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The child has grown,the dream is gone. And I have... now become uncomfortably numb.Patrolling the two farthest ends of the G-wing terrasse of the geezers' (G has no analogy of any kind to weeds) hostel,if you would call it,with the mercury down to the freezing point of my feet and the reddening acme of my nose,I had attained my enlightenment.This was no Britney twaddle or a headbangers' ball.Pink Floyd was no imp.It was the very Devil in itself.It took me 2 hours 19 minutes and some 22 repetitions of this track,to gather the fact. Ok.. I might have become cognizant of the euphonic prepotency of the Floyds probably the 5th time Gilmour played in the second solo,but my mind wanted that The Show Must Go On..Ambling through Hello!Hello!Hello! I fathomed out that another 90 seconds of walk in the bitterly cold and this was doomed to become A Walk to Remember.The Enlightened One might end up amongst the paraphernalia of the 'Frozen Food' shop across the Subhash Cross. As the fact sank in my what-all-professors-christened dimwit brain,I descended the staircase,and to my room.
This was no Britney twaddle or a headbangers' ball.Pink Floyd was no imp.It was the very Devil in itself.It took me 2 hours 19 minutes and some 22 repetitions of this track,to gather the fact. Ok.. I might have become cognizant of the euphonic prepotency of the Floyds probably the 5th time Gilmour played in the second solo,but my mind wanted that The Show Must Go On..
"Umm.."
"Over with the sweet lullabies to the pissy missy?"
"Cut the crap.I was.."
"I deduce you have a 'My Chemical Romance' assessment the noon following this moon "
The guy is a bit of music himself and unfortunately I have a chemical hallmark on my professional resumé.
"So how are you two going together?"
"Alive and kicking.Now go to hell."
"So have you guys,you know...yet?"
"Will you SHUT THE FUCK?"
"Oooh!Baby's annoyed.Bee,Tea,Double You(he is yodeling this along with the visual gestures and the last syllable pops out with the tallest finger),check out the crimson of your cheek n ears.Cheers.It becomes you."Ah!Fathead oaf.With that he went to sleep in peace,that eventually,he had me blushing.Poor bloke,if only he'd construe that Pink Floyd was all over me.
Deciding that it was high time(again I emphasize that it's not alchohol),I opened my Shreve's Chemical Processes volume,though it didn't seem like the book required any further openings.The plants had had a conflict of ideas in their designing and I think they had a pretty nasty fight,as no two chapters had stayed in the harmonical thread binding them all.I tried convincing them come together but without any luck. So I started off with Psychoactive Medicinal Plants.All went well with their layouts till I absorbed that their products were hallucinogenic drugs.Back swam the Floyds again.I tried hard to centralize on the blue book,however failed to keep the Pink from my head.Guess,I am more of a ladies' man.I kept on trying to focus,but with the We don't need no education liquid ringing in my ears,doing me no good whatsoever in fighting the tornadoes of some chemical plant layouts,I gave up.A good workman worships his tools, hence I arrayed the Gathas from my chemical Zend Avesta in a neat file upon my study.The burly watchman would have heard the door of room 238 slam.
Leaning towards the cupboard,I made a final check as to the level of soporific content in my teddy's eyes.Once satisfied, I put out the lights, slipped out of my rugged slippers(those which none but me find cool), pulled off my overcoat,plugged in my lugholes, stood on the bed and then it came..Eyes bolted, lower lip twitched and hair flowed on my forehead all the way down as fingers ran on airy frets.People were soring in the stadium like bumblebees,some with tapers in their hands,others with bannners and placards all bearing the hV symbol(might pass on for High Voltage).Encore! Encore! was all that was echoing inside this amphitheater as the Maestro delved into the the tidal waters surrounding the archipelago of Coming back to life.Boozers and dopers were getting frenzy,swaying their necks in jerk with all the jagging and pull offs.The green-jacketed security men were facing a hard time keeping off crazy front row chicks from laying hands over the fanatic playing his war-machine imitating la petite mort.The band was witnessing a standing ovation from this Finnish audience.It was to become an epoch,a little dot in history where people would point and tell their little ones,"This was the time Apollo Musagetes strode on earth as music blew with the wind".
