The Rock Star

Stoned and blurry-eyed
He looked at the pulsating crowds
Some were waving hands
Screaming his name

His guitar hung limp
Oozing blood
His hair stuck to his face
Beads of loftiness

He swayed back to his room
Unseeing of all the madness
His room felt like a silent scream
He turned on his heel

Floating on a cloud
Drugged into legend
Only his music living
He was the rock-star

Chronicles of an ASM

So as I stand in these godowns, I sometimes have these little out-of-body experiences, wherein my spirit floats outside of my body, hovering somewhere a couple of feet above my head and watching the proceedings with not a little amusement.

Here is how the scene looks - straight out of a Manmohan Desai flick – it has weird characters, extras and props. There are a couple of prosperous-looking (read well-endowed around the stomach region) men invariably in shabby clothing (in complete contrast to the prosperous image that the pot-belly arouses) - they are the dukaandaars - let me refer to them as mai-baap from now on. Then there is a sharply-dressed guy, in formals, who looks like an Income Tax officer conducting a raid. He surveys the godown with the eye of a hawk and the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. He is also playing the part of a tour-guide, displaying the attractions, rather ruins of an erstwhile shrine to his hapless boss - this guy is the Territory Sales Officer, in other words - the company's eyes, ears and bald pate on the field. Next there is a suspicious looking bloke in uniform - he is the sales equivalent of the 'aam aadmi'. He carries samples for new launches, takes orders for 150 products, manages to have around him some twenty odd sheets with various data tables detailing how much maal each dukaandaar on his beat took in which month, in what state of mental sobriety etc etc. He claims to his dying breath that he refers to these sheets. This guy is the Salesman, that epitome of hard-work, efficacy, intelligence, selling-skills, mathematical prowess that gets Levers its 14000 crore per annum revenue and him his Rs 7000 per month salary. And then there are the distributors - these mini-ambanis and birlas, the difference being that an Ambani has only his stern mother or political godfather to answer to, whereas these poor guys are pulled up to task more often than Ram Gopal Varma makes flop-busters. There are a few extras dotting the landscape too, for hauling-and-carrying purposes.

And the company boss, or the madam in this case. This girl, who, in happier circumstances, would not look out of place getting her nails done in an up-market salon on Carter road, instead paces around these shady holes – in basements or attics, drinking in all that they carry – sacks of flour, overpowering and enticingly sweet smell of jaggery, bags of green, blue, yellow detergent powder, stacks of green, blue, white, pink, yellow detergent cakes, drums of oil, sacks of masalas, battalions of mice. She counts the bags, pokes the stacks, and looks around with blood-shot eyes, shooting questions faster than quick-gun-murugan. That’s her role – to squirm the hell out of all around.

It’s a funny scene alright.

Inspired

As day moves into week, week into months, I realize that many many things are going unsaid. While a whole lot that has never been said before is being painted in scarlett letters across the evening sky.

I vacillate between trying to be good and trying hard to not be all good. The goodness in me prevents me from succumbing whole-ly to it, because nothing ever is, all good. Selfishness keeps us sane.

There's a balance to be striven towards. Life is about balance. You need to get the scales to be carrying just the right quantities of love, hatred, belief, cynicism, naivete, worldliness, individuality, collectivism, poetry, practicality, defiance, submissivity, objectivity, subjectivity, indifference, compassion, the yin, the yang to reach that point of absolute perfection.

And yet, they never will. For, what's the point of living then?