Did you say "Choice"?

The right of choice is taken away from us even before we are born. Did you have any say in what colour, religion, country you were born into? What kind of parents did you want? Did you ask for the rules of the society or the law it abides by? Why do we talk about rights? Why do we wish to maintain this illusion of choice? What if I wanted to make a world of my own and chose my own laws, no matter how weird they sound to you? I understand that such a thing will lead to a chaos, but what if my rules and laws do not encroach on your space? Yes, I will lose the choice to encroach on your space but at least my house will be tidy and organised and most important I will be able to paint it the way I wanted to.

Our system provides us so many fundamental rights, but does it provide the most basic right – right to have a right? Instead to make us forget that we do not have any significant choice, it offers us a diaspora of options which either appeals to us or keeps us enough occupied not to question who kept the significant ones out of our reach and whether we can get them back. I do not want more choices in burgers, can you instead offer a planet with less global warming, no terrorists, more fresh water and a lot less complications? 

Some people have been termed as free thinkers. Some fortunate ones were recognised and termed so before their death. I wonder if in their hearts they realised that they have been able to fool the world and led them to think that there is something called free thinking. I wish they had not and smiled their way to the grave thinking that they had defied the rules of the society and bared it’s truth. Look back and try to remember how many times have you heard the word “No” and then at the same time try to remember the word “Yes.” I would like to meet your family and teachers if you heard “Yes” more. Perhaps I will move to your city and live there. 

You are not in a habit of asking questions, otherwise you would have asked me “Who the hell wants choices anyways?” I knew that you would not ask and I also know that you are afraid of making choices. Sir, would you have your sandwich in Parmesan oregano, Multigrain or Honey Oatmeal; Grilled or not; cheese or no cheese, some olives Sir? Oh Come on! Can't I order a simple sandwich? Yes Sir, but then you will lose your right to chose. Forget it, I am out of here. Damn that Sandwich guy , can I have a gelato? Sir, Would you like your gelato in cup or cone, nuts or sprinkles, some chocolate syrup sir? 

See, you cannot handle even these simple choices, what will happen if I tell you to chose or create your own currency system, your own religion or perhaps the perfect parents you always wanted. No Sir, you want it all on your platter, and that brings us to the beginning and end of a generation who has misunderstood and will forget importance and essence of individuality. 

By the way Sir, How do you want your eggs - fried, scrambled or Sunny side up?

The writer they deserve

Sometimes I do not wish to write. It is a fear of falling short of expectations. Maybe this story is not as good as the last one, maybe it will not seem real enough; one of the characters might talk too much or come across as fake; and then there is always a temptation of twisting the end. But writing is much like life, no matter how much we liked it today, there will always be a tomorrow, there will always be good and bad times.

I was happy when I did not consider myself a writer, for I could write whatever came to my mind, in most uninhibited and candid manner. But then they said that you are a good writer and ever since I have to live up to that so called definition of ‘good’. Unlike me, he enjoyed being a writer. I hated that about him. I asked him once “Why do you not delve deep into human emotions, write about human misery, anger and happiness?” He smiled and just answered “I don’t deal in chemical reactions.” His characters were flowery, pointless, superfluous and pompous. I told him that I had read books in which animals talk, far better than his work. He simply agreed with me and said “My friend, it is only natural. Animals make much wiser talk.” It became my obsession to criticise both his work and his indifference towards its futility.

I remember that morning more clearly than I remember what I ate for lunch today. I was standing near the lake. Rays of sun were reflecting so much that I had to turn around as I waited with a troubled head. Police kept trying but could not locate his body. We would have never known about it, if it was not for a kid who had seen him earlier that morning. The kid said that he walked calmly into the lake and kept walking till he disappeared. Later that evening I kept sitting beside the lake, imagining him with his smile; a smile with which he disarmed the world and mocked it with each word he wrote. What troubled me most is that how can a person who was so nonchalant about his approach towards world, could take such a grave decision. I had trouble imagining what kind of agony he must have been going through, which he used to hide behind his deceptive smile.

The news of his suicide went viral. People, who had never heard of him, were talking about him in their business meetings; publishers who did not touch his work were now digging his grave (not literally) to find an unpublished novel, a half story written by him. Characters of his story were famous now. They were talk of the town. People wore costumes described by him to book reading forums and in local festivals. There was talk about making a movie, on misadventures of a stupid cop, based on one of his novels.

I kept staring at a blank sheet of paper and could write nothing, for no matter what I thought of writing, I felt guilt. Thought of writing something meaningful brought me a pain, a feeling that I was somehow deceiving him; that he was standing somewhere near and was mocking me. He had never criticised my work, but now it felt that he had being doing it all along. He had proved that after all everything is futile, like pretentious and hollow characters of all his stories. I hated them and I hated him, for taking away everything I had; my sense of purpose, the characters which I was proud of and a society which revalidated my beliefs.

I received a package today. It was from him. I kept staring in disbelief. My hands trembled when I opened it. There was a letter. It said –

“My friend, you were right all along. However you would have understood by now, this society only deserves the garbage I write.

PS: Please find my new book under my new name and in this one, animals talk. Hope you will enjoy it.”