Damn the power grid.
The backlight from my mp3 player illuminates the room just enough for me to make my routine observations. Brother is sound asleep.A log listening to Elton John. His earphones are securely plugged into his ears, blaring the chorus of Someday out of the blue, which I can barely make out through Dylan's shrieking harmonica emanating from mine, the two songs together sounding like discordant heavy metal. Isn't heavy metal discordant anyway?
Bob Dylan has so much to say about the world we live in. I think he's a genius because I can almost never understand his songs. But when I can, I hear the bells of epiphany. My very own Confucius, in mp3 format.
Would it be possible to fuck up my parents' sub-conscience by channeling a loop of Dylan's lyrics straight into their ears while they're asleep?
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.
I disentangle myself from the wire and my sacred thread. Sacred thread. Thats how neo-NRI-brahmins explain it to their sons. The sacred thread- bestowed upon you to make you a man; wise and able. More like the bane lassoed around your torso marking you out as the 21 year old vegetarian virgin.
I scramble for my cellphone when I feel it vibrate. Could it be her?
Its been 3 weeks since she left me bleeding from the heart break. A classic best friend falling in love blow-up. If there were a God, He's run out of ways to entertain himself. As I suffer from withdrawal, she has her arms wrapped around some block-headed pillar of testosterone. Fucking hilarious.
Could I ever fall in love again? Fuck it.
It's just phone spam. Fucktards.
I get off my sweaty back. We must be on low voltage again. Fan looks like its pushing against some sort of dense ether. I lower my head to see if my brother is comfortable. I take his blanket off. I love my brother."The Americans rule the world. Our lives are irrelevant. I wish to die.", he whispers to his imaginary friends Jimbo and Panzz when no ones looking. Delusional views. Surreal aspirations. These are the most important formative years of his life. And I'm going to miss them. He'll cope. In time. I hope.
I walk over to the bathroom instinctively. I check to see if the lights in this phase are working. They are. I could drop my pants and give me fifty. But thats just beyond boring these days. I've nailed every celebrity chick in every possible position in every possible micro-gravity environment. I take a closer look at my face in the mirror. Pulling my hair back reveals a couple of zits, an ever receding hairline and my birth
mark defect. Fucking black spot. Lightning shaped scars are way cooler.
I decide I'm going to read Feynman and sprinkle some water on my face. The corridor leading to the hall isn't lit.Reminds me of the future. I wait to hear my dad's snores to make sure he's asleep. Not that I'm scared he'll catch me reading physics at this obscene hour. Somehow, his presence brings out the worst in me. I fear the man.
Back when I was going to school, my father was something of an idol to me. Perfection. But over the last 4 years, I've noticed more than cracks in his armor. I don't know if I've grown up or he's going senile. For him, practicality is the approval of God, passion is over-indulgence and average is dumbass. He is a very responsible man, in that he takes care of us. Protects us. But protecting your kids is different from bringing them up.
I enter my chamber of eternal happiness. My study. Lit only by various LEDs- Red, green and blue. Enough to start a circus for Liliputians. Router's lights flickering like crazy. I must be having a good number of seeds.
99% of Frasier season 6 completed. The bungling,lovelorn, morally upright, revered radio psychiatrist always finds himself in an ethical pickle. His principles always end up biting him in the balls. He never learns. Makes good television. It lasted 11 seasons.
My laptop makes a whirring squeaking sound. The hub of it's cooling fan was permanently dislodged when yours truly was playing mad scientist. I need to get a new one. I'll get one in L.A.
Facebook is full of mindless shit. Status messages are either allusions to some insignificant event I never witnessed, or some current feeling thats gone trite with typing, or some quotation or lyric that preaches anything from world peace to fuck everyone. The best way to deal with the entropy is to contribute to it. As usual, no one has anything interesting to say. She always did. But I liked her.
Feynman's lectures volume 2 lies open in front of me, it's pages flipping back and forth, showing me a glimpse of my prospective career in fluid dynamics. Differential equations describe life in real time. It's enigma lies in it's simplicity; not in solving them, but in understanding them. The Existence and Uniqueness theorem is the most beautiful statement in all of calculus. It states that if you know how a phenomenon starts, i.e it's initial conditions, the outcome of that phenomenon is unique to those initial conditions. I often draw parallels with life from such principles. Ofcourse my life would have been different had I enrolled at a different school. But the certainty of the outcome is nullified by countless factors. What if we could infact come up with a differential equation for life, completely deterministic? Perhaps there is;one that needs a language far superior to mathematics to explain it.I love science too much to practice it. I hope to teach someday. But maybe I'll need to run a family and will need a better paying job. Or maybe I'll just die a lonely man. Fuck it.
I don't feel like reading any physics now. I open up my browser again blankly. I let my fingers think for me when I type in youtube.com and search Zidane. Zidane is poetry in motion. I watch videos of him again and again, hoping to spot a flaw in his 360, a moment of indecision in his passing. I try and play like him and thats made me a tad authoritative on the field. I've become a victim of his perfection. Perhaps it would be a lot easier if everyone shared the same level of footballitis. I wouldn't get so frustrated all the time. Know whats worse than an ankle sprain? An ankle sprain and a headache.
It's 3 a.m. I need something to ponder about. I'll watch some T.V. until something provoking presents itself. I change channels faster than grandma homing in on her soap. I stop at Brad Pitt. He's saying something to George Clooney. I'm still too groggy to make out what they're saying. But I know the movie. Infact, I had a similar idea a long time ago about a smorgasbord of unemployed Indians who successfully rob Tirupati's Tirumala Devastanam. That place should easily make a crore of rupees a day, feeding off the faith of rabid devotees. It definitely has lesser security than the Belagio. Or does it? Could they be forwarding the money to acquire government classified weaponry? Religion always seemed a scam. Head hurts.
I switch off the T.V and head outside. My rooftop is my thinking sanctuary. My most profound questions have been answered upstairs. Somehow, the vastness of the nightsky catapults my thinking to farther horizons.
Nothing arouses my curiosity more than human psychology. Why do we behave the way we do? Why do we do things that are sure to lead us to misery? Why do we give our kids such idiotic advice? Why do we fuck women and feel guilty about it?
I climb up the water tank and inhale the moist Chennai air like a crack head. This is my crack. This is where I always felt I belonged. Never will I find such a group of friends. I've grown up with the guys. Could I possibly smuggle Avi into the U.S? He's pretty small.
I watch a slideshow of my life before me, framed on the clouds, the chilling wind the background score. Friends, college, football. My mom. I'm sure no one loves me more than my mom. She's going to be broken the day I leave. I'm leaving on her birthday. What a terrible son I've been. Fuck. Am I crying? Fuck.
What will I come back as? Should I care about that now? Deep down, I know this is the last chapter. My dependence on my parents will slowly fizzle away. I don't know my relatives well for me to say anything in family functions. My family and I part ways at this point. Indian families have a tradition of sticking together. Unlike Americans who feel embarrassed to live with their parents, here in India, sons take pride in letting everyone know they can fend for a couple more people. Parents take care of us for the first half, we take care of them for the other. This doesn't apply to daughters however, which exposes the male overhandedness in the practice. Busted.
I turn on my mp3 player and play BB King. I stare at the full moon listening to Thrill Is Gone, the masterful cadenza reminding me of the good things in life. I see her one last time, smiling at me. I close my eyes. Kids' stuff.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Damn the power grid.