Morning, October.

It’s 4 am, and I’m 27 years, 57 days and 18 hours old. Right about the point, I think, where two things start happening. One: You start worrying about things like your weight and your diet, that you should exercise more and cut down on the carcinogens, and all that nonsense grown-ups used to fret about. Two: You start believing in bullshit like God or fate or, I don’t know, democracy. And stop believing that you can change the world.

I see the late 20s and early 30s walking around in the glass ghettos of Gurgaon, and I despair. Striped shirts, middle-parted hair, frame-less glasses, laptop bags, smartphones, pot bellies, slouched shoulders. The kind of people I used to sneer at. It’s funny, how up until about 25 or 26, you are young, you are right and you are fucking bulletproof. There’s nothing in the world that you can not do. There is nothing you dare not dream about. Fate? Fate is an excuse for the cowardly. Fate is just another name for indecision.

Yesterday, while I was busy thinking, an asshole stopped his bike in front of me and started asking for directions to Hauz Khas Village. And I gave him the right directions! A couple of years ago, that would never have happened. He would’ve ended up at Badarpur Border, like he deserved to.

Next thing you know, I’ll be talking on a bluetooth headset and helping idiots back up their cars.

I have Yellow Ledbetter on repeat, and I have a feeling I’ve done this before, written this exact same post too.

And there, you see, lies my problem.

 

 

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