(foolonahill to Bidrohi)

"As my hands were clenched in fists of rage"

The rat race had begun. In the morning I had seen another one of the best minds of my generation (I have seen very few) dragging themselves through the Negro streets at dawn looking for angry fix. Forgive me for borrowing from Allen Ginsberg what are perhaps the only lines of his I remember, illiterate as I am. Yet, I do so only because I know that I myself will not for long, if ever, produce any words which come close to evoking such emotion. I do so at the risk of exaggeration of my own feelings at the incident, yet I do so anyhow, knowing that I should feel so. Soon, I too shall step into the murky waters. The idealistic socialist, with blinders on both eyes, hacking his way through the most vulgar of capitalism’s much-toted industries, I know only fear, for even confusion must follow some sense of rationality and one’s own being. To act without thought does not allow that, for a follower chooses, knowingly or stupidly, to forsake thought.

Many years later, after he has put his X on the map, post the pinnacle of the era of Creativity un-girdled, they may look back at this day and hail it as the beginning. I see it as the beginning of the end. For what higher purpose we are put on this earth, I do not claim to know. Yet, by fortunate coincidence, my lazy ineptitude allows me time for introspection. Of what little I have learnt there is not much worth to share, though I have at least learnt one secret, and that is what we are not here for. That is what we do with our lives.

I do not cast stones upon you, for I shall join you soon. I do not even care to hope any longer that some may lament my decisions, for recognition at least would provide some solace. I am grateful that there are those who do still recognize, and for now I am content simply counting myself among them. For now.

A fool on a hill.
 

Bidrohi without a cause; II,

“I don’t know!”

The epilogue. To what was there earlier. Innocuously called ‘dump’. Singularly, that got me thinking deeper into my being. A borrowed theory, a well-versed hack aimed at those who claim they do.

What is seemingly so simple has turned the already existing as depraved and in a sense loony. The point eludes us all. Engulfed in a negativity, so intense that that which is bright is alien and dark so commonplace, I lose myself periodically in it. I seek to trod an undefined pathway. Seek, seek and thou shall find.

A week.

A sharp mind would leap at the comment. Why reflect on any given limit, in this case one that of time, he would say. But one whose being has been dulled by the drudgery and monotony of what we ironically call “life” would guffaw. Precipice of life? More guffaws. You can’t do shit. Type, cut, copy, paste and get the fuck outta here.

Destined for higher places (I open another can of worms here), I refuse to budge holding onto that reason which I have to show as a means of defense. You see, I play against life. And it’s on GOD mode. Nothing I do, nothing I say, nothing I hurl at him will diminish what he has powerfully built up using cheat codes.

So I follow. For starters, it’s a helluva lot easier. The roads are clear, and the muck’s out of the way. Maybe if I should hit a fork, I should alter the direction. Maybe I shall pine for that I have always sought. Maybe I shall remain a apprentice forever in corporate middle earth.

“I don’t know.”

And that’s what fuels on this fervor to do what one has to. Maybe just for the moment. Maybe for life. As I write an abnormal lack of emotion comes over me.

The Bidrohi caves in to hold on to a finer, subtler facet of reality. Maybe, but just for the moment.

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