Crazy, Stupid. How?

Love is one-quarter deaf, half blind and a quarter mute. I arrived at this conclusion after realizing that I’ve never really been in love since my vote became acceptable. Nor have I felt deafness, blindness and muteness at a fixed proportion. Though the whole business of propositioning a girl with promises still intrigues me, I haven't asked anyone out yet. I've had moments that lasted a few days here and there but I never felt the urge to envision a life with someone. That's what folks in love do, right? Apparently, it requires courage and a level of selflessness that I stunningly lack. Not a single night has passed by when I couldn't sleep because I was thinking of someone. Nor a day has greeted me to shake me off my daydreaming spree. Maybe I’m too idealistic for my own good. Put in a sentence, my idea of love is simpler because it doesn't prescribe to any condition and is bereft of pretensions. It doesn't require someone to be something. It's either there or not. Almost all my friends turned cosmic-eyed when they confessed they had feelings for someone they never ended up with. That never happened to me. Too much exposure to Manchester United, poetry and existential thoughts can do so to anyone. In unrelated news, not very long ago, a friend of mine told me that I’ll never be happy because I bask in my loneliness. The exact words were "How can you be so consumed by yourself?" before my mind-screen went blank. All I remember from that conversation is a concerned voice. It didn't belong to me. I was three-fourth blind and a quarter mute. 

Incoherent Rambling...

Please let me be cynical. That's the least you can do for me. In fact, you don't have to do anything. Just don't be yourself and nag. Is that too much to ask for? I guess not. And i hope you realize sooner (if not later) that we are alive not because death is difficult but because we somehow find excuses to breathe a bit longer. Our pursuit of happiness is just a trick. We don't really understand why we're glad about things that most probably won't matter after a certain period of time. What's the point? All this chasing the impossible dream and everything that comes in between. What i can posit is we kill time as long as we can, before getting massacred by it. Even philosophy can't keep us from falling into own own dungeon. Now, once you are in such darkness, everything else seems bright. And you start learning to hope. It's called reflex. Like the jerking seconds hand of a clock. Time manifesting itself into yesterdays, today's and then tomorrows. Oh, yes, tomorrow is always going to be brighter. In our head. You know why? Because we are natural born procrastinators and the only living creatures who procrastinate. No other being can afford to procrastinate. Apart from all these theories, cynicism prevails hand in hand with your nagging skills. But then I let you win because i'm cynical for a reason.

Thank You, Sir Alex

I started playing the computer game FIFA by EA Sports, around 8 years back, and I always chose Manchester United in my career modes. Whenever I played, I never named the manager after myself, as fans of other teams seemed to do. “Alex Ferguson,” I insisted. “The manager of Manchester United has to be Alex Ferguson.”

And yet roughly around 10.30 PM IST on 19^th May 2013, after all the other Premier League matches end, and the final whistle is blown at the Hawthorns, the unimaginable will happen; the manager of Manchester United won’t be Sir Alex Ferguson. It’s an odd thought. It’s the only thing I have ever known. The thought of Alex Ferguson not being the manager of Manchester United, is like waking up when it is still dark outside; it should always be light outside, when you wake up, isn’t it?

Football serves an odd function- if you are reading this; there is a chance that you care about it. It’s a fascinating aspect of human lives, how much emotion we invest on 22 people kicking a ball around a park. Football generates smiles, tears, love, hatred (more of pity), an escape route, a sense of togetherness. Family.

Manchester United are often called a Family club- a massive global brand, at the centre of which there are people who have worked in the club, long enough to remember Sir Alex’s first piece of silverware.

Football is also a space where it is acceptable for grown men to shed tears and show emotions; emotions borne out of a greater loss but they manifest in the delight or devastation we feel of some good or not-so-good kicking of a ball.

Somewhere in this mix, when suppressed emotions that can’t be expressed in another dimension, are given an escape valve, deep attachments are formed.  And there can be no greater sporting attachment, that what the United fans, share with Sir Alex.

Forget the Sir, not just because it is a relic of a feudal age, but also because it’s a later addition. For us he is Alex Ferguson. He was our family club’s dad.

