I have a huge problem with the manner in which festivals and ‘joyful’ occasions are celebrated around me. And when I say that, I mean it. Therefore, my acquaintances see me participating in all celebrations with reluctance and apprehension. Sometimes, I think, the problem lies within me. Maybe, I think too much.
Allow me to explain my problem in detail by ranting about the festival of lights and shubh-laabh, Diwali. I begin with the assumption that the point of celebration of all kinds is to have a good and memorable time with the ones you love and catch up with some mad moments of laughter and decent debauchery in the process.
The only thing that I like about Diwali is that it gives an excuse to all households to cleanse themselves of unwanted and unnecessary objects. Well, that it also gives an excuse to slothful souls like me to procrastinate the cleaning-up and washing-down is an altogether different matter. The celebration for Diwali starts many days before the D-day with the aforementioned cleaning of the house by the family members.
After a family has lightened its abode of dust and filth, it starts planning about gifts and sweets that need to be distributed to friends and relatives. So, old lockers are opened up, useless gifts of previous years are scrounged out and minds are pressed into recalling who had given which gift. After these imprudent persons are identified (sometimes with the assistance of dilapidated diaries) to everyone’s satisfaction, which gift should be given to whom is decided. This practice is sometimes used to take revenge from that disagreeable distant relative who happens to share the city with you for gifting you that useless cutlery set on the last family wedding.
After everything is neatly chalked out and gifts are attractively wrapped in glossy packing papers, begins the magnanimous and exceedingly fatiguing task of visiting the people who you ‘wish’ to wish ‘Happy Diwali’ and taking gifts and sweets to their places. These hurried visits generally and to the best of my knowledge comprise of some forced laughter, some superfluous pleasantries, some high-on-calories consumption and conversations about how crowded the roads are, how hot the weather still is and how adulterated local sweets generally are. These visits are ubiquitously followed by an obvious anticipation of a well-armed return-visit of the ‘visited’ household if the same hasn’t already been done. Some experienced people make these visits after Diwali, much to the relief of their relatives and friends, and profess in eloquent terms their wisdom in being late and thereby avoiding exacting traffic snarls.
After or during these visits, idols of the needed goddess and lord are purchased from the market and placed safely at a secured place until the puja-time arrives. When the big day finally arrives, everyone invests in looking cheerful and beautiful in the morning and prepares himself or herself for a busy and a heavy-on-work day. Generally, while the day is spent by the women of the house in preparing the evening feast, the girls of the house spend their day-time energy in making a rangoli in the veranda and the evening-time energy in lighting the diyas and decorating the house. The men and the boys spend their day in bringing material required for puja, evening feast, rangoli, decorations and so on and going to the site of family business and doing a small puja there.
When all the work is done and after the sun has set, each person in the house goes to his/her respective wardrobe, digs out that expensive and slightly uncomfortable dress that he/she had bought/got stitched on the occasion of the last family function, looks at it in nostalgia and then spends the next hour in dressing up and observing himself/herself in the mirror in satisfaction or sulkiness depending on the prevailing circumstances.
After this, the family sits down in a well-lit room to do the puja. The men do the puja first and then make way for the women. The puja is done rather fastidiously in order to impress Lakshmiji and even Ganeshji and in hope that the prosperity of the house will only be positively affected in the coming months. After the puja is completed and the younger lot of the house has been given some cash by the elder lot, the family sits down to consume the dinner during which loud and celebratory calls are made to relatives living in other cities in order to wish them and tell them that it is because of their blessings that their household is surviving in happiness and prosperity.
Post consuming the dinner and the sweets, everyone changes into light cotton clothes to prepare himself or herself for the customary fireworks celebration in the veranda or the terrace or even the street before the house. After the family has polluted the air and the area around to its contentment, everyone either retires to the main hall to gamble or to their respective rooms to sleep on the new bed-sheets, sometimes after taking a Disprin or a Crocin Pain Relief.
