Out beyond the ideas of right-doing or wrong-doing there is a field - I'll meet you there.


Saturday, November 22, 2008

My very own bildungsroman

Most young writers write at least one bildungsroman before they are out of their early twenties. Some, like Salinger and Hesse, hardly ever write anything else. I have often berated myself for not having done so while I was younger. I fear my meditative practice has subdued my existential angst and questions to a great degree. At the same time, my completely solitary existence has removed my mind from social contexts, making it difficult for me to frame my ideas in the form of narratives involving people. For these two reasons, I think I am now too old to be able to write `coming of age' literature.

I am happy to say, however, that, apart from poems and songs bemoaning my meaningless existence, I did write something of substantial length as a fiery and vacuous 22 year old: a three act play. While some of the metaphysics in it appears tacky now and some of the pop culture references gratuitous and pathetic, I am convinced that I could not have painted a better picture of the artist as a young man. Reading it three years after it was written, I find it quite unbelievable that I managed to weave in such a large number of events that occurred in the lives of my friends and myself in such a short piece of writing. Unfortunately, this means that several of my readers will find it hard to appreciate many of the parochial references and inside jokes - this is unabashedly a play written by a student of IIT Madras, for his college peers resident in the Godavari Hostel and with several people he knew at the time as his characters. For the same reason, the language is deliberately stilted and `Indian-pidginized' at times to capture and transmit the memory of times and places that have meant much to me.

Finally, and rather interestingly, I wrote this play over a period of two days, having been motivated by special circumstances. These special circumstances were as follows: there was this girl at my college an year my junior who had a sibling pact with me. To her mind, I was supposed to be to her what the Glass Man is supposed to be to Amelie. Her heart was set (for a brief period of time) upon a good-looking young lad in her own batch, among whose many virtues modesty and diffidence played a prominent role. This was intolerable to young Amelie and caused her to shed frustrated tears in my bosom one fine day.

Being a man of action, I determined to bring them together in an elegant manner. Since the kid in question lived in the same dormitory as I and was enthusiastic about theater, I resolved that I would have my dormitory put up a play in the annual IIT intramural competition that would allow me to cast the two young people as intensely passionate lovers. Having decided this, I apprised young Amelie of my intentions and she went away on her tippy-toes strewing roses out of her hat. The question of finding a good script, however, was to cause me some trouble. I could not think of a good idea, so I resolved to write one myself. Hence, this play emerged as an act of almost complete altruism (mixed with a small element of the desire to show off) from the practical point of view.

With one last point of order, I give you `Maskless at the masquerade'. The point is as follows: when I had written this play, the characters were all drawn from people that I actually knew, with their actual names. To preserve their privacy, I have changed their names here (except Fudu who has the coolest part anyway, and some of my old druggie friends who probably won't care one way or the other). I am rather inclined to give young Amelie's identity away as well as repayment for her asinine behavior a couple of months ago in Vienna. However, since she has given me to understand that her mother keeps trying to look up her daughter on Google in order to assure herself that the apple of her eye is acquitting herself the way all nice `Tam Brahm' girls should, I will desist.

Maskless at the masquerade


Cast


Siddhartha

Dad

Mom

Nerdy stereotype – Qumran Saleem

Lover (male) – Kevin

Lover (female) - Amelie

Pushy stereotype – Shikhar Fonsore

Cool stereotype – Gautam N Asokan `Fudu'

Faceless person


ACT I


(Scene – a typical urban sitting room – sofa set back center, chairs symmetrical up front. Discovered seated – Mom and Dad. Dad is impatiently leafing through a newspaper, Mom is sitting sullenly agitated. The atmosphere is one of an uneasy ceasefire)


Mom: How can you be so phlegmatic about this? Siddhu’s absolutely stopped studying and all you can do is sit and read about random acts of parliament.


Dad: It’s a lot better than having to think about that boy and all HIS acting, for one. (looks up to wall clock) It’s 7 already, and he still isn’t back from his basketball. (Harrumphs impatiently and resumes reading)


Mom: But, don’t you think he’s having some emotional problems, you know, like the ones that psychologist was talking about on NDTV the other day.


Dad: Emotional problems forsooth! What kind of emotional problems, may I ask? Girls? With a face like his, do you suppose a girl would look at him twice? The boy is plain lazy. Spoilt and lazy! If only I had been firmer with him when he was younger …


(Enter Siddhartha stage left, dribbling basketball, gauges the scene, stops anticipating a harangue. Dad dips back into his paper)


Mom: Didn’t I tell you to be back by 6, Siddhu? You know study time is from 6 to 10, don’t you?


