:D
Get that Wet Towel off the Bed! NOW!
The compellinginsistence on systematic living is preached and practised so fanatically by the defenders of society that no one, not even the Irresponsibility Personified, can escape its clutches. The drilling of this mantra starts right from the womb with yucky milk, slimy greens and nauseous fruit shoved down the pregnant woman’s gullet. She quietly complies because she wants a healthy child; the relatives have a field day, no, months, as they feed, clothe, lecture and do all-things-permissible to the would-be mother. Motherhood is serious business, men trade their bangla, gaadi, bank-balance for the Maa; women give up their Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest for the janani. Such life-sapping sacrifices without following a systematic regimen is tantamount to social hara-kiri. We don’t mess around with organized conspiracies in this country; we tie our seatbelts and sit back to enjoy the drive, which, unquestionably, is an endless one with manholes, drains and broken roads dotting the landscape that, in simpler terms, is called Indian Roads.
The journey that began in the womb takes an interesting turn with the child’s appearance on the world-stage. With the premonition of The Wise, the helpless bundle rears its head from a smelly track yelling for life. Save me the noise, don’t suck me into your chaotic system It screams; the doctors carelessly hold It upside down slapping Its bum triumphantly declaring to the hawks that it is a Healthy Baby. As shrieks of celebrations course through the corridors, the newcomer howls some more sensing that the tragi-comedy has just started. With the wonder of a freshman, It sees a sea of humanity snaking in and out of Its room with colourful, musical objects in hand. The cosy room has metamorphosed into a museum in no time; the dentures that smile at It and the hairy-hands that pound Its cheeks are monsters come-to-life. Amidst crowds, cakes, curses and comforts, the growing up happens without the gargantuans so much as noticing it.
The drug that was administered to the foetus has successfully entered Its blood-stream. It knows the undeniable power of SYSTEM. Everything has to be systematic hollers the Goliath. For Godssake take that wet towel off the bed! NOW! Where the hell are you supposed to keep your socks? It is the Periboea at her gigantic worst. It does not need any telling, the potency of the surreptitious chemical works on Its brain cells involuntarily. But the Titans are oblivious of Its genetic coding, unbelievably unsure of their own blood. The outpourings gush out like froth from venomous reptiles. The shoes go in the shoe rack; the TV remote doesn’t live on the fridge top; the nail-cutter goes right back into the drawer, what are the nails doing on the carpet; books have a house to live in, we call it the cupboard, they’re not to be strewn on the floor; put all your toys in one basket after you’ve finished playing; can your clothes be neatly stacked if you have any feelings for your mother.
It has grown up, flown the nest, aligned Itself with the system and enjoying Its ride regardless of it. One jarring sound drags It back to the blind gullies that It had crawled out of. You are still the same, will you never grow up rattles the uncomfortably familiar Voice. Now what have I done, It meekly tries to salvage the vestiges of the tattered esteem that threatens to blow away at the next hint of violence. What have you done? You are all over the place; just put together everything in one slot, I’m saying this for your own good. It will be easier for you to remember, and for others to follow. It picks up the prickly pieces of prestige that had scattered as smithereens and The Voice replays in Its head till it will crack Its’ skull. Before the bedroom becomes a bloody battlefield, It sits at Its desk and keys away furiously, resolutely.
Two days later, everything is in one place. All for Its own good. www.andypaula.in
The compellinginsistence on systematic living is preached and practised so fanatically by the defenders of society that no one, not even the Irresponsibility Personified, can escape its clutches. The drilling of this mantra starts right from the womb with yucky milk, slimy greens and nauseous fruit shoved down the pregnant woman’s gullet. She quietly complies because she wants a healthy child; the relatives have a field day, no, months, as they feed, clothe, lecture and do all-things-permissible to the would-be mother. Motherhood is serious business, men trade their bangla, gaadi, bank-balance for the Maa; women give up their Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest for the janani. Such life-sapping sacrifices without following a systematic regimen is tantamount to social hara-kiri. We don’t mess around with organized conspiracies in this country; we tie our seatbelts and sit back to enjoy the drive, which, unquestionably, is an endless one with manholes, drains and broken roads dotting the landscape that, in simpler terms, is called Indian Roads.
The journey that began in the womb takes an interesting turn with the child’s appearance on the world-stage. With the premonition of The Wise, the helpless bundle rears its head from a smelly track yelling for life. Save me the noise, don’t suck me into your chaotic system It screams; the doctors carelessly hold It upside down slapping Its bum triumphantly declaring to the hawks that it is a Healthy Baby. As shrieks of celebrations course through the corridors, the newcomer howls some more sensing that the tragi-comedy has just started. With the wonder of a freshman, It sees a sea of humanity snaking in and out of Its room with colourful, musical objects in hand. The cosy room has metamorphosed into a museum in no time; the dentures that smile at It and the hairy-hands that pound Its cheeks are monsters come-to-life. Amidst crowds, cakes, curses and comforts, the growing up happens without the gargantuans so much as noticing it.
The drug that was administered to the foetus has successfully entered Its blood-stream. It knows the undeniable power of SYSTEM. Everything has to be systematic hollers the Goliath. For Godssake take that wet towel off the bed! NOW! Where the hell are you supposed to keep your socks? It is the Periboea at her gigantic worst. It does not need any telling, the potency of the surreptitious chemical works on Its brain cells involuntarily. But the Titans are oblivious of Its genetic coding, unbelievably unsure of their own blood. The outpourings gush out like froth from venomous reptiles. The shoes go in the shoe rack; the TV remote doesn’t live on the fridge top; the nail-cutter goes right back into the drawer, what are the nails doing on the carpet; books have a house to live in, we call it the cupboard, they’re not to be strewn on the floor; put all your toys in one basket after you’ve finished playing; can your clothes be neatly stacked if you have any feelings for your mother.
It has grown up, flown the nest, aligned Itself with the system and enjoying Its ride regardless of it. One jarring sound drags It back to the blind gullies that It had crawled out of. You are still the same, will you never grow up rattles the uncomfortably familiar Voice. Now what have I done, It meekly tries to salvage the vestiges of the tattered esteem that threatens to blow away at the next hint of violence. What have you done? You are all over the place; just put together everything in one slot, I’m saying this for your own good. It will be easier for you to remember, and for others to follow. It picks up the prickly pieces of prestige that had scattered as smithereens and The Voice replays in Its head till it will crack Its’ skull. Before the bedroom becomes a bloody battlefield, It sits at Its desk and keys away furiously, resolutely.
Two days later, everything is in one place. All for Its own good. www.andypaula.in
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