In this mad operation to make sure that everything happens in accordance to the centuries-old conventions, most people around me forget the motive of celebrating the occasion. And this irks me, since I am left with no choice but to become a part of such celebrations. That I like to believe that I am an atheist only worsens the matter. The only solace that I am left with is that one day, things will change. That one day, I will have the power to change things.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
He came. He saw. He conquered. (Short Story)
I sat on the bed, alone in the room, waiting for him to come, hoping he doesn’t. I could hear merry voices coming from outside, audible over the noise produced by the cooler. But my heart was not merry, darkness filled my frame, uncertainty agitated my nerves. It was a quarter past one in the morning and my happiness, my love was probably sleeping peacefully on his bed, several kilometers away from where I was weeping.
I remember when I saw him the first time, twelve years ago, he was eating his dinner with his father in the dining-room. When I had entered the room, both he and his father had looked up from their plates, smiling at me. He had a round, fair face, like his mother’s; his eyes twinkled when he smiled.
We became friends soon. Whatever time I used to get when I had no household chores to attend to, I used to spend around him if he was at home. At such times, he used to order me to do petty jobs for him like tidying up his room, fetching a glass of water, arranging his clothes and even sharpening his pencil. He always thanked me after each job and attached a ‘please’ before the next one. All in all, he treated me in a much better manner than his mother.
We grew up together. We were the same age. When he grew older, he started spending lesser time at home and I used to long for him every time he would be gone. When at home, he continued to order me to run him small chores and I used to oblige him happily.
When we were younger, he used to tell me stories about his school, teachers, friends and so forth. I used to enjoy them thoroughly. His tales used to fill me with wonder, amazement but I never let my sentiments show themselves. But when we grew up, he hardly talked to me about his life though he used to patiently answer whenever I asked him anything. He was sweet. I felt he cared for me.
Initially, I called him by his name. But one gloomy day, six years after I met him, his mother asked me to stop calling him by name. ‘Call him bhaiyaji,’ she had sternly said. I had no choice but to call him like that. I hated his mother.
He grew up beautifully. By the age of seventeen, he was taller than his father, much taller than me. I had to tilt my head up on the rare occasions when we came to face. His features were handsome. His face had become oval but his color had remained the same. He was lean but not skinny, just like me, just the way I liked him.
On Sundays, I used to spend more time in bathing and dressing up. He used to spend most of his day at home on most Sundays.
When we were eighteen, his parents had to go out of station once, for two days. He refused to go with them. His mother asked me to stay with him. I agreed happily. I was excited. I trusted him but at the same time wished that he would break my trust.
In those two days, I took complete care of him, served him as best as I could, tried to make him happy, satisfy him. I loved his smile and whenever I used to see him smiling, something used to twist inside my stomach. His parents had to extend their trip by one day. On that day, he brought four of his friends home, two of them were girls. Both looked pretty. I took solace in the conviction that given a chance, they would not be able to take care of him as nicely as I could. And beauty? It lies in the eyes of the beholder, no?
He started shaving that year, his face became manlier. I loved him. But he had stopped talking to me altogether and I felt shy in asking him anything now. I was forced to admire him from a distance. He was smart, confident and still ordered me to do small chores for him with a ‘thank you’ and ‘please’.
He called me by name and I loved to hear my name called by him. From a boy, he transformed into a complete man soon. And started working in a company after he passed out from college.
I hardly used to enter his room now when he was inside and I had been instructed since the age of fifteen to always knock on the door before entering his room if he was inside and if it was necessary for me to enter.
One Sunday morning, when six moths still remained for my wedding, his mother asked me to go and wake him up as it had got very late in the morning. He had returned home at half past two in the morning. I had not been able to sleep before his arrival.