(Sid makes an elaborate grimace, then sits on the chair left front and closes his eyes)


Mom: Don’t be insolent, Siddhartha. You know your father and I have been worried about your studies. How can we feel reassured when you spend all your time playing and roaming around town?


Dad: See that, this girl’s got 96.8 in CBSE …. No! No! That photo down there in the corner. Can you think of the kind of competition this generation has to deal with? It beats me. Of course, some geniuses don’t have to concern themselves with that at all, you know? They will loaf about reading novels and playing stupid computer games and marks will take care of themselves.


Mom: Are you listening, Siddhu? Your batchmates have all matured and are taking their work seriously. Your father and I think it’s high time you did the same. These four or five years are going to decide the course of your life, son. You can’t expect to close your eyes and make that reality go away, can you?


Answer me Siddhartha, your father and I have been asking you this since you were in 9th class. How are you going to get into IIT if you persist in studying just two hours a day and associating with all the under-achievers in your class?


Oh, I know a way to loosen the strong, silent types … yes I do!


(Goes over and pulls his ear)


Siddhartha: Ouch! Oh yeah! I’ll show you …


(Grabs her around the waist and playfully shoves her on to the sofa)


No Ma! Seriously! Can’t we move on from this subject ever? You said it yourself; you’ve been on it for the last four years. Aren’t you ever tired of it?

Mom: I am tired of you acting like a kid, Siddhu. You have to grow up and start acting your age. In five years, you will be …


Siddhartha: Yes I know … a grown man, contributing member of society, responsibilities, duties, income tax returns, blah. Let’s change the subject, Ma.


Dad: How long are you going to keep changing the subject, son? You have to grow up and take charge of your life, haven’t you? Do you imagine you’re going to have us to take care of your needs all the time?


Siddhartha: So what would you rather have me do, Dad? Become a door-to-door salesman peddling soap to start earning my own keep and stop burdening you with having to pay for my food?


Mom: Siddhu! Don’t you dare talk to your father like that. All we want to know is what you plan to do with your life, son. That isn’t a very great imposition, is it?


Siddhartha: But this is so ridiculous, Ma. On the one hand you people want me to grow up and be independent. On the other, you are asking me to seek YOUR approval for what I want to do. Don’t you see how you are contradicting yourself?


Mom: A glib tongue doesn’t put food on the table, son. You can mock us and call us old-fashioned if you like. But don’t forget where our old-fashioned hard work got us.


Dad: Your grandfather was a clerk making 60 rupees a month. And with those 60 rupees he gave me and your uncle an education. And I can never remember ever asking him for anything. You hear me? Those were the days when a youngster would never dream of answering back or staring insolently at elders, as seems to have become the fashion these days. Ah! But I bore you, I am so very sorry. Go ahead inside; your video game must await you eagerly seeing that the two of you are seldom apart.


Mom: Why don’t you show Siddhu that advertisement about that Brilliant Test Series? I am sure it’s a good thing. Have you heard of this before, Siddhu?


Siddhartha: Um … actually Ma, I think I ought to tell you people now. I don’t want to go to IIT. I am thinking of stopping studying for it.


(Stunned silence, Dad puts paper down and then takes it up again)


I’m serious. I don’t see why I should waste my time trying to get something just because it’s hard to get. I don’t know what engineering is. I wouldn’t know a worm gear from a hole in the ground. I simply can’t see what the whole hullabaloo about getting into engineering is about.


Mom: Well? Aren’t you going to say something?


Dad: Who me? Say something? Is there anything left for me to say? Is there anything new in what he says? “Thinking of stopping studying”? When was the last time anyone saw this boy study?


Yes, I understand you perfectly, Siddhu. You and all your generation are a bunch of spoilt brats. We have given you all the comforts of life without your having to make any of the sacrifices we had to make. You people don’t understand the value of money, of discipline, of hard work, of anything except your desire for instant gratification.


Very well, Siddhartha. You know how we are bound to provide for you, and that knowledge makes you arrogant. Go ahead and do as you please. Life teaches everyone, my son. She’ll teach you too. Mark my words.


(Exit Dad stage right)


Mom: Don’t mind your Dad, Siddhu. He’s been tense these days over that Reliance portfolio. But you know, you really shouldn’t scare us like that. What else would you do if you didn’t do engineering? You dropped Bio after 10th, didn’t you?


Siddhartha: I am thinking of joining the merchant navy or the NDA


Mom: What’s that? The merchant navy? My son sweeping up decks on luxury cruises and pimping for the tourists? Siddhartha, your father is right; you are incorrigible and lazy and a disgrace to the family.


(Flurried exit Mom stage right)


The merchant navy – what are youngsters coming to these days ……


(Enter Qumran stage left)


Qumran: Hey Siddhartha, there’s a quiz at Landmark tomorrow. I’ve been looking for partners. You want to come?


