfaction. Empathic, not only in happiness but also in sorrow. She could truly feel them, the whole of their soul. At the outset she used to be disgusted, wailing in prayer, asking forgiveness to the lord but only the lord knew if he forgave or cursed , either way, she would be consternated at the sheer malevolence of our existence. With time, she grew tired of all intent. It lasted for a long time, the whole convalescence, from condemnation to appreciation. After it took its toll she woke up only to find the whole world comical. She had found her way out of the unyielding abyss of senselessness. Finally, she was free and here she lays ruminating her brother, his grave, neglected, a myriad of leaves piling up against the epitaph, nearly concealing the only remaining memory, echoes of the past and inaudible remorse for tomorrow. There was still hope for humanity but she was restless, impatient against the sloth and the divine.

It had been ten years since that fateful day, when her brother, naïve and buoyant, in his early twenties left the home to venture upon career as a policeman only to be murdered two years later. It remained a mystery to who had committed the murder but, it became lucid that nobody was responsible. The investigation ceased in a month and nobody cared. Justice remained available only to the rich and she couldn’t afford such a luxury.

Ten years later, she had overcome dejection, outlived suicide attempts, grown out of romance and joined the A__ convent. Now she was known as Sister H___. Why wouldn’t anyone convert if such conversions yielded economic and social incentives. From a low caste Hindu to a favourite disciple of Christ. At the onset, it was merely for survival, her basic instinct. It wasn’t even scrupulous enough to think twice, people living in privation can have that excuse. What moral dilemmas to consider when once cannot even be shown pity upon by thirty million gods. Here, we live in poverty, in desperation, no future to consider, where the rich get richer and poor are like domesticated animals, yet one is to act conscientiously. Woe to people who think that is even possible. Better to have a devil corrupt one’s soul than have million gods masquerade on morality. And thus, she was loved by Christ.

And here she is, stooping before the grave, gaping towards the inanimate trees and a bland breeze crosses her eyes. She takes a deep breath and comes to senses. A myriad of thought crosses her mind, she looks around, dark and cold. The dawn is a good night’s sleep away. She stares at the gravestone, it’s not her brother’s. A priest had performed the funeral rites and she could only but weep. The clamour has ceased. She primps her clothes, shivering in the cold, lies juxtaposed next to the grave against the cold surface of the ground. The grave of an old woman who probably died peacefully with her sons and grandchildren beside her, sleeps happily next to the sister.

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There will always be people around us, hypocrites, posers, predictable scumbags of the world, people who will feed us with what they believe and how their belief is guided, what inspires them and what makes them so practical. These are the people who will feed us with their inferior complex; their latent self esteem,  dull attitudes . If they think they cannot do it, you cannot do it either.  Each day couple of Hemingway’s die,  hundreds of Tony Stark’s eliminated, thousand’s of  Steve Jobs  murdered and millions of Lionel Messi  give up simply because someone doesn’t believe that you cannot achieve greatness or even a faction of it. Each day a dream is shattered, a heart broken. Why? Because each day you are surrounded by hypocrites, posers and predictable scumbags of the world. Every now and then your idea is killed even before it is born in your head. Here’s to the flawed son, reluctant daughter and an unwanted creep. Here’s to the dreamers and doers, the Nikola Tesla’s and Cristiano Ronaldo’s.