LET US SHOUT

It’s always a precarious task balancing your carnal and civilized self as the globe keeps on moving and changing poles every 24 hours. When the manager at the neighbouring eating joint tells you that they do not serve French fries for breakfast, you want to tell him how much he resembles the grisly-faced Gene Hackman in Bonnie and Clyde. You, however, make do with a nonchalant nod. Or when your boss asks you why your department under-performed this quarter, you never tell him about your recent fascination for blogging and the late nights you spend masquerading as an agony aunt.
There are things that you hardly tell yourself amidst the flutter of social conditioning that permeates your milieu. The restaurant manager, busy denying queer food requests to Octopussy-faced people at 10 AM, has forgotten that his definition of comfort had always been eating breakfast wearing next to nothing in bed. Our lacklustre-employee-cum-fervent -blogger, on the other hand, always thought that the only thing grown-ups do is lie non-plussed on a hammock by the countryside as the scorcher of the sun keeps rising and disappearing. He is yet to tell himself that he does not picture himself as having grown up.
These are tales you remember in those rare moments that you shut yourself out from the recesses of sophistication and perception that sets the standard of your 18X6 lifestyle. It hits you when you are spot-jogging in the confines of your pad, and there is no Outkast or Black Eyed Peas playing in the background. Or when you are having a midnight puff in the rooftop terrace of your apartment building. You move your legs faster, or light up another Cohiba, hoping that your mind will trace the moral in these half-time broodings. But then the questions get too probing. Even Sartre would have stuttered to quell these doubts. And then, irrespective of whether you are sprinting or smoking, you shout. A scream that could rival Led Zeppelin at the crescendo of Kashmir. A roar that could drive the bloodiest of hounds to shame. In that moment, you would have shared the Bonnie and Clyde insight with the restaurant manager, or narrated your blogging exploits to your superior. These are the times you let your throbbing blood do their bidding. In hindsight though, may be it is a good thing that you tip over your balance in deserted rooftops. In its own shallow way, it helps to keep the sanity of the world intact. And your stale existence devoid of contamination.