I went and knocked at his door. Twice. Thrice. But his voice did not answer my knocks. Excited and both scared, I opened the door and entered the air-conditioned room. He was sleeping on the bed on his right side. Sunlight coming from the window opposite the door illuminated the entire room. While his right leg was fully stretched, the left one was bent more than ninety degrees. His left hand concealed his face, revealed his hairy armpit.
I could not take my eyes off him for what seemed like a minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. Until it was absolutely necessary to wake him up.
His blanket had fallen down from his bed. He was clad in a black vest and red cotton shorts. The shorts revealed more of his thighs than they would have usually done because of the manner in which he lay. His legs, long and sculpted, were covered with a thick blanket of black hair. His upper body had lesser hair. His biceps seemed well-formed. On the whole, he looked exotic. Erotic. Storms were taking birth and clashing with one another somewhere inside my body.
After I don’t know how many minutes, I called his name again. Slowly. He didn’t stir. It was becoming impossible to restrain myself. I took my palm to his bare shoulder and shook him. The touch was heavenly, every nerve of my body had felt it and had felt alive, had tickled.
This time, he stirred, removed his hand, revealed his breathtaking face, and opened his eyes. My heart was beating insanely. He parted his red lips, said, ‘I’m coming,’ and placed his hand in its original position. His shamelessness over his state struck me. It was after a long, long time that he was present in so little clothing in my presence. But he didn’t seem to mind anything.
After filling my mind with his image for five more seconds, I left the room, wanting him more than ever before, craving for his touch, his body. His love.
The door of the room opened. He had finally arrived. I felt no excitement. I was just tense, scared. He closed the door and bolted it. He came and sat on the bed, his face facing me. My eyes were cast down, orange flower petals strewn on the bed-sheet were dancing in my head. He lifted his right hand, put it under my chin and lifted my head to have a better look at my face.
I lifted my eyes and saw his dark mustached face, his soon-to-be-bald head, his red hungry eyes, his breath smelling of alcohol, his charred lips. He smiled and revealed his yellow teeth. By now, I was petrified.
He pushed me back. My back touched the soft mattress. The jewels on my body made noise. He got up and switched off the lights. The window above the cooler sent moonlight inside. He came and lay beside me. His heavy fingers touched my lips. I wished, hoped, prayed that he would stop. Sleep. Die.
He didn’t.
I remember when I saw him the first time, twelve years ago, he was eating his dinner with his father in the dining-room. When I had entered the room, both he and his father had looked up from their plates, smiling at me. He had a round, fair face, like his mother’s; his eyes twinkled when he smiled.
We became friends soon. Whatever time I used to get when I had no household chores to attend to, I used to spend around him if he was at home. At such times, he used to order me to do petty jobs for him like tidying up his room, fetching a glass of water, arranging his clothes and even sharpening his pencil. He always thanked me after each job and attached a ‘please’ before the next one. All in all, he treated me in a much better manner than his mother.
We grew up together. We were the same age. When he grew older, he started spending lesser time at home and I used to long for him every time he would be gone. When at home, he continued to order me to run him small chores and I used to oblige him happily.
When we were younger, he used to tell me stories about his school, teachers, friends and so forth. I used to enjoy them thoroughly. His tales used to fill me with wonder, amazement but I never let my sentiments show themselves. But when we grew up, he hardly talked to me about his life though he used to patiently answer whenever I asked him anything. He was sweet. I felt he cared for me.
Initially, I called him by his name. But one gloomy day, six years after I met him, his mother asked me to stop calling him by name. ‘Call him bhaiyaji,’ she had sternly said. I had no choice but to call him like that. I hated his mother.
He grew up beautifully. By the age of seventeen, he was taller than his father, much taller than me. I had to tilt my head up on the rare occasions when we came to face. His features were handsome. His face had become oval but his color had remained the same. He was lean but not skinny, just like me, just the way I liked him.
On Sundays, I used to spend more time in bathing and dressing up. He used to spend most of his day at home on most Sundays.
