Twelve nights after the apocalypse, I seem to be doing quite alright. There are a few sore muscles I need to stretch every four hours and a sense of thirst that the strongest of brandies would not be able to quench. But all said and done, a life devoid of Wills Classic butts and ash seems to be treating me indulgently. Starvation is replacing hunger in my lexicon at a pace that even my batch mates are compelled to take notice; my perspective on relationships seems to be in a process of re-invention. Things like trust, truth and the taxiing of weed are beginning to embed into my persona. I seem to be realising that stress is not something that needs to be handled as it descends on you. Rather, it ought to be denatured with a dollop of salt sprinkled generously enough. Everything around me appears to be opening up. And for once, it doesn’t begin with the zipper of my denims.
This priority-shuffling grenade was actually triggered off by a Neil French remark on the influences that shaped his thinking. To him, his growth was moulded by the fact that he made a direct leap from childhood to adult life because of which he never could relate to the pleasures of cribbing, the zing of first flushes and the guilt of being caught masturbating by your mother. As a self-touted adult trying to resolve the plague that seemed to be enveloping his staunch principles, I could not help identifying myself with the dilemma.
An analogy could be drawn here in terms of how our tastes in music diverged after puberty. To the majority of my chums, bands like Blink 182 and Simple Plan were the apotheosis of being a punk Grade 8 onwards. For some hooded souls, house, hip-hop and other underground forms prevailed. I detested both these sets with all the prejudices of my mind. Rebel needed a reason. These forms seemed to be whining without a genuine cause. Punk was Green Day with its ranting against mental affliction (Basketcase) and deceptive appearances (When I Come Around), not the shallow lyrics of Blink 182 or the Virtual DJ-ed techno beats of underground music.
Choosing Green Day over Blink 182 had its repercussions for a maturing child in India. I missed throwing up my intestines after every heavy drinking session. I missed out on the feeling of confusion that infatuation breeds in every fluttering heart. Confusion was expected from me in refined areas like belief in a Higher power and choice of careers, and I willingly obliged. Mohawking your hair, wearing bling outfits and driving along busy intersections at life-endangering speeds were all phases that my chums tended to fall in and out of. I toned up my mindset into being a bit too urbane for such juvenile indulgences. Five years down the line, however, the shuffling of cards in the deck seems to be in order.
Neil French set me wondering about the utility of being labelled a perennial ‘grown-up’. There were times when this label came in my way of letting loose. High-brows like me did not strip and dance even in the most intoxicated of stupors, nor did they scream for attention by exposing filthy linen to all and sundry. Somewhere, I missed out on the unbridled high of swimming without a lifeboat (I am yet to learn how to wade through waters). The overall impression, though, was that I was too good for such shenanigans. Not to mention the fact that acid and weed kind of compensated for the elusive rush of blood.
This process of opening up has not been without its pitfalls. I still abhor hip-hop. I am yet to develop a penchant for Blink 182, given the fact that I end up listening to the abominable versions of most of their tracks in the American Pie movies. I am cautiously sanguine of revealing the most guarded of my secrets to a fellow dweeb I have always empathized with. On a shopping spree with her some weeks ago, she picked out the faded denims I was wearing not for its tint, but for its open fly. And I, for all the labels and values that are supposed to define me, could not have cared less about that.
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