On Fiascoes

Yeah, the exams have ended. Not that they ended the way I had thought they would. Screwed up some of them (or was it all of them?). But, you are not here to read about fiascoes, are you? You are here to read about the good things in life and how people manage to triumph over all odds. Right?

Ok. So let me tell you an anecdote. A story about a boy who was definitely not named Siddhartha. Any resemblance is purely and strictly co-incidental. Now back to our story. This boy was filled with brilliant ideas. He was what they call, a "genius". Of course, at that time, he was too humble to believe the same. I think he was very correct in doing so. Best not to put ideas where they seem out of place.

On we go. He kept hitting back at whatever hit him. He had the will and strength to succeed. He had the chutzpah to dream big. But then somewhere down the line, the confidence began to waver. The will began to falter. The iron was hot and the hammer struck at the wrong time. It knocked the wind out of him. The demon of fiasco slithered down his throat and settled at the very bottom of his gut. It became a parasite, feeding on what kept him going.

But it would take more than that to actually defeat him. Or so he thought. Little did he know that the effect had already started to sink in. He could see the results but was too blind to notice the reasons. Ah! This is getting depressing, is it? We must add a hint of spice to our little anecdote. Or else, like all predictable stories, our audience will leave the theater - disappointed and hurling profanities.

But before the spice, comes the anti-climax. The time when everything seemed to be at logger horns with him, our boy. Hours flitted by like nothings. Opportunities passed by like graceful girls giggling on the street. No one seemed to notice the struggle within. Even he pretended to ignore it, thinking that it was all meant to be. Thinking that it was meant to be taken in stride. The very effort of it turned his guts inside out, leaving him as hollow as a, let's say, dementor.

But then, we needed our spice, our sting in the tale. Something stirred up inside our Boy. He realized he was not meant for great things. But he was not meant for mundane things either. He had a talent and letting it go in vain would certainly earn him HIS chide. He gathered his scattered belongings - the friends whom he had turned over to the demon inside of him. He tried cutting at the roots of the poison ivy inside him. The effort left him exhausted. He wondered if the entire rigmarole was worth the effort. He lost sight of his beacon, more often than he kept track of it.

But, I presume he hasn't given up yet. He continues to falter. He's more human than me or you. He continues to try. Often succeeding, more often failing. I hope he never gives up hope. For Hope is the best of things. For Hope is the worst of things.

In the meanwhile, loudspeakers blare in the vicinity at the highest decibel levels. People get their long-needed hair cuts. Men of Wisdom indulge in senseless ramblings they call bakar. Some complain. Some ridicule. Some chuckle. I sit and try to etch it all down. For you, my dear. For Him. For posterity.