Waiting

 

During Covid, it used to feel like you spent all your time waiting. Waiting at the public health centre, at the village office, at hospitals, in the car. Even being at home often felt like waiting.

There is always some waiting going on. A permanent impatience to already be done with whatever it is that has you engaged. Not unlike moving the cursor to check how long is left on the video, no matter how interesting it is. As if the knowledge that things must end prevents complete engagement with them. An easy avenue is the mobile phone. But disengagement does not always require external stimuli. You could just as well be staring into space, willing time to skip ahead to the next plot point. Everything that happens happens while waiting for something else.

Today I was at a conference where most of the attendees knew each other. Every lecture had you waiting for the break, naturally. Every break had you waiting for the next lecture, perhaps less naturally. Ramadan had me waiting for Eid. You could extricate this sentiment from 94:7 as Pickthall read it: “So when thou art relieved, still toil.” The exhortation never to be ‘done,’ so to speak, does resonate. Something Jeff says while shooting the alien movie in the last season of Community.    

  

Nothing ever happens

 

Since the start of the Ukraine war, ‘nothing ever happens’ has been a popular refrain used in memes online in a post-ironic reference to the complete failure of the ‘end of history’ theory. Fukuyama, of course, has long admitted a mistake on that front. ‘Nothing ever happens’ does seem to be the defining feature of my day-to-day. A quarter century of letting life just happen to me has brought me to a not disagreeable condition. A general feeling of unfulfillment, not uncommon amongst my generation, is little to complain about.

Every day feels like a slog, but we zoomed past the new year into March in the blink of an eye. Everything is fleeting. I choose deliberate obfuscation in my articulation frustration. Everything is in the undercurrent; at best, it invites questions. I am unconvinced this isn’t bad writing, just as well then that no one actually reads it.

I used to hate that quote ‘hell is other people’. I still hate it, but only because I think it is incomplete. Heaven is also other people. Everything is other people. Like the question about a tree falling in a forest without anyone to observe, I think there is little to be said for a life lived without other people. That is not to say that life is about performance. Perhaps it is performance, but it about more. Even as I do not seek an audience, I do take considerable care to chronicle. It is often in ways easily accessible for anyone who tries. Maybe it betrays the failings of deeply repressed urges of actually wanting to centre the self. It would not be without merit to suggest every post here is a step in that direction, with a deliberately easy way to get here hidden in plain sight.

Part of feeling unrealized as a person is thinking there is more to personhood than what you are voluntarily or involuntarily limiting yourself to. The bottlenecks are institutional; they are material. I am not sure what a rational reaction would be. It is almost in my interest to hurry the Sun up and down every day, and to ensure that nothing ever happens.

Valour

 

There is a sense of always running away. I think it is borne out of cowardice. I’m not sure where it comes from, but I’ve always known myself to be a coward. It’s not innate, of course. Nothing is innate. But it is ingrained. Choosing the path of least resistance is all I’ve been good for. It is almost an abuse of privilege to instrumentalize it almost exclusively in carving exits. A rare avenue where spending does not seem inherently excessive. Every room has a backdoor and I can avoid calling attention to myself.

This obsession with not calling attention to myself leads to me creating narratives. I am the narrator, ‘observing’ the human condition. It is my lot to take account, making sure not to influence the story. Despite what I say I want, this sounds not unlike a most degenerate version of being the protagonist. No one is in control of a story like the narrator. Invisibility only enhances their agency. The story does not take shape but for their will. For a story as creation, the narrator’s role is not unlike the creator’s. This characterization of my role here calls for self-criticism. Positioning myself as non-participating other – which I also used to try by being the banker in Monopoly – does not actually remove roles or responsibilities inherent to participation.

This is also just cope. What is a narrator without an audience? Was a story ever written that was not shared? What good is this refusal of reckoning when I am not unconvinced there might be a Day of Reckoning? A dear friend asked recently why we still persisted with fasting. I replied, half-jokingly, ‘so Eid will not be stolen valour’. Takbir?

Identity

 

A man in plainclothes asked to see my ID. I complied without making any effort to ascertain his credentials. He looked it over, gave it back, and ran off. I did not think much of it. Maybe he was looking for someone. Maybe he thought I had overstayed my welcome. Several years and thousands of kilometres later a government employee asked for my ID. He examined it with careful attention. I had an inkling why. Convinced he could not raise objections to this one, he asked for a second ID. I was prepared. He knew he had to let me through. I pressed the little hammer-sickle, watched for the little light, and moved on. Not long after that, I was asleep on the train. A ticket master woke me up, I mumbled a name, he wrote something on his list and moved on. Uncharacteristically smooth, the ticket was not in my name. On another train in the same parts, I said my name again. This time the ID had to follow, of course the ID had to follow. Then the azaan went off on my phone. My heart dropped on to the tracks. What a ridiculous oversight. Eyes were already on me before I turned it off. An uncomfortable 8 hours. Another time, I got stopped walking into my college hostel. Another ID request, somewhat surprising. “This is not you,” he said after some examination. Was he pulling my leg? There’s not a lot he had to do to get me to panic on this. He was busy – or maybe bored. The guard let me in anyway. Last year, a Palestinian I met told me “In the West Bank I sleep with my passport under the pillow.” How quickly things fall into perspective; I can lock mine away at night.  

