When I was 9 years old, I picturised a 17-year old boy as someone who knows what he is doing,someone who is the master of his own motherfucking show,someone who got his shit sorted. He seldom hides things from his parents and isn’t scared of them,talks to his younger sibling in a blend of authority,care and direction. He gets out of home when he wants to, watches a movie when he wants to,returns home when he wants to and not return if he doesn’t. He is neat,clean,and always geared up for an interaction with anybody-talking in a cool interactive tone.He was nothing short of a mythological Norse God to me.
In the September of 2019, I will be turning 17. Yes,S-E-V-E-N-T-E-EN. And to put it mildly I am as far flung from the expectations I had of a 17- year old boy as I possibly could have been.
Do I have even a semblance of idea what I am doing? Usually,No. Except when I am trying to look at some beautiful girl while trying to not look sleazy and creepy. I always know what I am doing then.So I would take this opportunity to tell the beautiful girls who are reading this- If you ever find me looking around you in a somewhat funny way, you have more reasons to believe that I am looking at you than you have to believe that you are beautiful.
The other times I have an idea about what I doing is after I dismount the metro every weekend when I run off to the exit in a race to be the first one among a couple of hundreds to exit the metro station from that metro. And contrary to what the dumbwit,who is reading this, probably is thinking- this isn’t imbecile. Far from it. It’s not a child’s play. Nada. You need the balls of a motherfucking Greek alpha male to win this. I proudly state that I have won it many times. Not easy. Not at all. Walking briskly,almost running,with a backpack clinging to your shoulders,trying to snugle ahead of men,women, girls (sometimes beautiful) to be the man of the fucking metro.
This race takes the tests real test of a person,testing perseverence, determination, physical fitness,mental fitness, intellectualism fertility,and lastly of course potency. I will even go as far as to say that this small test should be incorporated into the academy for the Nation’s elite Special forces,the Para Commandos. I will also make one another controversial claim – if we abandon current system of electing Parliamenterians through polling in a constituency and replace with it with this contest, it will produce more competent results.( With the quality of Parliamenterians in the country, anything new will always be an upgrade on the older system. Anything).
Am I the master of my own my show? But firstly, do I even have a fucking show? The only thing close to a shoe I have is a circus. And I am the clown in it. The elephant too. The dancer too. The President of Congress party too. If you think that my description of a circus is getting wayward, it is because I have never been to a circus. Seen a Congress Press Conference on TV though,many times. And watching it gives me hope. The master of the circus? Me? Possible. If that half-witted buffoons can be a leader of a circus, I for the heck of it sure can.
But what discourages me is the daily happenings of my life. Everyday after bathing when I come out of the room wearing my clothes,my mother invariably objects to them and hands me some other piece of fabric? Her objection? It’s friday,so you should be wearing banana shaped pants. It is mosquito season, you should be wearing mosquito repellent clothes. If I am not the master of my wardrobe,mastery over the show(or circus for that matter) ? That’s makes sense as much as Modi’s Kashmir policy.
He isn’t scared of his parents and doesn’t hide things from them. Absolutely. I am not scared of anybody and from my parents?Not a whisker. Right now in my room,I have hidden only a packet of condom,a packet of cigarettes,a lighter,a couple of paintings gifted to me by a special girl,101 tonnes of Uranium-236,a couple of ISIS modules,enough supply of marijuana from Mexico to last a couple of lifetimes,and a latina Victoria Secret model. Who’s scared of his parents? Not me. Absolutely not me. They do know everything about me. Except about some of my test scores,friends, or What I do and whom I meet during those extra classes,or except what I do on my mobile or watch on my PC.
He talks with his sibling… Firstly I don’t. Secondly even when I do it is monosyllabic sentences shamelessly commanding my brother to do some of my mundane chores(which he usually turns down and I have to get my ass off to work). Authority,care, direction what? The only emotions with which I talk with my brother is impatience and “When-will-he-shutt-up-and-leave-my-room”. My brother respects me as much the nation respects the traffic laws of the road.
I do get out of my home without asking my mother. Without justification. For long duration of times like 43 seconds. I need not elaborate more on this, on how big a rebel I am. I listen to nobody. No fucking body. I have had stayed outside home without my mother’s consent for very longer durations of time than your feeble mind can even conceive to think on-as long as 53 seconds.
Continuing the point,yes,I return when I want to but it’s also a fact that my want mostly coincides(or is made to coincide) with the want of my mother. And if I get late while returning home by even a femtosecond(one quadrillionth of a second, that is), my phone is attacked with the all the artillery of the virtual arsenal of my mother – texts,calls, SOS, BHIM App( We are Upper caste Rajputs- we don’t use the BHIM APP for duck’s sake).
My ideal seventeen-year,when I was nine, old is neat. He is clean. 7 years hence, I have forgotten a lot what K have learnt and am not ashamed to say so,but Ma’am or sir what does neat or clean mean? Haven’t been either of them for more than a millenium now.
Always geared up for a conversation. I am nearing the seventeen mark,but I don’t myself being ready for a conversation with anybody at anytime ever. It is not rare for me to take up the staircase and leave the elevator if I am to share the lift with somebody- especially Of the opposite sex. The only good experience I have with an elevator and a girl is when a girl in hurry collided with my chest while she was hurrying for school. Old experience. The girl is in University now. Has a boyfriend too. I was born a bit too late for the script of a Romcom to dominate my life starting with that collision.
Being a Norse God? The only Norse thing about me right now is the body hair. Abundant and everywhere. I may soon audition for the role of King Kong in it’s upcoming sequel. One thing about having hair on your body is that in summer sometimes the hair starts to itch and you start rubbing yourself like a chimp. And these moments are that of brilliance,speaking from an evolutionary point of view . A young Homo sapien rubbing his chest imitating his cousins,from a different species.
Nemonia 