When I Die

Twenty Years Of The Same Old, Same Old

What a bloody waste of time.

Twenty years of the same old, same old.

Same old country, same old people, same old scratchy bums and smelly armpits, same old shitty house, same old computer, same old music, same old guitar, same old hair, a bigger dinosaur-egg sized forehead, same old toothbrush, same old soap, same old Granny, same old Mom and Pop, same old shouting, same old being-pissed-off-for-no-reason-at-all, same old clothes, same old walking to college, same old chats with emptiness, same old books, same old sorrow, same old gang of idiots... man, I need to get out of this place.

Like now.

I guess I'm ranting again which means that I'm the same old dude again which means Amy's safely tucked away in some corner of my brain which is a bloody lie which is as bloody a lie as love which is a bloody mistake which is also curcumspect which is me saying I'm bored of everything and I don't give a damn about punctuation anymore which is also me saying I belong to that superior order of gentlemenly Great Writers who don't need to puncutit or fallow puh-rawper Graymur and Spayling to be read which is also a pile of shit which is what I am which is what I will be forever which is a pile of shit. A pile of shit.

I'm frankly pissed off. But more than that I'm bored. Nothing happens, really. That's my problem. Nothing happens that would make me sit up and take notice. Nothing happens that is out of the ordinary humdrum gravy-train. Nothing happens that delights me.

<>

The phone rang me up on Feb 2nd out of a surprisingly peaceful sleep and I picked it up all grumpy and ready to ask the bugger what the hell was he/she thinking calling me up at seven in the morning. He said Happy Birthday and I kept on wondering if it was the first of April or some such bullshit.

Then all of a sudden it was clear. Like a bolt of lightning zapped up my ass and cupid decided to get a little personal with my nose and stuff like that. It was my birthday!

Ta-da-da Da Ta-da!

Roll in the orchestra and carpets and all that nonsense here.

I've heard that people tend to dread birthdays after a certain age. I think it's about forty five.

I've started dreading them a good twenty years earlier.

Celebration? Bah. Birthdays are just the world's way of reminding you what Pink Floyd said in Time: every year is getting shorter, no one seems to find the time... or: ten years have gone behind you, no one told you when to run... or: the sun is the same in a relative way but you're older. Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Brothers, sisters, friends, dudes, dudettes, amigos, mitras, dosts, sakhis, mundas, kudias (the last five are hindi/sanskrit/marathi words which mean almost the same as the first five words) the Chimp says he's so damn tired of this mess that if someone of you would be so kind as to give him a gun on a discounted rate, he'll buy it. And if you'd throw in two bullets as well, he'll lick your shoes. One bullet for my head and the other in case of a sudden case of shivers when I start pulling the trigger.

I'm just profoundly sick of this all.

I have nothing to give to this world.

I don't have anything I want in this world.

This world has nothing to give me.

So why waste my time?

And this world's resources?

I mean, all I do is bitch about my own fate. Well, amigo (that shitty dude called conscience speaks), there are a zillion kids in Afghanistan who'd die to have what you have: food, shelter, clothing. Of course, you've had to kill your dreams of music. Of course, you'll have to live with that. But look at what you have! Health! Comfort! So just what the hell are you complaining about?

(me): Nothing, mate. I'm just one of those guys who can't find happiness anywhere. I've just got to find something to moan about all the time. That's basically it. And since you're so sick of my sickness, why don't you go ahead and help me get that gun, eh? End of the whole mess for you and me. I'd call it a perfect deal. Like that hitting two snakes with one arrow crap, eh?

(the dude who spoke to me): Ah, well, you see, I just, I remembered... I have an appointment to... well, there's this girl, really, and I said I'd... you know...

(me): Sod off.

<>

Happy birthday to me!

So what happened on this good, good day, you might ask.

Well, nothing much. A few friends called and a few friends came over and talked me up and I smiled when I thought a joke was particularly good.

Mom and Pop weren't at home. Pop's in America, probably cooling off from the past month's fights with Mom.

Mom's gone with her college students on an educational excursion. The word is excursion, mates, not execution.

Probably the best thing that happened was that little Shalu planted a big, wet smackeroo on my cheek and bawled, "Hawpy Buy-day, Bhayya!"

I said thanks.

"Now veyrs my chawk-late?"