Company

 

An insect crawled across a wooden desk. Our friend looked at it with disinterest. It was a termite, but he could not bring himself to care about the damage this meant. He had got rid of all the conventional distractions. His phone was off and on the other side of the room. His books were out of reach. There was nothing even moderately entertaining on his computer. The termite was unaccounted for. It was also uninteresting. But it was enough to occupy a brain that was crying out for distraction.

It was midday. Our friend realized he had not spoken a word since waking up. He had not seen another face. Only an insect could attest to his well-being today. He felt the question ‘if I died in my room how long would it take for someone to notice?’ acquire a more difficult character.

There was little to do at the end of the workday. He ran through the motions of his usual routine. Outside went from grey to dark. Conscious of the fact from midday, he was actively aware of going the whole day without conversation. There was a moment of concern before he realized this was not the first instance. This is grounds for greater concern, he thought, once the realization set in. Thank god for the internet, he said to himself. Without talking, what is really there to live for? Now getting ready for bed, he looked around the desk for any sign of the termite. He wondered if at least that insect looked forward to seeing him every morning.

Paucity

 

“Everything happens to other people”

“What?”

“Things happen to other people, nothing happens to people like us”

“What’s people like us?”

“I don’t know”

Nihal was not sure he knew what he was saying. But he was sure things only happened to other people.

“We don’t do anything.”

“We go to school”

“Everyone goes to school”

He could not get his point across. An astronaut had visited his school last month. He was North American. He talked about how as a child, he would gaze at the marvellous night sky, and how he spent his whole life to be one of the few people who would ever leave the earth.

“That would never happen to people like us.”

“Maybe not.”

Nihal also wanted to be an astronaut. His parents also had big dreams for him. They thought he might become a civil servant.

“Even their dreams know things don’t happen to people like us”

“Oh”

Nihal thought of the time he wanted to be a politician.

“Do you know a politician?”

“No”

“Why not?”

“Oh”

Maybe a scientist. How wonderful it would be to be a scientist. Even ISRO has scientists.

“I am going to be a writer, they don’t have to know my name”

“Does that happen to people like us?”

“I can’t say”

The time felt wrong for any expression of unfulfillment. None of this was new information.

“Things are only meant for some people”

“What people?”

“Not us”

“How do you know?”

He did not want to be the same. He also did not want to call attention to himself. There was nothing worse than being seen.

“I wish there was another life”

“You know there isn’t”

“It’s just that this time I’ve got the one where things don’t happen”

He stopped writing and put his notebook on the bottom drawer. No one would ever read it. What’s another thing that does not happen?

Twitch

 

How long does it take a child to articulate his suffering? Our boy was sitting down. He was intensely aware of his surroundings. No attention was paid to the textbook in front of him. He could hear the TV in the hall, but it was difficult to tell how much it captured their attentions. He listened for signs of movement; they were definitely seated. He considered a water trip to the kitchen. If he saw where they were seated he would know exactly how long they would take to get to his room. I don’t think it’s worth it, he thought. With silent movements he had perfected over a long period of practice, he retrieved his phone from the back of the cupboard and turned it on with his thumb on the speaker.

That was ten years ago. Today his phone was on the table, boldly announcing the receipt of several messages. Someone was coming upstairs, the footsteps told him who. He was intensely aware of his surroundings. What was in those surroundings? He felt the tension of everything that was unsaid. Most of which will always remain so. He opened the conversation as he had opened it before; in his mind. It went better in there.

 The urge to leave was strong. It has always been strong. But now, there was also means to leave. What were the things he hated most about himself? Would distance from here mean distance from them? They would travel with him. A tether, a nasty reminder, an anchor whose line gave only with an irrevocable extension of guilt. There was still room for tolerance, kindness, and grace. Maybe even love. But the ship had sailed, he felt, on proximity. There was little to be said about that, even less he was willing to say.

He thought about the unfeeling years. There was so much to chronicle. The sense of loss feels selfish. So does the urge to run. It always felt selfish. But he kept running. The tether tensed, it started hurting. He knew the damage would acquire a permanent character, it did not slow him down. Suffering does not make you a good person, it just makes you suffer, he remembered reading.

The notifications were incessant, he put the phone on silent. Now there was a conversation to navigate, to keep light, without setting off the volatile. Ten more years will pass. The phone might manifest differently. It did not matter. He would be intensely aware of his surroundings.