Oh hey there you fancy moustache-d burly young man in the fine boski ki shalwar kameez and kherri! What kind of animal are you hunting today; a deer, a swine or a whore from diamond market? Don’t worry, I won’t tell Papa Jaani. He already knows because that’s how genetics work. He passed on his honor with his semen into Ammi jee who screamed in agony as she pushed you out in to this big, bad world. But don’t you fret! You have those black ray ban sunglasses that you bought for 500 rupees (after bargaining and reducing the price from 800) from that adolescent Pathan downtown. They will save you from the UV rays of the evil eye, I am sure!
Walk with me, Bhai Jaan. Oh that strut of yours, you dandy peacock! Your stride is kingly; proud and erect as if you own this town (you sorta do). All the girls will be smitten when you push your sunglasses up your nose to conceal your brooding gaze and twirl your moustache with your fingers. They’ll gasp at the misconception of your vaguely reciprocated semi-grin. Then they’ll giggle and whisper mischievous conspiracies after they’re done dreamily gazing at you from behind the curtain of their balcony window until you disappear on your royal Honda City. Which reminds me maybe you could borrow Papa Jaani’s Reborn for that wedding we’re going to tonight? After all, society demands vanity, my brother! We must display it. It is in our blood. How else shall the common people know? When Daadi Jaan was feeding us from a golden spoon, Daada jaan was signing fancy paper work on his death bed and gift wrapping a whole village full of land to you.
The society (particularly the population who are related to us directly and/or indirectly) is so unfair to expect so much from you though. Accept my condolences that you were born with what is not only between your legs but also enclosed in your skull. It is a phallic tumor that is malignant, spreading inside out and rotting your mind to the core. I understand that this is exactly why some days you just don’t want to be the righteous Hatam Taai. What if you just want to be a shadow of Tyrion Lannister? Someone who is royal yet not bothered by the family (unless you have to pay a debt), always to be found in the brothel fucking prostitutes, drinking wine till you pass out and then ultimately waking up next morning to a horrid hangover and optimistic amnesia. But you won’t read books like Tyrion.
What would you with that rubbish? Build a career out of it? No, dear no. We shall not burden you with the responsibility of actually making an important decision about your life all on your own! We’ll leave your decision-making skills at the designer attire or branded shoe store.
Why would you not like that? Everything is being handed to you in a platter. You were always taught to do as you were told otherwise you would be considered a good-for-nothing son (that you are) who doesn’t give a shit about his parents (that you aren’t). But you are an obedient son and were a loyal grandson till the timely demise of Daadi Jaan – the first time you cried. So you are usually busy buying 3 kilos mutton, 1 kilo boneless chicken, yoghurt, tomatoes, onions, eggplant and not to forget 1 and ½ liter bottle of coca cola and sprite respectively. This is your gesture of affection for your 5 ft 1, soft spoken, perfectionist housewife Ammi jee who shall reward you with subtle tokens mostly in the form of food. Unlike Daadi Jaan she does not have the edge to defend you in front of Papa Jaani. I know you miss her.
Now the verdict’s been declared! You shall become an engineer or get a degree in Commerce or something related to computers. Then we shall hand you a ticket to some place in the Middle East with a 14 year old virgin girl handpicked from the family. Worst case scenario, you’ll end up majoring in Humanities at whatever Godforsaken ABC institute that will accept you with your grades in the gutter. In high school, you were too busy inhaling the perfumed smoke from sheesha in your friend’s attic or getting the hook of cigarettes because addictions are cool! You know what? Fuck that shit altogether! You’re not going to pass anyway so you should spend your whole day at Papa Jaani’s main market shop and spend every weekend at the Farmhouse surrounded by people who smell of cow shit and gold leaf cigarettes. (You’ll still get the preteen virgin nonetheless)
All day you’d scratch your crotch, spit on the road, befriend the owner of the shop that is neither a book shop nor a general store and maybe hold a grudge against the guy who reeks of supari and nicotine at the 2nd hand T-shirt shop across the street. You’d watch crude humorous stage dramas on a small TV set in upper corner of the shop right in front of your counter then regurgitate third class jokes to your new friends and laugh like drooling hyenas. Sometimes you might casually get together with a selective bunch of your old friends in an attempt to remember the young boy who wanted to become a pilot since 6th grade; once dreaming of flying far away from here to unknown lands and worlds. Instead you’d go out to secretly gulp down bottles of booze smuggled at your friend’s “extra” house, or the farmhouse of a friend’s friend, smoke a few joints and hazily whirl to the beats of loud bollywood music. Thus letting your days turn to nights and nights to days fading away moment by moment.
This fusion of peculiar interests you’d adapt at the prime of your youth drowns the worry of a prospective future in this world. You do not need to contemplate over the possibilities and opportunities you should seize. You believe in pre-destined fate, right Bhai Jaan? It was all written, carved in stone from the moment you took a blow to the buttocks from the mid-wife and with your first breath you cried for your unfortunate life. That is why at every Friday prayer you bow your head in oblivion and pray for the power to tolerate your fate. What are we but puppets in the hands of God, brother?
So with these bottles of red colored cheap energy drinks, let’s raise a toast to you and your life that shall be a spitting image of your forefathers! Here’s to a meaningless and miserable life! Cheers, brother!