I went down and bought her two Dairy Milk bars. She opened the first one gave the first piece to me. That coming from a kid who's five years old.

That's the best part about my birthday. Maybe because somehow that's the only part that's innocent. Pure.

Nothing happened, really. All of my brotherhood called. Except Guha, who, I don't think has a telephone up there in heaven/hell.

I went out a bit in the evening with Ash and Rishi and Mike and Priyanka.

Walked around Shivaji Park in Dadar (which is in Mumbai which is in Maharashtra which is in India which is in the Indian Subcontinent which is in Asia which is in the Earth which is in the Sol Solar System which is in the outermost rings of the Galaxy which is supposedly in the Universe which is supposedly one of many which is me saying that I'm going hyper and am on information overload).

Had some roasted peanuts and some dirty Vada Pavs (Indian equivalent of a burger--with a potato-burger instead of ham/chicken/goat's meat-etc-etc-burger between the buns).

I used to play cricket there when I was nine. And call it co-incidence or whatchyumaycallit, but I met a few of those old cricket buddies and played a game of cricket. Made 25 runs. Took two wickets. I think that's pretty good for a guy who hasn't played the game in what... three years.

Yeah, pretty good. And that with a season ball--which, if it hits you, hurts like a trumpet: loud, shrill, complete, irritating, bad.

I thought about Amy once. Being with Ash is like replaying a recorded programme. You see her smile or grin or look at you and you think you're suddenly somewhere in the past and that somehow God's granted your wish.

But I'm not gonna talk about that.

I wrote a story for a contest. It's a twisted (I won't call it Horror because I don't think it's flat out horror... but it deals with the supernatural... at least I think it does) tale which deals with love.

And I hated the story almost from the time I began it.

Now, you might think I would've changed it before I wrote it if I didn't like it. Well, here's a confession: I don't know a story before I write it. I don't know what's gonna happen. In other words, I don't know jack shit about plotting.

More on how my stories happen in the next entry, when I'll also be posting that God story of mine. I'm preparing myself for the hate mail, and the next entry will be my answer to those. At least somewhat.

There's also a nice, big afterword after that love story which is me trying to explain that I know the story sucks and which is me offering a few reasons why I think the story sucks and which is not me trying to justify the badness of that story.

Enough of that shit as well. Let's talk about what I wished for on my BDay.

I wished for one thing: that I could let go and start over. You know, uninstall v1.0 and install v1.1 of Chimp.

Oh, the Chimp wished me a happy birthday--he's asking me to tell you that. And though I normally don't listen to him (mostly he talks about naked red female baboon bums and bananas--as in 'Jesus Christ Bananas!' or 'Where's my Bananas!' or 'I want Bananas!' or... you get the drift) this time I did. He also says that in case you all miss him and want him to write another entry like 'Biography Of A Chimp' (hey, wait? He wrote that? How come I never noticed?) all you have to do is ask. Or maybe swing a Banana in front of your comptuer monitors. And he'll be there. In dungarees and galoshes and lipstick on face and stuff.

I wished for money. Yup, I did. I wished for a zillion bucks. I wished for so much money I could swim in it. That everything I touched would turn to gold. Midas can take a hike. I mean, what have I got to lose? I'll use gloves when I'm on my computer. I'll have special guitar strings made of gold. So touching them won't matter.

I don't jerk off anyway, so no problems there, either.

I wished for worldpeace... like Sandra Bullock says in Miss Congeniality (stupid, horrible, boring movie). Worldpeace. Just like that, one word. Not 'world peace,' but 'worldpeace'.

I wished that shit would stop happening. That people would respect other people. That people wouldn't want to one up everyone. That people would scratch my back if I scratched theirs.

I wished that I would stop wishing.

I wished that I would stop feeling.

I wished that I would stop... (you got it, buster) living.

Priyanka came up to my house after the others left and gave me a horrible pissy Hindi CD. Full of romantic bullshit songs like 'Aaa Jaa, Ai bahar!' (come here, darling, spring's here!), 'Hame Tumse Pyar Kitna Ye Tum Nahi Jaante' (You don't know how much I love you, munchkin), 'I Love You!' (I love you... duh! ), 'O Priya Priya! Kyun Bhula Diya!' (Oh, baby, baby! Why did you forget me!)...

