Dear readers, the original title of this post was ‘Confusticated and Bebothered’. But I became jittery at the last minute, even though no detractors were skinned alive in the process of pilfering it from Dictionary.com’s daily offering, who in turn have skimmed the phrase from the redoubtable J. R. R. Tolkien. At any rate, it was infinitely superior to falling back on Spark Notes for your Noble Prize acceptance speech. But then I digress.
That I am both confusticated and bebothered should come as no surprise to those familiar with my psychosomatic sanity. Over time, I have retreated like a penitent general and tried to efface phony footprints in the sands of time. If you have memories of certain threads, threshed over a dozen or so posts in this corner, that seem to have vanished down the gullet of some black hole, know that wicked darts of truth have punctured the general benightment of my brain from time to time.
Over time, many false dreams have melted like masks of candy floss and have become sticky. Many a false hope has mauled my dinghy in turbulent seas. But was it wrong to hope for a rescue for the pillaged, comatose motherland at the hands of a Prime Minister with a fifty-six inch bust? Was it too much to expect curbs on black-marketeers, freeloaders, arsonists, terrorists, gang rapists and murderers? Why is the fabled gladiator not only looking the other way when the brutalized martyrs are being shipped home every day but also appeasing the rabid wolves for petty political gains? How long should I repose my trust in his calculating claws? Is it time to proffer my confidence to the venomous fangs at the other end?
I had long advocated the merger of my erstwhile employer with its much larger parent bank. I believed it will release me from the subtle coteries of regionalism. I reckoned the bigger bank will lend me a higher stature by virtue of its size. Ironically, my foolish dream was to be consummated on none other than the All Fools Day of the year 2017. Ever since then, I have this feeling of being reduced to a frog whom no damsel can kiss back to humanity. The dominant entity’s lack of respect is palpable. The apartheid is both administrative and financial. Should I quit and join a smaller outfit somewhere? Should I return to the farms my parents have painstakingly preserved for me for such an eventuality?
Since I have many times wailed and flailed about my failings with blogging and photography, and how baffled I get with the surfeit or utter absence of the two in my life, I would prefer to rake the small matter of the game of cricket rather than bore you again. That it used to be a gentleman’s game till God made the Australians should be no mystery to anyone. Then God did something unmentionable: he made Pakistanis. And as if these horrors weren’t enough, he blessed the Indian team with a captain called Kohli whose Achilles’ heel has a tendency of coming apart in the final tugs of the battle. Combine this last horror with an ‘Alpha Male’ coach called Kumble who tried to dominate the Men in Blue and we have the shame of the century: India surrendering tamely to the Bashi-bazouks in the Champion’s Trophy final at Oval in London. Am I Collied or Crumbled? Or am I just Jaded-edged and run out of options like the foot-soldier turned tragic hero, Pandya?
Moral of the stories: there are fewer catastrophes in life more potent than when your false dreams come true.