Wednesday, September 10, 2008

the bastards of miseducation

the venue was the same, my college, and the stage was familiar as well - the admin office. my friend, shinigami, or as he was popularly known as, a pseudonym only promulgated by me, and i were staring at the clerk behind the counter. my friend would only smile probably at his own wisdom in understanding or figuring things out beforehand. he was smiling for he had prognosticated the result of this short excursion down the pain trodden roads of my past, the road to my education whorehouse. the clerk, among a myriad of others like him, the ones that are no different that the government employees, who are more eager to take bribe and reluctant to help without an incentive, said that the account officer had not come for the day. i shouldn't have given a fuck, the same way i never gave one all these years. sadly, truly, the fuck got bigger than the word itself over the years and now i had resigned my fate to giving one to things, people, both literally and metaphorically. the reason why the account officer's presence was required because i had come down to this hole, riding in the most discomforted state of mind and body, only to get my technical degree which was now dependent on the account officer's clearance. i ran from one room to the other to avoid this discrepancy for my account had been clean for the last 6 years for i wasn't even a part of this institution for the last 3 years. that one signature from the absconding official would save me 80 kms of commuting and 80 tonnes of emotional turmoil.

i gazed into the hallway that was bustling with activity, i gazed through the hallway's bustling activity and thought to myself how i had never returned from this place happy. how my life's entire shit happened while this kept me company. i wondered how terribly jinxed my life had become after coming to the place, the satan embraced place. the system was corrupt, the staff had a big mouth and institution was thriving on these factors. i remembered how one of staff members had asked me, in one of my numerous trips to the place for the same reason as above, as to how i felt about the college's progress after he had listed the changes in the structure, infrastructure. i clearly remembered how i had reacted and also how i had felt before answering his rhetoric. wearing reebok, nike, pepe, levi's definitely made you look cooler, sort of in congruence with the crowd, but that didn't change the fact that the fucked up twisted bitch that resided inside everyone, the heart, never changed. i hate the fucked up bitch and the commercialized generation; the line from people=shit aptly suited them with a slight difference though, 'too fucked to care and not afraid to beg!'. here we go again mother fucker!

i wanted to run away from the place, the entire system as I had always wanted to initially and still, just like escapists. I had wanted to run away from this levi’s generation forever and for always for I, firmly believed that I belonged to the anti-bitch generation, the anti–levi’s generation, of course for my own reasons as contorted as they were contrived to be. The generation that thrived on cinema for entertainment and the learnt shit from them, the generation that used movies to unwind and got back to the cycle they engaged their lives to, the generation that treated emotions and feelings like those of a tramp and discarded them as per convenience, the generation that was too comfortable huddled inside their seemingly prescient world; the generation that was too fucked to me. This generation was the society now- from ants to hills, from babies to adults. Everyone was conditioned to behave in the most non-idealistic materialized fashion, a manifestation of what their up bringers would call, ‘life’. Amongst this society, this world and the rampant, immoral version of a brothel housed life; there existed disobedience, a latent movement curtailed to a crepuscular vehemence. The society at large seemed bitched up and beautiful for the conspectus was always neat, it had to be for it was from the idea of the bitched up generation, and I existed for criticising it if for nothing else.

i was the anti-bitch generation for no reason but to hate it’s existence...i am anti-social.
after putting in lots of effort and painstaking pleading and thanks, an arrangement was arrived at and i was given my document. my proof of existence in the institution for so many years was in my hands. while i was signing against my name in the book that contained the records for the students who had taken their document, i relived my 6 painful years in a flash. The feeling lived for as long as described, a flash; everything was lost in that flash, all my feelings, my love, my relationships, my escapades, my friends, my bonds, my pain…