Man, I feel like puking. Step aside, friends, let me puke.

She said she knows I hate Hindi Music most of the time and Love Songs all of the time, but she wanted to give that CD to me anyway since I wouldn't probably listen to it and that'd mean she could borrow it herself because she sure as hell wants to.

Talk about bloody planning.

She was kidding, of course. She gave me that CD just to piss me off. Ha-ha, jokes on you, KC. Ha-ha, we love to see your face get all holed up, KC. Ha-ha, you're such a clown when you're angry, KC.

Ha-ha.

Ha-ha.

Ha-bloody-ha.

Then there were the usual eight to twelve o' clock 'relatives/assorted contacts phone calls' (copyrighted by the associative-corelative impulse-signal-implant doctors of Heaven.com, a subsidiary of God.com):

"Uh, Hiya, kiddo! How you doin? You're Big boy now! You've got muchos balls now! So, whatcha do? Whatcha get? Got laid yet? Popped ya balls yet? Ooooh, tell me, did ya fall in love? Who's da babe, bud? When ya gonna meet me? Bring her along, yeah? So, whatcha eat, kid? Had any cake? Ha-ha, you're too big for that, no? Had any beer (beah)? No? You're lying, no? but it's awright. Buydays come once in a year. Go easy on da booze, 'kay? See ya, buh-bye."

All the while I'm nodding and Mom's asking me if my head's set on repeat-infinity. All the while I'm saying, 'yeah, no, yeah, ya-ya, no-no, aw, geez, no absolu... what? Yeah, ya, ya, ya...'

All the while I'm wishing for the day to end.

Next day, at college, the guys: 'where's da booze? where's da ciggies? BDay boy gotto pay for dat!'

Girls: 'where's the chocolaties? Where's the feast? Where's da party? You was taking us to Pub! You prawmised! Har-har, you didn't, but take us anyway! We're Fuh-rends, after awl. And you gotta sing, bud! You Awbsolootely gotta sing! Sing *insert stupid pop song here* by *insert stupid pop artist here*. Ay Luv Thay-at Sawng!'

I'm sounding all wrong. Not everyone of them said the above. All the guys did. Not all the girls. No sir. A few did, but they're the kind who would pass for a boy in a mental equivalency test: money minded.

Am I trying to sound smart? No. It's a very well known fact, amigos. Girls be way better than us boys. Aye, they be. Absolootely. No Fuh-rigging doubt, mates. (Girls be major piss offs sumtimes, but mostly they be good souls and caring people. Boys can bang that baseball bat on my head now. I don't mind.)

And those above girls/guys are just associates. People I have to spend time with because we're in the same bloody college.

The usual gang of idiots, on the other hand, said: 'here comes big K! How old are you? Twenty. Oh, Mike told me today! I completely forgot about your BDay, fella! So, anyway, did you see the Soccer Match? No. What a shame.'

Okay, I'm sounding excessively cynical and pop-teen hippie buzzer. I'm gonna shut up about college kids.

Oh my, I actually talked a lot of paragraphs without sounding depressed. Angry, yes. Pissed, yes. But not depressed.

Does it tell me something? Yes. It does. It tells me that I've gone loony. Because I find myself laughing at everything. People, places, things, shit, everything.

How strange is that, fellas?

Just how buh-luddy strange is that?

I'm signing off.

PS: I wish I could say this in a better way: If something good is supposed to happen in my life, I guess right about now is a sodding good time for it to happen. If that supposed 'big life changing miracle/wonder/stroke of luck' is supposed to happen in my lifeline, let it happen now. I don't mean finding THE ONE WHO WOULD ROCK MY WORLD or any romantic bullshit. I mean anything, anything at all. If it's supposed to happen, let it happen now.

PPS (in tweety bird's voice): I don't know how to thay this so I'll thay it the only way I know: I thaw a dweem yetheday night. I thaw mythelf with a buncha toddlers. About thwee dozen kids. They wuz all cawlin me Paw-pa! Wath am I thupposed to make of thith dweem? Tho... am I gawing nuths or am I gawing nuths? All the guys who read my jawnal, tell me: did you dweem dweems like theeth too when you wuz my age (or in da bawlpark)?

PPPS: Could anyone rent me a gun? I promise I'll ask them to return it to you in my will. Prawmise.