When we were eighteen, his parents had to go out of station once, for two days. He refused to go with them. His mother asked me to stay with him. I agreed happily. I was excited. I trusted him but at the same time wished that he would break my trust.
In those two days, I took complete care of him, served him as best as I could, tried to make him happy, satisfy him. I loved his smile and whenever I used to see him smiling, something used to twist inside my stomach. His parents had to extend their trip by one day. On that day, he brought four of his friends home, two of them were girls. Both looked pretty. I took solace in the conviction that given a chance, they would not be able to take care of him as nicely as I could. And beauty? It lies in the eyes of the beholder, no?
He started shaving that year, his face became manlier. I loved him. But he had stopped talking to me altogether and I felt shy in asking him anything now. I was forced to admire him from a distance. He was smart, confident and still ordered me to do small chores for him with a ‘thank you’ and ‘please’.
He called me by name and I loved to hear my name called by him. From a boy, he transformed into a complete man soon. And started working in a company after he passed out from college.
I hardly used to enter his room now when he was inside and I had been instructed since the age of fifteen to always knock on the door before entering his room if he was inside and if it was necessary for me to enter.
One Sunday morning, when six moths still remained for my wedding, his mother asked me to go and wake him up as it had got very late in the morning. He had returned home at half past two in the morning. I had not been able to sleep before his arrival.
I went and knocked at his door. Twice. Thrice. But his voice did not answer my knocks. Excited and both scared, I opened the door and entered the air-conditioned room. He was sleeping on the bed on his right side. Sunlight coming from the window opposite the door illuminated the entire room. While his right leg was fully stretched, the left one was bent more than ninety degrees. His left hand concealed his face, revealed his hairy armpit.
I could not take my eyes off him for what seemed like a minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. Until it was absolutely necessary to wake him up.
His blanket had fallen down from his bed. He was clad in a black vest and red cotton shorts. The shorts revealed more of his thighs than they would have usually done because of the manner in which he lay. His legs, long and sculpted, were covered with a thick blanket of black hair. His upper body had lesser hair. His biceps seemed well-formed. On the whole, he looked exotic. Erotic. Storms were taking birth and clashing with one another somewhere inside my body.
After I don’t know how many minutes, I called his name again. Slowly. He didn’t stir. It was becoming impossible to restrain myself. I took my palm to his bare shoulder and shook him. The touch was heavenly, every nerve of my body had felt it and had felt alive, had tickled.
This time, he stirred, removed his hand, revealed his breathtaking face, and opened his eyes. My heart was beating insanely. He parted his red lips, said, ‘I’m coming,’ and placed his hand in its original position. His shamelessness over his state struck me. It was after a long, long time that he was present in so little clothing in my presence. But he didn’t seem to mind anything.
After filling my mind with his image for five more seconds, I left the room, wanting him more than ever before, craving for his touch, his body. His love.
The door of the room opened. He had finally arrived. I felt no excitement. I was just tense, scared. He closed the door and bolted it. He came and sat on the bed, his face facing me. My eyes were cast down, orange flower petals strewn on the bed-sheet were dancing in my head. He lifted his right hand, put it under my chin and lifted my head to have a better look at my face.
I lifted my eyes and saw his dark mustached face, his soon-to-be-bald head, his red hungry eyes, his breath smelling of alcohol, his charred lips. He smiled and revealed his yellow teeth. By now, I was petrified.
He pushed me back. My back touched the soft mattress. The jewels on my body made noise. He got up and switched off the lights. The window above the cooler sent moonlight inside. He came and lay beside me. His heavy fingers touched my lips. I wished, hoped, prayed that he would stop. Sleep. Die.
He didn’t.
Wazz Aal Really Well?
This write-up (not a review) is not going to extol the movie that has been liked by everyone who I have spoken to so far. Even I loved the flick; it deserves all the money and acclaim it has managed to garner so far. But, call me cynical if you want, there are certain things pertaining to 3 Idiots with which I have a problem. This write-up is going to speak about those problems.
