A weird feeling

Sometimes I feel like I might run out of words. I’ve already run out of many things, and I’m destined to peter out someday, when the word-spool go mute—frustrated with the reception. It’s a crowded world, a world full of happenstance and probabilities that make jostling and sweating the only reward for the large majority of people.

It’s strictly Darwinian and Malthusian; I realized that more in India, where a reasonable way to explain it would be to say that when someone’s born, another falls off in the ocean. It’s crowded. And the opportunity to work with the existing resources is often deceptively bureaucratic or nonexistent. The whole economy runs on the premise that if you make a rupee from a billion people, you have a billion rupees. Not to mention that the only available job occupancy, to the majority barely-literate, with a thin veneer of educational patina, is the fraudulent arbitrage of upselliing this empty dream, that exposure to a large market on a trifle is even possible. Plus, someone has to keep the equations balanced and keep these people at a point where they are in a position to spend that rupee, not if they are fighting adversities that are hidden away by the media, which never has the time to cover any real news. The advertisements of the shining faces of India that are portrayed outside are just masquerading an image that India never was, behind which the government and it’s beneficiary businesses siphon tax payer money in the name of public projects to Swiss accounts. It’s magic, except this level of collusion is well known and considered a well deserved dowry given to a politician.

The real India doesn’t live in villages, cities, etcetera. The real India lives in the myths that obfuscate the reality of what is real and what is not. What we need is to get out of all this culture-centric baggage, rediscover ourselves, and secure a place in the world. This caste system, these Hindu-Muslim-Christian religious barricades, have to go; if there has to be any fiction that’s important, that’s the country, period. Let all the disparate and divisive old man on the cloud fairytales rest in peace where they deserves, in our libraries of our shared cultures.

The corruption that continues to erode India is perhaps the only legacy that we seem to be passing on with great efficiency, with morally bankrupt people at the helm, goons festooned with accolades, and a generally well-nourished spectrum of propaganda that has awarded the Indian media the status of a jester. The self-congratulatory style of saying whatever you want to say while keeping your head buried in the sand works well and gets lots of sponsorship, at least. I don’t know why I bother to write these laments. Nobody cares. But somehow something compels me to write, just in case there’s a future leader or thinker who might get inspired. Even a nobody has the right to dream good things for the place he calls home, no matter if that place is hostile to him, or doesn’t want him. I was born here, and that’s something that’s not going to change, nor are the impressions of my childhood years that has been formative in creating this neural network I call me.