Yesterday night, as I was settling in to an hour's commute back, I spotted a crowd on the opposite side of the road. Curious, I peered out the window.
Through the throng of people, I noticed a pair of legs on the road, uncomfortably angled. Sneakers and jeans, just like me. He must be face down on the road, and wasn't moving. I couldn't make out any blood on the road, in that sodium street light. It took a moment to realise what had happened, just as I heard someone say, "Oh my God!". I searched the faces of the crowd, looking for an identifiable expression. There was fear, but something else... what it was, I don't know.
The rest of the night I thought about death, and what it meant. This post is not about that.
There I was, a well meaning idiot, recycling some artificial ideas about anxiety that I had taken on for no good reason.
My anxiety was about my own speculative mortality, not about anything
resembling actual experience with mortality, which is something that the majority of young people in my social segment don't experience. Just
those pangs of "OMG, I'm, like, 25, maybe I'm not going to live
forever? Whatever, off to the gym!"
Odd, in a sense, that my generation has to force itself to feel anything akin to real emotions. We watch soppy movies over and over again, give ourselves an imaginary pat on the back for being so sensitive and kind, yet would shirk the idea of hugging a friend who's hurting inside. The kid on the street with tears running down his grimy face and torn t shirt gets a "Chalte bano!" and a retort of "It's all a scam!".
I would say more, but hey, whatever, I'm off to the gym!
Through the throng of people, I noticed a pair of legs on the road, uncomfortably angled. Sneakers and jeans, just like me. He must be face down on the road, and wasn't moving. I couldn't make out any blood on the road, in that sodium street light. It took a moment to realise what had happened, just as I heard someone say, "Oh my God!". I searched the faces of the crowd, looking for an identifiable expression. There was fear, but something else... what it was, I don't know.
The rest of the night I thought about death, and what it meant. This post is not about that.
There I was, a well meaning idiot, recycling some artificial ideas about anxiety that I had taken on for no good reason.
My anxiety was about my own speculative mortality, not about anything
resembling actual experience with mortality, which is something that the majority of young people in my social segment don't experience. Just
those pangs of "OMG, I'm, like, 25, maybe I'm not going to live
forever? Whatever, off to the gym!"
Odd, in a sense, that my generation has to force itself to feel anything akin to real emotions. We watch soppy movies over and over again, give ourselves an imaginary pat on the back for being so sensitive and kind, yet would shirk the idea of hugging a friend who's hurting inside. The kid on the street with tears running down his grimy face and torn t shirt gets a "Chalte bano!" and a retort of "It's all a scam!".
I would say more, but hey, whatever, I'm off to the gym!
4 comments:
everything I read in this blog had a quality of near-perfection understanding of exactly what is wrong with our generation! Very concise, yet it drove the point home! Loved it!
:)
I also notice you have impeccable taste!!
Thank you.
I would appreciate your take on the matter though... feel free to post your views here.
...alongside the soppy movies is the public blog entry recognizing an inadequacy, albeit grouping yourself sincerely with the "inadequate" lot - alas! the mere recognition, unfortunately, doesn't absolve us of the inadequacy itself. The subconscious rules once again and the "i'm not trying to" comeback as usual fails. The 'recognition' phase is a nice-and-easy ricky-tick justification. A quick-fix if you will. We are not emotionless. And the only thing that keeps us from crossing the line to the land of 'indifference' is that we recognize it. Behold! we can walk around guilt-free for the most part.
True Aman... stating the inadequacy by itself absolves me of nothing... voicing it aloud buys me a moment's respite. By disguising it as something "real", I can appear a better person than I truly am, fooling the public and possibly myself. I am the crippled saint, admonishing society, yet promoting myself as a victim.
Emotionless I am not... yet I have no real fulcrum. My view of the world is tinted by rosy glasses and cushioned by a privileged upbringing. I can talk passionately about the suffering of India's poor after 60 years of Independence, yet have never gone to bed hungry in my life, ever. I doubt I have even spent 60 minutes at a stretch thinking about the problem.
I recognize the problem, but what comes next? As a generation of jaded individuals, how do we set about making a real change? Or is the notion of being a catalyst flawed in itself... another ploy to stave off guilt?
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