Since Bollywood churns up so many absolutely pathetic movies every year, some of them starring actors who charge obscene amounts to ‘act’ in them, we in India go berserk when a good movie hits the theaters. Sorry, I correct myself, a good movie with big stars hits the theaters.
3 Idiots was a movie waiting to be made for a very long time. Nothing much has recently changed in the Indian education system in recent years: JEE is almost as tough and competitive today as it was a decade ago, IIM’s have been dream institutes for generations of students. So, why the movie now? Shouldn’t it have been made years ago? Perhaps, then, Raju Hirani is not an Idiot, he just happens to be smarter than all the idiots who write scripts and make cinema in Bollywood.
Now, permit me to point some problems that I have with certain portions of the movie. The most popular scene of the movie probably is Silencer’s balatkaar speech scene. Last checked, the number of members of the community of the fans of the scene on Facebook had crossed 600. The scene shows Silencer making a fool of himself by declaiming a mugged-up that had been tampered with by Rancho previously and his audience laughing uproariously at him. Now, does the director want us to believe that Silencer was so dumb that he couldn’t even understand that his audience was laughing its lungs out at his speech and was mocking at him? I concur some students are hopeless crammers but it is very difficult for me to believe that a normal adult man can be so silly and stupid that he fails to understand chagrin of the magnitude depicted in the scene.
Before that, we are shown that Rancho (Amir) manages to give a hilarious tit-for-tat to the senior who tries to rag him. After the incident, neither the seniors take any action against him nor do college authorities take any action against the seniors. When did senior students of Indian colleges become so altruistic, decent and non-violent? Also, the absence of any trauma or embarrassment shown by his two friends’ after the incident again smacks of lack of comprehensiveness of the story.
After this incident, we are introduced to the mantra of ‘Aal Izz Well’ and its origin. Rancho tells us that a blind night watchman of his village used to chant it at night to induce a false sense of security in the villagers’ heart. Later on, we come to know that Rancho was a servant of an affluent family in Shimla. When did Shimla become a village, will someone take care to explain to me? And when we are at it, let me also point out that couples never wait for a decade before getting married as is towards the end of the movie.
Barring, perhaps only Dil Dosti Etc., 3 Idiots seems to be the only movie that I can remember of which gives a realistic and un-stereotyped perspective of colleges in India. For a very fresh change, 3 Idiots was without exaggeratedly pigeonholed characters like the Tina of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the Lucky of Main Hoon Naa, the Payal of Ishq Vishk and so on. 3 Idiots does deserve a small round of applause for breaking all these stock and unrealistic stereotypes portrayed in almost all campus movies that have been produced by Bollywood so far. A small applause because it surprises me how these exceedingly irritating stereotypes could manage to survive in Hindi movies for so many years. The movie also deserves praise since it focused not on college romance but studies and syllabus, though it would have been better if the protagonists had mentioned which branch of engineering they were pursuing.
The message that the movie primarily gives is that everyone should follow his or her dream and should chalk out one’s career according to one’s interest. The real reason to worry is that many of us in India needed a 3 Idiots to understand this. And not only this, I’m sure, after the movie, many parents, on being approached by their B.Tech-pursuing students to ask them to let them pursue a career in wildlife photography, would have said, ‘Idiot, they show anything in movies. Real life is different. Go and study.’
I am extremely aware of the fact that all this criticism would hardly affect the immense love that everybody in general has for the movie. But, for me, all this makes 3 Idiots only one of the better movies made by Bollywood so far, not the best one for sure. Give me a TZP, RDB or Black anytime!
Since Bollywood churns up so many absolutely pathetic movies every year, some of them starring actors who charge obscene amounts to ‘act’ in them, we in India go berserk when a good movie hits the theaters. Sorry, I correct myself, a good movie with big stars hits the theaters.