The statistics of his success have been and will be printed in just about every eulogy (‘eulogy’ – he’s not even dead, even if it feels like it), but I prefer to think of the moments that he created.

How many screams of maniacal joy – the lusty, throaty, primate ones you think will never end – did he create?

How many Monday-morning winks and smiles upon entering school or the workplace, how many passionate arguments, how many pumped fists (or fists hit off walls for those not fortunate enough to be Red), how many moments where you just lost it, threw your head back and thought ‘I am alive. This is fucking living.’

Ferguson brought through a generation of kids, and the surrogate father analogy was given a whole new dimension. The Class of 92 that became the heart of Ferguson’s team must share the deepest bond with him- David became the black sheep, Ryan, Paul and Gary became the epitome of loyalty and young Phil was sent up the road to the successor.

Then came the Knighthood and a passage to grand-parenthood. Cristiano Ronaldo certainly needed a father figure and he got one. We all watched on as Sir Alex became the elder statesman in the club, this great manager becoming the greatest of all time, right in front of our eyes.

Like in all families, there was also betrayal and tragedy. He sided with the Glazers, rather than the supporters. Perhaps he felt that he can act as a buffer between the supporters and the owner. Perhaps for less noble reasons. He asked us, if we didn’t like it, we can go and support Chelsea (Or- we could bury ourselves and just go without food for days).

Like all dads he embarrassed us, not with his funny dancing- the fist pumped goal celebration was joyous and a sight to behold- but with his raw ruthlessness that could grate lesser beings. Jaap Stam, Ruud van Nistelrooy, the weird goalkeeping blind spot. But, as you grow up you tend to accept the frailties of your parents and realize they are not perfect and Sir Alex wasn’t.

I am in my mid-20’s now and has tried to control my emotional investment on men , in a certain colored top, kicking a ball around, to manageable levels. But Fergie is from a different era, an era where I fought with my school friend during recess over a feisty United-Arsenal match. Fergie pre-dates the sane me.

I am so devastated that Sir Alex will cease to be our manager and yet so happy, that he is retiring after giving us so many moments to cherish. It’s a funny feeling to think about – that a man who you don’t know, a man who organizes people to kick a ball and happens to be very good at it, has been a serious part of your life, one of the parts that you’ll actually think about when all is said and done. The best nights of my life were made by my friends, my girlfriends, my family, my surroundings or by Alex Ferguson. I didn’t cry at the montages or at the announcement but a certain cartoon of Sir Alex, exiting the Old Trafford gates with a bag in his hands, and players from different eras of his management, waving at him; made my eyes heavy.

Fergie has been ruthless, and leaves our club registered in the Cayman Islands. He hurt a lot of people, but that is not the full story. This love is complicated.

There has been so much human goodness- the generous support to young struggling managers. He is a trade union man, after all. The thousands of letters of condolence and congratulations, done without fanfare.

I loved my dad, even though he was not perfect, and I love Ferguson, even though he is not either. So, thank you Alex, for dedicating more than a quarter of a century to an entity that we love and for giving us those endless moments, those last minute goals, the joy of calling up my Chelsea supporting friend at 4 in the morning, after an European Cup final. It’s been so amazing that we can’t believe it’s over.

I understand that impermanence is a fundamental part of nature but we thought that you’d be the exception. I will remember the joy you brought for the rest of my life, and the pain will fade.

And finally I will remember the mantra, which gives perspective to a situation when the inevitable happens; 'don’t be sad that it is over, be glad that it happened'.

'I am fine'

Somebody asked me how am I feeling today. As is the norm with our species, I didn't offer him the whole truth. "Fine" was the answer he expected and "Fine" was what he got. If it were a different world where people said what they really felt like—or more importantly, what needs to be shared—I would have elaborated on why I'm not "Fine". I might have informed him how I usually feel like an overcrowded fast train that's moving slowly. And not going anywhere in particular. Also, I wake up every morning as if I had undergone rigorous imprisonment during my sleep. My mirror had seen better faces. Of mine. Sometimes I feel like that invisible hand pushing me over the cliff. But I don't fall down because I have better days ahead... to address worse things. At times, I turn cold and blank and don't understand what's going on around me. I try to stay grounded and not get caught talking to myself. The voices in my head are amusing but they never let me interrupt them. Whatever be the reason, they just don't understand me. Sometimes I feel emptier than the “fine”. I've spent better days in poetry when my verses made me the richest jerk on the planet. This was before I became a recluse. Every once in a while, my past relieves me and allows me moments to cherish. Instead of holding them close to myself, I squander them on creating one-liners I don't believe in. More often than not, I don't agree with a lot of theories floating around but I'm loath to confrontations. That explains why I don't defend myself, online or offline. However, there are instances when I can go on and on about what I could have said instead of just "Fine".

