Pride: I can't define it.

I wake up at 5 p.m. to the sound of the blaring television running beauty cream advertisements in the other room. Oh, so Mum’s watching that damn cooking show with the actor-turned-chef-turned-movie director with that squeaky voice. Great.

My right-hand reaches out to my forehead, wanting to rub the headache away. The force behind the forehead wills it away, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. I understand the feeling. I let it be.

A great man once said (or so I heard) that once you wake up, the bed is your enemy. But didn’t I tell you? I love fraternizing with the enemy. That’s how I lose friends.

But then, I also love how the force behind the forehead operates. It conjures a rather blurry image of a guillotine blade with some kind of organ music you get to hear on the funerals of TV show characters, tuning in and out like the wheezing of a partially busted old car radio. I do not appreciate the lack of subtlety.

I check my schedule on my phone to remind myself that there indeed was a project presentation to be made tomorrow at 8 a.m., something which I still hadn’t bothered to start working on. So, of course, without any further delay, I fire up my computer and start frying some exotic yet hostile alien lifeforms on HALO: Reach. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking ‘bout!

Soon, the elbows into the side of my ribcage become too insistent to be ignored. Wait, did I say “elbows into my rib cage”? More like “hammer blows to the sternum”.

Or… maybe just… “Daggers to the heart”?

So, with some Fallout Boy thumping in my ears, I continue playing… myself.

I remember when I was a kid, the good things were more vivid and glorified in my mind. The bad things, a light mist. Or at most, a raincloud, accompanied by refreshing wind and cool rain to wash off my misery.

Now, the good is commonplace and the bad is worse.

When I go out of the house, I see people bustling around, or carrying themselves around, or alternatively, throwing their weight around, trying to make their ends meet, or trying to satisfy their need for superiority. I see expensive smartphones and even more expensive manicures. I see deserted bus stops and packed parking lots.

I miss the joy of slowing down. Now I’m afraid of slowing down.

You see, this fear was born from losing friends. High school can be a cruel place to survive. I can attest to that. I know therapists say there’s nothing wrong in admitting to a breakdown, but I must admit I’m pretty ashamed.

Before high school, it was all soccer and table tennis and makeshift squash, extra classes of classical music, inspiring stories and long hours of quizzing. I loved what I learned, and I was prided myself taking part and doing well.

High school arrived, and everything became competitive. Students took part in activities to win and not to learn. Love was lost and pride was gained. Everyone boarded the train, and I got left behind.

I don’t know exactly when, but there must have been a point of time when I gave up that love, passion and all that nancyboy stuff and decided to start seeing things for what they are. At least that’s what I kept repeating in my head to convince myself. Soon I stopped doing well in studies as well as everything else I did. I lost friends, and I lost enemies. There’s was nothing left to be proud of. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be proud.

After I passed out of high school, there were a few months when I didn’t sleep at all. Not because I was studying or doing something constructive. It was because I needed to cry myself to sleep. And I wouldn’t cry.

That was when I started taking out time for “researching for popularity”. I watched British and American movies and TV shows, learned about the European soccer leagues, started following popular YouTubers and listening to American music. I hoped that it would get me in with the popular kids in college.

I still didn’t fit in. Being a perpetual outsider was getting old. (The knowledge I gained in the process was handy, though.)

Of course, there was one glaring flaw in my plan for being popularly accepted. Everyone watches “Game of Thrones” and “Suits”. How many of you have watched, or even heard of a show called “The Mentalist”? Simon Baker, anyone?

I soon realized that I was never going to be that guy. It’s not in my nature to suck up to a few big kids to become a part of their clique. And I didn’t want to go out my way to try to change my inherent behavior. I’d rather be the Nerdy Nerdpants of the batch rather than be another faceless entity in the big kids’ party. Who cares if everyone reads Khaled Hossaini? If I enjoy the generic James Patterson-style thriller then that’s what I’ll read. And anyway, who even knows enough to discuss about Frank Sinatra or Louis Armstrong? Then their music is only for me to enjoy.

Music for me is not something that helps me concentrate while studying. It’s a feeling that I can close my eyes and let wash over me. I can multitask, but not when one of those tasks is musically influenced.

After high school, there was a time I envied my parents. Everyone loves Mrs. B. And Mr. B? When I was about eight or ten, I believed that when my father spoke, the world would sit up and take notice. How fair was it for them to be so… magnificently normal, and for me to be the school’s newest delinquent? I hated them for it. And I can hate very passionately, too.

My parents worked very hard to raise me. Home for me was a better school than school ever was. I learned to love, and I loved to learn. They taught me to appreciate beauty and richness. And I’m proud of that. And I’m not going to let them down on that front.

I don’t need popularity. I can feel very deeply and I have a high capacity for innocence in my life. That’s what sets me apart.

At this point, I can imagine myself standing in front of a mirror, repeating, “I’ll not be afraid. I’m proud of who I am.” So I close my laptop, crash onto my pillow, and yawn loudly, “That’s the spirit, dear!”

Soumit
21/8/16