How Do You Own Disorder?

The silhouettes and the flare of Cigarettes could be seen in the darkroom. It smelled of brandy, smoke, and sweat. All of them had fallen dead’ drunk dead; with legs and hands stretching to infinity. The remnants of the ‘chakhna¹' were spilled all over. The bottles lay vertical; some empty and some half-filled. Fancy, it's a custom to keep bottles arranged after each one is finished to throw it to the universe, back from where it came, and clap and thud for the one which could travel to the longest distance. But this was no ordinary night. Re-uniting after years of completing an MBA and cherishing old memories made the night auspicious. Why did they meet in the first place? Hadn't someone asked them to be selfish? Didn’t the monotony of work kill them already inside? Or signals from their bosses stopped them from doing so?

Sumit was the only missing guy in the gang. No, no he wasn’t dead. He was with his newly married wife Manya and was probably happy or aroused. It was his wedding that gathered them here, this old town of Patna. He could have possibly done a destination wedding or planned it in Bangalore, where he had been working for the past four years. His father in his early sixties is a renowned politician. He had been working for the Janta Dal for over forty years and the current scenario had made him believe BHAJPA² and shake hands with them. Off the records, hadn’t he been accused of the ‘fodder scam’? It was long back when he and Sir Lalu were close friends, converting fodder to cash and technically helping the country from a cash crunch. Sumit was proud to tell everyone about his superhero dad in college. Unlike his dad, Sumit was hardworking and was highly criticized by the political community for not being like his dad. He chose to be an employee. On his father’s imposition for the marriage to be held at Patna, to strengthen his diplomatic relation, it was here that they had gathered.

This wedding could get into the books of Guinness World Records or the Ministry of Finance³ for its vastness and grandeur. They had shopped almost all the vehicles of the town. It was a treasure to the eyes of food lovers and girl stalkers. This wedding had everything in it. Singers, bands, politicians, dancers, advertisers, media, the common man and artists. But, why artists?

Hasn’t Santhanam Srinivasam Iyer⁴ sung the song "Toxicity”? The crowd was high with food, drinks, weed and confused with Hindi, English, and Bhojpuri. The "Rock" and the "Item" seemed similar. You could see people flashing every bit of their flesh and competing with the best choreographers in the country. The singers were God. Everything seemed good except the fusion between “Kamariya Kore lopalop” and “Shape of you”, which was fabulous.

Siddharth was still stuck with “Toxicity”. It relished and agonized his memory of the song. Hadn’t people eating seeds like a past time activity? Aren’t they upgraded to a new version? A system where, they have to follow instructions, transforming to robots from humans. Their life is so simple. A cigarette in the morning before loo, a toast for breakfast, waiting for the cab, a password-protected computer, friendly back bitching, parties on weekends, salary slips and sex. But this is not the whole story. They have to go through extensive PPT's and diffusions of innovation. Rigorous plans, meetings, sales figures, and predictions. They were mechanized humans. The up-gradation to software version 7.0 has lessened their affection, empathy, and taste for music, literature, and food. They were still looking at life through the eyes of a tire hub.

How do you own disorder? Back in his school he always wanted to do something for his country. He valued farmers, soldiers, and activists. In his ‘Prefect oath’ in high school, with high resolution, he had proclaimed, "It is our duty and obligation to do something for our country. Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness (Martin Luther King Jr.)" He was never tired of thinking. His speeches, power of judgment and helping nature differentiated him. Slowly and steadily time consumed his empathy, conjured his ideas. He no longer thought about ‘them’ or the nation as a whole. Economics made him understand Markovnikov’s rule of “the rich get richer” and “the poor get poorer”. Finance paved his way to becoming rich. After so many years of accumulated money and recognition, he suddenly felt poor.

He rose from the shabby bed for a smoke. Walked his way out from the darkroom and ghosts inside it. The small terrace-balcony looked like a good spot. From there he could see the well-illuminated roads and houses. He could smell the fresh air and the burnt crackers. The wind made his vigor vigorous. He could see how people were still dancing on the streets to no music and how they slept under no roofs. This wasn't fun anymore. He felt scared about it. He felt pathetic. Somewhere he knew he had vandalized his helping hand. His conscience has nearly died. He contemplated how he acknowledged the 1 crore rupees paid by Manya’s father as dowry for the marriage. Laughed until his stretch lines pained. He couldn’t but stop thinking how sadly he had been possessed by money. The people he was laughing at, the conditions he was poking fun at, what has he done to prevent it? There were no jobs; the barbaric youth preferred cheap thrills. The politicians, the police, were corrupt, the government paid in cash to reserve votes, the protesters are brutalized. People were apathetic, despondent and miserable. “Isn’t this the case everywhere? How much socially independent are we? Leave society, how much independent are we? Superiority has shadowed responsibility. We claim to be respectful, respect is a fiasco. Under the mask of human, aren’t we demons?.”

Siddharth wanted to fight against it. The disorders lied somewhere between his sacred silence and sleep. He was annoyed and anguished. How long will it be toxic? Can it be removed from proliferating to the entire nation, world, race? His emotions were not under his control. Ethanol had made it worse. He thought of taking a car drive nearby. Maybe that would soothe him. Somewhere, like in the ‘tug of war', a part of him was dragged by disorder and the other was pulled by money and inertia. He turned on the lights to find the key at the tea table. He quickly grabbed it and stepped downstairs for a ride. It was nearing dawn. The red Sun could be anticipated at any moment. The Zodiacal light was engulfing the darkness of the sky. The road was lonesome as was he. The paths were dark, but there was hope. He could see the autumn in the fields, smell the flowers, hear the birds chirping, touch the winds. How much had he missed this? He started rummaging inside his head for hope. For seconds he was lost.

He decided he could quit his job; get back to the farmlands, help the farmers. He could make the world organic, peaceful. He was ready to fight. Fight life, age, reality and himself. He was again lost between sleep and the sacred silence. This time configured closer to sleep. Bang! The glasses got shattered everywhere, some got into Siddharth’s epidermis. There was blood everywhere. The noise terrified the owner of the ‘Litti Chokha⁵ stall’ nearby as he rush to him. The signboard read "Sharaab peeke gaadi na chalaye⁶” and the speakers roared:

“When I became the Sun

I shone life into the man’s hearts

When I became the Sun

I shone life into the man’s hearts”.

Footnotes:

Chakhna¹: Indian Snacks preferred along with alcohol

BHAJPA²: Bharatiya Janta Party or present day BJP led by Indian Prime Minister Sri Narendra Modi

The Ministry of Finance³: The Ministry of Finance is an important ministry within the Government of India concerned with the economy of India, serving as the Indian Treasury Department. The income Tax Department comes under the Ministry of Finance

Santhanam Srinivasam Iyer⁴: Lead singer of Underground Authority Band

Litti Chokha⁵: A traditional cuisine from Bihar

Sharaab Peeke Gaadi na Chalaye⁶: The Hindi translation of “Do not drink and drive”