For love of the Game, pt.1

It has started. Im growing up. Its incredibly uncomfortable, being tight under the armpits, but Im going to try to not whine over this.



What's that?



HOW does one know they're growing up?



Ah. Pretty simple really. You know you're growing up, when like a madrasi buffalo in march, you feel involuntarily drawn towards the comfort and cooling muck of the pool of standarized human experience. Suddenly, hush-puppyishly, you sigh with relief- unconciously- when you realize you're eatng where everyone else is eating. You're wearing the same shoes that all the other avid watchers of vh1 do.



Suddenly-


Those midnight chocolate fondue orgies on the watertank on your terrace...



Those dates in a sillhouetted gondola with Bocelli murmuring gentle arias in your ear...



Those orange trousers which you wore with your olive-green Woodlands... they dissapear.



You feel it grow. You can smell it, as it hides surreptitiously under the fridge. And earlier the dratted thing would only leave greasy fingerprints on the skirt of my Imagination when I wasn't looking, or when I had to appear particularly virtuous. Now? The venemous being threatens to take over my life- The curse of the Grow Up Garumph. More than my orange trousers have dissapeared.

Because of this Garumph, nowadays...

I am wary of singing Bohemian Rhapsody in the shower, wondering which house painter on the outside might hear and spread the tale of the Baritone Bathing Banshee.



I am wary of eating mum's cake batter by the fingerful, anxious now about the dissapearance of a puppy named Fat, and his place the slow growling of a cellulite bitch, horror stories of whom are discussed weekly at O.P.R.A.H cult gatherings.



I am wary of playing the Jack Of All Trades and the Pretender who laughs at most calling cards, because I have found that with dead leaders and washed out villages and cell phone wars- the knaves and the pretenders are asked to bear the crosses. Wear the badge. Protect the mothers. Because there is no one else.



I am wary of writing poetry when in love. I am in dread of when the lonely words come back after silent ages, and seek your skin out to wrap themselves around and then remind you with mystic goose bumps of what you once were.



My hair has faded, and I have forgotten to ask Susan, the Goddess of Shearic Style who works at Studio Profile, to trim these woeful sproutings. They curl and wave like Van Gogh's night sky, but I ignore them, worrying about things like mum's getting older and my pants seem to magically shrinking... sigh. Yes, I know. I know. One must face reality. The magic too is an illusion.

"Reality is merely an illusion, although a very persistent one"- Einstein.

[And yet, the blue goblin within me who lives on Amul sneaked over to the Quote Room yesterday, and squeaked with glee when he found what he wanted- Immediately I felt the words bonk me on the head:

"I don't want realism. . . . I'll tell you what I want. Magic! Yes, yes, magic!"- Tennessee Williams.

Sigh. The goblin's in solitary confinement]

Erm... where was I? Ah yes, post Einstein, ergo-

One must face reality. The fact that parents grow old, neighborhood brats grow up, and we must move on into the great ocean where all little fish know there's a piece of pink coral with their name on it. Face the music, child- with all its flats and sharps and missing trombone players.



And with this ...um... grown-up bravery in my pocket, I have been thinking about college.



HEY!!!



BACK OFF!!



Its NOT just because I have exit stage lefted from my alma mater. Its not just coz all the other little tele-tubbies who are 20 and 21 are doing the same thing. It's not even because the college bursar secretly paid me for this.



[Evil chuckles float up from the solitary confinement cell.

"tee hee"

Damn that goblin. Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise.]



Its because like it or feel the deep need to voodoo doll it, college has been my life for three years.



Set 'em up, joe. Its gonna be a long night. We drink to the end of an episode....



Honestly, what could I say about a place that has allowed me to put together a performance of the Ancient Mariner using Iron maiden, Metallica and America?



Kudos to my college. Stilfled uprisings, admissions of creatures who are future aspirants to the cast of that inspiring Burlesque show Carmen Electra used to be a part of, new buildings, old rules, extortion, excommunication, morning assembly gatherings, cat fights, one or two brilliant professors, 5 trees that are out of Tolkien, a common room that has a higher restricted entry status than the US Embassy in chennai, the banning of personal music.... in short, the stuff that makes our history, all us catholic college women.



College and I have had a funny relationship. Both equipped with a sense of humor- really, it takes A strange circus to elect me student leader. It shows the respect given to good communication and marketing in college. Ahem.

["um, Captain"

"Yes, Robert?"

"um, Captain- Strange gurgling sounds were being emitted from the solitary confinement cell. I went to check on the blue freak-"

"ROBERT!! WHAT have I told you about being politically correct??"

"Sorry, Captain. I went to check on the cobalt-shaded different-looking vertically challenged organism"

"Right. And what was wrong?"

"um... the offender was rolling on the floor, banging his fists on the cobbled stones, laughing hysterically. Gasped out in between the gurgling something about you being MAD worthy, Captain"

"Right. Back to your post, Robert"]

Sigh. No,wait.

There was more to it than a good campaign. College has believed in me, inspite of the anxiety endured due to my inability to wear a sari the way a female Indian human is meant to.

Like two old Victorian ladies, we have shown our teeth sweetly at each other over the coffee pot. Together, college and I have called each other's bluffs, at times forgiven each others faults. Sometimes not. We have pulled our sheeps clothing tight around us when campus got dark and chilly at 8:15pm ...we have run howling under
the moon, on our way to the great bonfire of the vanities of sundry staff members. We have taken, and we have given.



Its now over. No curtain calls, no citations.



Just a windcheatered grey day of me pulling up my metaphorical collar and walking away. Maybe one day, we will again sit together over a coffee pot. Till then, its me, myself and a purple Nokia 3310 named Barney.



My bags will be packed. Anxious prayers said to all the Gods That Be to preserve me from that strange affliction known as the Yankee Drawl. The mysteries of social security numbers and conversion rates will be explained to me.



While standing in motion on this escalator of an interim period, I wonder again about that Grow up Garumph.



Im not happy its happening, you know. Im beginning to feel boring. After 5 years of protocoling, bow n' scraping, and "doing the right thing"... Im more placid than Jack's cow.



"The discipline of desire is the background of character"- John Locke.

["Captain, strange sounds again-"

"Shut up, Robert"

"Aye, Captain. Sorry to bother you, Captain"]



Right.

My orange pants and Bocelli have been sacrificed on the altar of good character. Hm. But thats ok, yes? The world being as fragmented and hackneyed as it is, it isn't worth it- all this fighting and yelling and burning and blaze-of-glorying, and not going gentle into the good night. The bastards will get you down. Whether the wife, or the hubby, or the parental units, or the kids or the boss or the family guru SOMETHING will make you tuck your shirt in.



Why suffer the pain?



Why allow them to wring you dry of blood sweat and tears?



Why rage against the fishbowl?





......





Whoa.



Thats a big one.

Sigh.

Guess it had to come.





I mean I KNOW why I rage. But is it still worth it? And doesn't the Grown Up Garumph eat all those shiny things one shakes free from the aquatic plants?



[Taking a long delayed chocolate break, it was necessary that there was a pause in the blogging. Part 2 of this post will follow shortly. Signed, Bob, the Blue Goblin.]