Leaning towards the cupboard,I made a final check as to the level of soporific content in my teddy's eyes.Once satisfied, I put out the lights, slipped out of my rugged slippers(those which none but me find cool), pulled off my overcoat,plugged in my lugholes, stood on the bed and then it came..Eyes bolted, lower lip twitched and hair flowed on my forehead all the way down as fingers ran on airy frets.People were soring in the stadium like bumblebees,some with tapers in their hands,others with bannners and placards all bearing the hV symbol(might pass on for High Voltage).Encore! Encore! was all that was echoing inside this amphitheater as the Maestro delved into the the tidal waters surrounding the archipelago of Coming back to life.Boozers and dopers were getting frenzy,swaying their necks in jerk with all the jagging and pull offs.The green-jacketed security men were facing a hard time keeping off crazy front row chicks from laying hands over the fanatic playing his war-machine imitating la petite mort.The band was witnessing a standing ovation from this Finnish audience.It was to become an epoch,a little dot in history where people would point and tell their little ones,"This was the time Apollo Musagetes strode on earth as music blew with the wind".
But Gilmour was nowhere to be found.He was probably sleeping in some far away English land, oblivious to the fact that Pink Floyd was performing their greatest gig ever.Even to the eternal verity that the band had conquered the sands of time and lived.Just a minor change in their line-up had proved to be their major asset.It was hV.And then, the entire night I kept on playing for Finland, center forward,then left forward, at times defender(when Roger took to vocals), all this while jumping over my bed which was creaking under constant torture.Sleep is contagious and even if I had my WBC's working harder than what WTC's crew would have been collectively,had it not been for Sir O.B.Laden,and with fatigue catalyzing the phenomenon,hV dozed off.
Next morning when I rose,(they say it's always morning whenever you rise) I found myself in the examination hall well before I gained consciousness.Hmm...seems like the statement was just colloquial. Now, let me tell you something about my assessment setters.They are some very partial fellows.They print my set of question paper in French.Not so well versed with the language, still I manage to scrap my bite off the Mc VegSurprise,at least the size that would keep me from starving.However this morning's newspaper was inked in Greek.No,seriously it was.I always call it newspaper as all that it bears is news to me. It had all those alpha beta stuff, weird symbols,flowcharts and many other pieces of art. I admired it.It felt like an oeuvre.I just pondered whether it would take a Michael Angelo or a Pablo Picasso to paint the required stuff on the answer sheet.Bell rang and I walked out of the hall having practically written nothing on the 16 page sheet I was provided with.
A Greek paper, and it humiliated a musician.Seems like Apollo Musagetes is loosing his polls especially among the Greeks.It happens.My mother taunts me a Hindi cliché about some hen pulse equality every summer month I skip meals from her kitchen for some grilled sandwiches at a godforsaken eatery.That's what my mom calls the place and this 'summer' month comes thrice in a week.Anyways, it explains the Apollo recession thing.
Results are declared and I just manage a six point something,still a step ahead of that Deutche Bank writer,what's his name?Umm....the premier TB schools backbencher* and I mean Tech and Business.Please,India may be a disease prone country but we don't have categorized schools for the victims and that too bearing the diseases' name.Yeah! it's Chetham Bhagat.No.Wait! that's quite of a me.He's Chetan Bhagat.
Again I stand at the bottom of a class,(colloquially)but I try not to care as I am a class in myself.I try hard not to flush for Loo-is Pasture,as I remember the rabies vaccine chemical plant I screwed in My Chemical Romance Examination(CRE).Pink is coming all over me recurring, as the upcoming so-called engineers of tomorrow chant their index on a scale of ten.Reminds me of Raavan.I feel under water.The movie tanked at the box office too.Had Raavan had just 7 heads even I'd have been a happy fellow.Or, shouldn't the pointers be interpreted on a seismic scale.The higher,the dangerous.I tried humming All in all you're just another brick in the wall.But the randomize playlist option in my music player gloomily chimed Mother do you think they'll try and break my balls.
Came evening as I set off to Bank Road,the name serving a self-defined misnomer.The lane is called Chetham lines.This explains the 'Chetham Bhagat' thing.I visited the place often for some self-introspection, a term I learnt from the diploma aristocrat of my college(probably that's what a diplomat means)peeping over the side slab of a dusty staircase of Seminar Hall.I sat on the green bench in front of Brigadier Abhay Kumar's residence,surfed through my Nokia classic's music files and resumed the Comfortably Numb soundtrack from where Roger sang I can't explain,you'll not understand,this is not how I am...
Pink Floyd had become a companion for life and I had become,
Comfortably Numb
*Disclaimer:The backbencher theme is just a presumption of the writer owing to the stories cooked up by Mr.Bhagat and it has nothing to do with the academic proficiencies of this celebrated FPS guy.