Being Single and Valentine's day!

Fourteenth February for everything loneliness sits on. In case if you are in Afghanistan, it's Valentine's Day. One of the finest outcomes of human civilization. In fact, second only to material consumerism. However, there are mutants lurking on this planet who don't know what to do with themselves on this specific day. Better put, they don't know what role they play—if at all, that is—in the grand schemes of romantic permutations. You can't blame them. They are singles who've got nothing to do with tennis. Their singledom manifests itself in their hands every now and then. Or  fingers.  Whatever. So apparently, the worst part about being single is you are……… single. At least it appears that way from the outside. If you're poor too, then God bless you! Being single and broke might teach you invaluable lessons in micro-financing but it doesn't provide the economy with the much-need love-me-love-you boost it annually requires in February, you see? And it is quite bizarre to celebrate Valentine's Day when you pretend to be deeply in love with yourself. You just don't know what to do. You can't blend in. That is passé. So what do you do? You become invisible to the choices that lie ahead of you. For instance, you download movies that got nominated at Oscars. You download movies that got criminally snubbed at Oscars. You somehow go through the day ignoring the colour red that dominates the visuals on your streets and almost everywhere. You wonder whether you should start sniffing around as well. Maybe it's just a one-day phase and you won't need someone tomorrow. However, single life is difficult when both your forearms hate you.

“You are too awesome to be single!” - a girl you like who is not single

Bus-Stop

Your destination is approaching and you're peeking out of the window. You know you've got to get down. But you somehow don't. You stay immobile as if you're protesting against yourself. You don't have the will to move your ass and leave the bus for good. Maybe you're too elated to have finally 'earned' a window seat and you don't want to relinquish it. Moreover, you don't even care that if you fail to act within the allotted 30 seconds, you'll have to get down at the next stop. And commute back home. However, the countdown begins. Kolkata’s bus service, like time and tide, stops for none. You keep looking out of the window, staring into the nothingness that makes you travel between this point and that. You don't even know anymore what is nice and what's not nice. You don't expect anything interesting to happen to your existence. Your friends from school are yet to stare out of the window. Or maybe they are better off in some other place where humanity is not humiliated in overcrowded public transports. You are one of the zombies now and you've accepted your future. You're probably never going to walk and explore or stand and stare. You've learnt that your life is going to rattle on the public roads within the periphery of this godsmitten city. You'll never escape the loud throes that engulfs everybody on this island of chaos nor will you ever travel alone again. You'll always be in the company of strangers who smell worse than you. They'll be called your co-passengers and they shall fight for those imaginary seventh seats that lie in front of them. With such fellow-morons around, perspiration will become your act of silent defiance. You must surrender yourself to make it or else you'll be left behind. On the bus-stop. Outside the bus. The city is not to be blamed nor are its inhabitants. If you really wanted to break free, you would have. By now.

Strangers in the night

One rainy night, he looked out of his window and then peeked into himself. The contrast between crowd and loneliness was evident like never before. He pondered for a minute and then took out his smartphone to foolishly text "I think I'm falling for you!" to an unsuspecting female friend. She, on the other side of the town, picked up her cellphone in return and read his loud message under her noiseless breath. Since chivalry was synonymous with this guy, it was bit of a shock to her to receive something as straightforward as this from a person like him. Well, love indeed makes people act in irreversibly weird ways. So she too decided to act weirder and didn't reply a word. But then she couldn't sleep either and the same was true about her poor cellphone. After all, she kept reading the message again and again as if it revealed her entire future. In the end, she replied "Think again!" unlocking a brand new gate of conversation.