An Idiot's Tale

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An Idiot's Tale

Cacography of a madcap story teller, JAYEETA GHORAI

I’ve always felt this about Past – it is a safety vault.

There is sanctity about events that have happened, whatever truant memories play, reality has stamped each incident. What is done, as the truism goes, cannot be defined as not done.

For a time I struggled in the quicksand of sentiments…as a child I hated change. After annual exams, in the lee stretches where teachers were busy correcting answer sheets and pupils were allowed to play board games, do extra craftwork for the year-end exhibitions, plan picnic, have a lark almost, anything that involved not raising the decibels, I would often press my head to my desk, curl my fingers around it and cling like I could thus hold on to the bygone year. By the end of every class, I was ready to profess this had been my best school year, this the best class teacher, these the most remarkable lessons I had learnt…all in the superlative, and each year, mind!

Adjusting to college had seriously ruined my depths, after fourteen years of the same address route gate and structures. All architectural modifications made to the school buildings through my studentship blended in effortlessly within familiarity, the buildings I gazed upon the last day was not the same as I had met as a child. Yet, the affection for its physical entity made school appear this cohesive construction.

All my inhibition against change was yanked out of my deliberation the day I started attending another institution – college. Even as I clawed and caressed the scratched wooden lids of school desks, I was painfully aware of the moments passing. My heart cried silent indignant tears. But these were nothing like wasted drops of time flying by me in the next two decades.

Favourite rescuees died, and years pressed further and further on, taking me away from lives I had once hugged. Troubles brewed and waking up became meaningless chores, yet Time brought new dawns with their vacant or panic-striking hours to live through. Often, battling checklists, lamenting wish lists, contemplating bucket lists, the year passes quickly. Through a boss’ ineptitude, mid-afternoon yawns, sleepy weekends, Time goes effortlessly unnoticed.

Like a swift executioner that Life is.

I’ve given up the illusion that me hating change – or any volition of mine – has any significance at all. I’ve sealed my foolish child’s petulance and teenager’s annoying belligerence and carelessly lost the key to my emotions. Rationality, now, is a fine thing, I’ve convinced my brain; to be dispassionate about my passions, to be objective about my subjective corners, to analyse the authenticity of my Me-ness has replaced the unquestioning naiveté.

The universe, I’ve sobered, doesn’t revolve around my whims. ‘I’ have slipped into oblivion, languidity, non-existence.

I’ve surrendered to stoicism, pretending disinterest. Or is it the other way round?




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