as i was signing, i looked at the remarks section against the signature column and saw how it was left blank by every other person who had collected their documents. the clerk handling the register insinuated to being treated to sweets, a custom prevalent only in India to mark a celebrated occasion of the culmination of something. being treated to sweets was an insinuation in itself now, for times had changed. for the bitch, levi’s generation, it meant a treat at a local café or an alcohol serving venue, where they could possibly shake their asymmetrical bodies to music, their bitch kind of music to show to the entire world possibly, when the same thing could be done at their home, unless they had objections to showing their curves and cleavages and amorous moves to their parents of course. music of all kinds is always great, was always great. there was nothing to music, it was neutral but it was the connotation that we attached to it that made it different for everyone. even though i feel like a 20 year old citing an example or analogy as this, however, i would still like to. it was like a pseudo – rock music fan who didn’t give a shit about what the music was about or why the piece was composed or what changes the piece or the composer went through, but he or she was totally loyal to it for some reason that i or several others (probably from the 70s or the 80s) failed to understand.

sweets also meant bribe but to the corrupt generation. there were or are too many of them and it becomes impossible down the line to demarcate them for there are too many of them crisscrossing each other in some way.

my thoughts always ran faster than time and they just occurred in flashes to me. i took a quick, relentless look at the register and in respect of the flash that occurred, decided to write in the remarks section. i wrote something that the people would take notice of, something that the system would read and curse me but would take notice of. i wrote what i thought was the least that i could do. that one word wouldn’t change a thing but it would make them think for a moment at least. they would remember me as the only person who wrote something in the remarks section and also as the guy who was the Mr. Fresher. my friend looked at me and smiled as i was doing it, and I smiled back at him for that was the least that I could do, smile back at everything.

we walked out of the institution’s campus and i took control of the ride and zoomed past the dispersing entities, the maggots, the bitches, the curtailed disobediences.

we stopped at a small shop and took refreshments for my friend and for myself. i took a smoke and lit it and took a deep puff and exhaled out the smoke. i looked at the wrist watch, the watch that was broken and time had stopped at precisely 9:05:12. i had decided to not get it fixed and carry it around as a reminder just the way my computer’s screen had the caption, 28.aug. don’t forget.., etched onto it. they were a reminder to something that i wasn’t willing to disclose to anyone anytime soon, probably never. the watch was never to be fixed even the wallpaper might be discarded soon just like feelings, moments shared, spent with the last woman i dated, number 33 who was an epitome of the levi’s, pepe, reebok, nike, ipod generation, -‘sometimes you have to go through something to know it’s not worth it’.
i was still stuck in the flash of feelings and about what i had written down there. one word that couldn’t have explained what i went through and maybe couldn’t even do justice to what had happened to me during those years, most of which was my own doing and discretion to act or to withdraw from the predicament i dwelt in. one word that could depict what i had in heart for them and yet taken in stride by the bitch generation. one word that could no way even closely describe what i felt for the people i had shared my life with, the bitches, the passive disobedient ones, or even the ones i should have been with but left with painful regrets, the ones like an, aa, vv, one word that could do nothing or change nothing..

that one word etched in bold capitals across the remarks section was an epitome of everything, my life, my relationships, the women, the feelings, me…
that one word that could possibly surmise why i had become the way i was. that one word that was going to mark the occasion of the long awaited change in me with my timepiece as being an active participant. I took a deep puff and gave one hard look at my guilty motivation that i carried around my wrist like a mad boy, stark raving mad.

that one word in the remarks section that would go down in history…

that one word nobody would give a fuck to…

that one word was, ’bastards’.


Still Waters said...

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.

(Macbeth 1.7.47-48)

Monster Potato said...

The watch reminds me of Full Metal Alchemist.

scenes from a memory said...

thank you,i like that line.

i don't intend to do more than a man..for by not being one, there's so much that i can..

scenes from a memory said...

reading this again today,00:38hrs Oct 25,2010, i wonder if anything changed between then and now.
but i certainly feel that this was one of the most powerful pieces of writing i wrote. potent shot of acid gulped down :)