3 Idiots was a movie waiting to be made for a very long time. Nothing much has recently changed in the Indian education system in recent years: JEE is almost as tough and competitive today as it was a decade ago, IIM’s have been dream institutes for generations of students. So, why the movie now? Shouldn’t it have been made years ago? Perhaps, then, Raju Hirani is not an Idiot, he just happens to be smarter than all the idiots who write scripts and make cinema in Bollywood.
Now, permit me to point some problems that I have with certain portions of the movie. The most popular scene of the movie probably is Silencer’s balatkaar speech scene. Last checked, the number of members of the community of the fans of the scene on Facebook had crossed 600. The scene shows Silencer making a fool of himself by declaiming a mugged-up that had been tampered with by Rancho previously and his audience laughing uproariously at him. Now, does the director want us to believe that Silencer was so dumb that he couldn’t even understand that his audience was laughing its lungs out at his speech and was mocking at him? I concur some students are hopeless crammers but it is very difficult for me to believe that a normal adult man can be so silly and stupid that he fails to understand chagrin of the magnitude depicted in the scene.
Before that, we are shown that Rancho (Amir) manages to give a hilarious tit-for-tat to the senior who tries to rag him. After the incident, neither the seniors take any action against him nor do college authorities take any action against the seniors. When did senior students of Indian colleges become so altruistic, decent and non-violent? Also, the absence of any trauma or embarrassment shown by his two friends’ after the incident again smacks of lack of comprehensiveness of the story.
After this incident, we are introduced to the mantra of ‘Aal Izz Well’ and its origin. Rancho tells us that a blind night watchman of his village used to chant it at night to induce a false sense of security in the villagers’ heart. Later on, we come to know that Rancho was a servant of an affluent family in Shimla. When did Shimla become a village, will someone take care to explain to me? And when we are at it, let me also point out that couples never wait for a decade before getting married as is towards the end of the movie.
Barring, perhaps only Dil Dosti Etc., 3 Idiots seems to be the only movie that I can remember of which gives a realistic and un-stereotyped perspective of colleges in India. For a very fresh change, 3 Idiots was without exaggeratedly pigeonholed characters like the Tina of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the Lucky of Main Hoon Naa, the Payal of Ishq Vishk and so on. 3 Idiots does deserve a small round of applause for breaking all these stock and unrealistic stereotypes portrayed in almost all campus movies that have been produced by Bollywood so far. A small applause because it surprises me how these exceedingly irritating stereotypes could manage to survive in Hindi movies for so many years. The movie also deserves praise since it focused not on college romance but studies and syllabus, though it would have been better if the protagonists had mentioned which branch of engineering they were pursuing.
The message that the movie primarily gives is that everyone should follow his or her dream and should chalk out one’s career according to one’s interest. The real reason to worry is that many of us in India needed a 3 Idiots to understand this. And not only this, I’m sure, after the movie, many parents, on being approached by their B.Tech-pursuing students to ask them to let them pursue a career in wildlife photography, would have said, ‘Idiot, they show anything in movies. Real life is different. Go and study.’
I am extremely aware of the fact that all this criticism would hardly affect the immense love that everybody in general has for the movie. But, for me, all this makes 3 Idiots only one of the better movies made by Bollywood so far, not the best one for sure. Give me a TZP, RDB or Black anytime!
Fathers and Sons (Short Story)
Samarth Kumar was heartbroken. The call had not come. He had begun to realize that he was mistaken to think that his academic qualifications and his intellectual capabilities would always compensate for his humble background. But he had not lost confidence. He was pursuing his passion and had adequate faith in himself. I can’t change my destiny, he hopelessly convinced himself before beginning to consume dinner. I just hope it doesn’t take too long, he murmured aloud before filling the registration form of monster.com later.
