"Addicted to Martyrdom"

-- Excerpts from Junkie-Journal


Round 1: Yoda vs. Guilt

The moments when you let guilt get the better of you, those moment of conscientiousness, when you feel as pure as a newborn leprechaun, can sometimes have interstingly bizzare consequences, but in my case, it turns out, more often than not, to be rather taxing. And once again, that was the conclusion, inspite of my immense good fortune of being present at a performance by Kamal Sabri, the masterful Sarangi player visiting from India, primarily for his performance at the All Pakistan Music Conference - Karachi Chapter.

The term 'Sarangi', according to him, is derived from 'Sau Rangi', which translates into "100 colours", which I guess I blinked through as he performed the Ragas....and invoked tender sensations with each bandish. The sound of the Sarangi is said to be the most similar to humans, and I would be in communication with a never-known-before self everytime he strummed the instrument....with a mastery that that leaves one spell-bound. He just didn't perform, he lead us towards higher truths that lies beyond the realm of mundane comprehension. It made a smile dance on my lips, and there was agony and ecstasy. It was music that entered the body, and organs aligned to the beat, and a sense of elevation overtook, and I flew upstream. The thoughts were jumbled up, but I knew it all made sense. What did not make sense was that the use of Sarangi, as an accompanist or for solo performance, is on the decline, and Kamal Sabri is one of the very few practitioners. A worthy memory.

But otherwise, it was only the gandugiri of guilt that ruined supreme. The day started off at 8:15 as I woke up after a heavy night of love-talk with my dove, and after another night of only 3 hours and eyes swollen worse than being bloodshot, being the nice man on the surface I am, I risked being late to give a ride to a cheeky bastard from college who's becoming a pain rather than just an ordinary itch. But with my robust skills on the wheel, and the effeciency of the two-wheeler in the face of roadside conundrums, I managed. To not only make it in time, but to smoke outside, too.

It was presentation day, and I was all dressed up. The usual glances came the way, with a few chickies commenting on the tie, followed by small talk based on the assumption that dressing up is due to good mood. Maybe they are not that dumb, but they ought to prove otherwise. However, it was pure necessity. After the first two groups fucked up beautifully, conquering all and sundry was set on a plate....with a little conniving. I managed to get our group's turn down from last to third, to save us a lot of unnecessary khwari, but it turned into a spectacle, which would make a hilarious story if I ever were to pen it down. Nonetheless, we managed to present and the rest fought over the spoils. This was 9 to 12. Followed by a tedious 2 and a half hour long break for Jumma. Which was supposed to be followed by a return to presentation routine in Business Ethics, and two other extra classes, scheduled impromptu, leaving me in a tri-lemma. Found out that one teacher was AWOL and irate students had filed a complaint against him even. Such nitpicking nincompoops doobie-less chooths et al. I decided to give Calculus a shot for half an hour, then Ethics, lying to both and get out. But such was the tiredness that I fell asleep as the rest of the world creaked and by the time I woke up it was already 4. A peaceful hour long sleep while 2 groups presented. Sometimes I marvel at my ability to pass out in the most bizzare of circumstances. However, I woke up, lied to the teacher, and walked out, only to rush to work, seeing miss calls from bossie boss. She's not bossy, though. She's the most understanding, loving, caring, generous boss, whether its about work-hours, money, domestic issues or general slacking. And she loves me, too, which one can always play to his advantage, only if it were not for the gandugiri of guilt. Love is such a dilemma, too.

The smartalecs at work made jokes, in their own tones, about my formal attire. First up was the lead-role of Khurram's magnum opus, "The UnFuckables", who asked me about where my job interview had been. I said Al Jazeera. Her laugh concealed malice, but I generally see-through facades and try to when there's black-bra under a see-through. But she's the lead from the UnFuckables, and I resisted.

Even the big boss gave me a look, while boss made jokes about my joke interview, too, only to clarify soon enough that it was a presentation. What if your boss is one of those who are easily flustered and ask the dumbest of questions; all the time expecting people to answer with a straight face and solemn gait. I'd just show my ass and laugh it off. But what if you get caught.

And then I was given the news of our new hirings tete-a-tete with the head of the business desk. It wasn't the most pleasant of exchanges but she's our terrier and we can't let her teeth go blunt. It's a fierce world out there and we require as much tenacity as we can obtain.

All this got my spirits high. I even had subway - a treat considering the humble state of my finances. Then there was Sherbano and Jay. She said she was feverish, and also exasperated. The roof is always a nice place. And we climbed clinky stairs to have our little rain-dance. It was a triangle and my favorite floozie piled up lies. Thank divinity I never cared. My irate self is quite a mess.

And then I came down and returned to the computer. The pseudo-albino cameraguy asked me to come close. My guard was high, but it was an innocent query regarding MSN. He wanted to knwo the e-mail address of this one female on his list, who, in his own words, had randomly added him. Because he's such a hottie and a pseudo-albino (I don't know the disease but his face is half white like those funny kids in school that no one wanted to talk to but everyone's mom did), and he's got a beer belly and a namazi topi, along with the penguin walk and all the works. I explained. He asked me further questions. My tone became agitated and he politely thanked. I should be more polite. But that was just my premonitionary senses getting to work.

Off I went, to haggle for tapes. Then to eat Saffo appa's cake and have it too. That's Kamal Sabri in esoteric language and nothing to do with Ayn Rand. Ever.

But what followed Mr. Sabri was pure disaster. A show that was scheduled to start at 8:00. A launching of wristwatch, Titan, if you please, and other than presentations and introductions and usual ass-kissing, it also had a fashion segment as sashaying beauties were to showcase the watches on their dainty wrists.

We got there by 9:45....and still had to wait another half an hour. It was ugly. So were the models. Only 4 chicks who kept coming back, dressed as per the theme of the segment. Some of them actually looked pretty dragging their limbs during the Semi-traditional segment, having the desi look..Rajasthani, pigeonhole if we must. But what horrors were to follow, when I sneaked backstage and asked those involved to share a few thoughts. Dolled up as they must be, they lacked all natural charm. And a lack of garrulity only added to the goryness. The designer of the clothes was also a psychotic creature who kept stealing glances as if followed by some kinky feds who molest him at frequent intervals.

The food was good, though. But so depressing were the 3 hours that I was forced to sit through, tired as fuck, that it put an end to all my hopes of every making out of this job alive. Sometimes I exaggerate. Sometimes I excessively hate. Someone needs to cure me. You can. I know. But sometimes I hate saviours, too.

But I wouldn't have been in this situation, if I had finished my degree on time. Or not chosen to take up a full-time job. The routine is a year-old now but I fail to adjust. And the restlessness won't subside.

I won't give in to guilt again. You, obviously, are an exception, not perchance.