Saturday Morning
So last night I discovered I really like the song Roobaroo. It was somewhere between several vodkas and a remixed version of Don’t Cha (enough with that song already!) that I hear “Aye Saala!”
For the next 4 or 5 minutes I found myself singing along without really knowing the words and feeling young and hopeful again. It was as if I were 17 and idealistic and had a future before me that could be anything I wanted it to be. I had dreams, I had pride in being an Indian and I had the drive to make it happen.
I had a terrible hangover this morning. And I wasn’t 17 anymore. I was a 27 year old with loan repayments, tax filing and groceries to buy. Gone were any illusions of idealism or dreams that extended beyond me and my loved ones. Being Indian was now a matter of fact rather than pride.
The funny thing is that I never really went through any nationalistic awakening when I was 17. Growing up in an upscale neighbourhood in Bangalore meant an insular life where happenings around the world meant nothing. Life was about college, doing well so I may get a good job or go abroad to study further. Life was about parties, what to wear, whom to go with and getting extensions on curfews. It was about looking good, being popular, taking your CAT or GMAT and catching up on gossip. The state of the country meant zip. Current affairs knowledge was kept updated for any B school admission interviews that might come about and that’s where its purpose ended.
Maybe every generation needs a cause and mine didn’t have one. Maybe it did but I certainly didn’t care.
Today I know that we live in a country where murderers will go scot-free and politicians will just get richer and greedier. As for me, I choose to live with my blinders on because that works well with my pragmatic attitude towards life.
My only regret? Somewhere I know I’ve missed a huge part of growing up. I know things are hopeless without ever having felt hopeful. I’m a cynic without ever having been a dreamer.
For the next 4 or 5 minutes I found myself singing along without really knowing the words and feeling young and hopeful again. It was as if I were 17 and idealistic and had a future before me that could be anything I wanted it to be. I had dreams, I had pride in being an Indian and I had the drive to make it happen.
I had a terrible hangover this morning. And I wasn’t 17 anymore. I was a 27 year old with loan repayments, tax filing and groceries to buy. Gone were any illusions of idealism or dreams that extended beyond me and my loved ones. Being Indian was now a matter of fact rather than pride.
The funny thing is that I never really went through any nationalistic awakening when I was 17. Growing up in an upscale neighbourhood in Bangalore meant an insular life where happenings around the world meant nothing. Life was about college, doing well so I may get a good job or go abroad to study further. Life was about parties, what to wear, whom to go with and getting extensions on curfews. It was about looking good, being popular, taking your CAT or GMAT and catching up on gossip. The state of the country meant zip. Current affairs knowledge was kept updated for any B school admission interviews that might come about and that’s where its purpose ended.
Maybe every generation needs a cause and mine didn’t have one. Maybe it did but I certainly didn’t care.
Today I know that we live in a country where murderers will go scot-free and politicians will just get richer and greedier. As for me, I choose to live with my blinders on because that works well with my pragmatic attitude towards life.
My only regret? Somewhere I know I’ve missed a huge part of growing up. I know things are hopeless without ever having felt hopeful. I’m a cynic without ever having been a dreamer.
posted by that girl in pink at 3:52 am
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