*
Vishnu Agarwal was feeling a bit guilty. He had allowed his personal life to influence his professional decisions that day. He had liked Samarth a lot. No other candidate had neither better qualifications nor better sharpness and smartness than him. But his decade old friendship with X’s father had led him to choose X (who he had always found just about average) over Samarth. His friend’s phone-call the previous evening had left just two options before him: introducing awkwardness and fissures in his friendship with the caller or cementing it even further. Not surprisingly for anyone around him, he had immediately chosen the latter.
*
X was both happy and despondent. Though now he was officially settled and was soon going to start earning, he knew he would have to forget his ambitious plans of becoming a professional model, he would have to let go of his passion. The way his father had asked him to go for the interview, he had understood that not only he would have to go for the interview, but also that he would be selected courtesy his father’s connection. He took solace in the fact that he will not have to spend years struggling now and that he would begin to earn big money soon. He convinced himself that he would somehow evoke interest in accounts and economics soon. His days of independence were about to begin. But there was hollowness inside him already.
*
X ate up a lot of time in grasping the tricks of the trade. He contributed little in the projects he was made a part of but boasted generously among his friends when those projects became successful. Since everybody at Bolllytics Pvt. Ltd used to appreciate and encourage him out of respect which they had for his father’s professional excellence, he began to think that he was really good and deserved everything that was being bestowed on him. In less than one year, he was laughing at himself for having ever thought of taking up modeling as a career. Everyone in the company loved his father so much that they never criticized him despite the fact that they almost hated him for his incompetence.
While X remained employed in the company until he retired, Vivek took up a less-than-satisfactory and a not-that-well-paying job in a smaller firm. Vivek never managed to earn as much as X managed, he never became as successful as X.
*
I had a number of names in my mind for X’s character. But, since I was unable to zero on any one of them, I decided to go ahead with X. Few of the names that I had in my mind were: Abhishek Bachchan, Tusshar Kapoor, Rahul Gandhi, Imran Khan, Fardeen Khan, Zayed Khan.
*
Vishnu Agarwal was feeling a bit guilty. He had allowed his personal life to influence his professional decisions that day. He had liked Samarth a lot. No other candidate had neither better qualifications nor better sharpness and smartness than him. But his decade old friendship with X’s father had led him to choose X (who he had always found just about average) over Samarth. His friend’s phone-call the previous evening had left just two options before him: introducing awkwardness and fissures in his friendship with the caller or cementing it even further. Not surprisingly for anyone around him, he had immediately chosen the latter.
*
X was both happy and despondent. Though now he was officially settled and was soon going to start earning, he knew he would have to forget his ambitious plans of becoming a professional model, he would have to let go of his passion. The way his father had asked him to go for the interview, he had understood that not only he would have to go for the interview, but also that he would be selected courtesy his father’s connection. He took solace in the fact that he will not have to spend years struggling now and that he would begin to earn big money soon. He convinced himself that he would somehow evoke interest in accounts and economics soon. His days of independence were about to begin. But there was hollowness inside him already.
*
X ate up a lot of time in grasping the tricks of the trade. He contributed little in the projects he was made a part of but boasted generously among his friends when those projects became successful. Since everybody at Bolllytics Pvt. Ltd used to appreciate and encourage him out of respect which they had for his father’s professional excellence, he began to think that he was really good and deserved everything that was being bestowed on him. In less than one year, he was laughing at himself for having ever thought of taking up modeling as a career. Everyone in the company loved his father so much that they never criticized him despite the fact that they almost hated him for his incompetence.
While X remained employed in the company until he retired, Vivek took up a less-than-satisfactory and a not-that-well-paying job in a smaller firm. Vivek never managed to earn as much as X managed, he never became as successful as X.
*
I had a number of names in my mind for X’s character. But, since I was unable to zero on any one of them, I decided to go ahead with X. Few of the names that I had in my mind were: Abhishek Bachchan, Tusshar Kapoor, Rahul Gandhi, Imran Khan, Fardeen Khan, Zayed Khan.
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