Friday, November 12, 2004

A fictitious world - or not?

I did something today that I shouldnt have done. I took out the 70 Saudi Riyals I had stashed in a secret corner of my wallet and I converted them to Canadians. I don't know why I held on to them for this long. Perhaps as a sign of things past. But I asked myself what memories do they bring back; apart from the frustration, the anger, the confusion, the resentment, the misplacement, the unmendable relationships, the innocence and family - The answer is so tilted one way that it wasn't even debatable!
Tomorrow I sell my car.
Little by little, I descend into the hell hole of Mohsin; my character and his experiences.
A little girl (she'd be around 10, I suppose), a true lady in the making, gave me a cold stare, and waved her hand in front of her face, her olfactory lobes offended by the smell of the Colts Mild that I had lit up outside the library. I gave her a decent verbal input, as to what I thought she should do!
I walk a fine line. I have to remind myself that Daru is no role-model. He is the critique of the pretentious snobbery of our time, that is society. He is an artist's rendering, and the artist has used love as a metaphor for his irrationality, the celebration of his misfitness.
I need to remind myself of that fact, just as Mohsin needs to remind himself that Devdas is no role-model. His love too, is a metaphor for his oblique views that the feudals around him can not relate to. (Its never about love in the love story, its always the context)
There are people who live the 9 to 5, without dissent, without discomfort. They do it over and over again, for years and years. And then there's me, who was happy when his hours were reduced from a full week to a half week, even though that would mean a barely rent-cover amount. To whom the whole routine smells. And the longer it drags on, the rotten it gets!
I hope Mohsin survives for his own sake, to become the role model that Daru and Devdas are not, and I hope I survive to tell his tale.