Sid: No man! I am in the dog-house here. I can’t go out more than once this week now and I have a ball-game on Saturday.


Qumran: Oh, never mind then. By the way, are you done with my GEB yet?


Sid: It’s more a journey than a destination, I guess. Nah, just kidding; I’ll give it back to you by the weekend. See you later.


(Enter Kevin stage left, exit Qumran stage left)


Sid: Kevin my man! Come along in and bring the roses back to my cheeks. What is my favorite beatnik up to these days?


Kevin: You know what Sid? The one thing I absolutely loathe about people who drink? They have no taste for refinement. I was reading ‘Catcher’ the other day and my bro came in from some birthday party or the other. And I tried talking to him about it and he started calling Salinger all kinds of names. Blah!


Sid: You were reading Salinger? What was this, about the hundred and seventeenth time?


Kevin: How can you keep count of Salinger’s books, Sid? They are more than literature. They are Truth, with a capital T.


Sid: You should go talk to Amelie. She says the same thing about Ayn Rand.


(Pretends cleaning his tongue)


Blah! I took that intellectual prostitute’s accursed name again.


Kevin: I’m with you on that, people who like Ayn Rand ought to be lined up against walls and shot. Er …. Do you know what Amelie is up to, by the way?


Sid: Ha ha ha! This is so pathetic. Why don’t you tell her you love her, you poor little dweeb? How come the wells of your eloquence dry up as soon as she shows up?


Kevin: Who me? Amelie is a rag, a bone and a hank of hair. Whatever put that idea in your head? And wipe that silly grin off your face.


What? What are you implying? Oh God! You’ve been talking to Keerthi. I’ll murder that empty-headed flibbertigibbet, if it’s the last thing I do.


Sid: Relax man! Where’s the fire? Now, why don’t you tell me about it?


Kevin: It’s all lies, man! How could you ever imagine such a ridiculous idea?


Sid: Well, I must confess I wouldn’t have considered it very likely, but I think we needn’t go into proving the thing any more. Look at yourself dude, you’re positively blushing. If you start fluttering your lashes now, I just might end up kissing you!


(Enter Shikhar stage left, excitedly)


Shikhar: Sid! Kevin! Ah, this is my lucky day. I wanted to talk to both of you.


Sid: Hey man Fonsore. Have you heard the latest about our man Kevin?


Kevin: For the love of God and the fear of my fist, Sid …


Shikhar: Whatever, whatever. You know what they’re doing at Landmark this year?


Sid: Er… selling books, as always?


Kevin: I think he means the quiz. It’s tomorrow right?


Sid: You’ve never quizzed in your life Fonsore, why do you want to start now?


Shikhar: Because, my dear morons, this year they’re giving out certificates of merit to all the participants, not just the finalists.


Sid: So?


Shikhar: So you get a certificate of merit from Landmark for just putting in an appearance, talk about manna dropping from heaven.


Sid: I’ll pass


Kevin: Yeah, me too. Fonsore, did anyone ever tell you what a huge phony you are?


Shikhar: Yeah well, tell you what Kevin, I’ll take being me over reading soppy books and writing god-awful stream of consciousness blog posts angling for ego-massaging comments on blogspot any day. See you guys, got to run.


(Exit Shikhar stage left)


Kevin: What on earth was that supposed to mean? You dig, Sid?


(Enter Fudu stage left)


Fudu: Oh man! I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life, you guys. I swear I’m never going to a play with my Mum ever again.


Kevin: Let me guess, she dragged you to an uber-feminist club and made you watch something loosely based on Fountainhead, did she? You want us to witness your will?

Fudu: No man, it was this stupid slapstick comedy with all kinds of explicit sex jokes.


Sid: Oh mama!


Fudu: Jeez man. And not some subtle double entendre stuff you can pretend to not understand. It was stuff like, “Chinese men have small penis. Ha ha ha”.


Kevin: Brilliant. What did you do?


Fudu: I don’t know man, it was so embarrassing. I am sure she knew I understood everything that was going on. What was I supposed to do?


(Enter faceless person stage left)


FP: Excuse me, could you help me get where I want to go?


Kevin: First left, third right, look for a sign reading something I have no clue about.


FP: Thank you.


(Exit faceless person stage left)


Sid: Yeah man, that happens all the time when we have the TV on. I’ll be watching something on Discovery like a good boy and suddenly they’ll start talking about pheromones and intercourse and sexuality and all that jazz and I won’t know which way to look.


(Lights fade)


Kevin: All hail the mighty remote control.


Fudu: I swear man; I always wish people came with ON/OFF buttons.


END OF ACT I


ACT II


(Scene – Siddhartha’s college room. He is lying in bed reading a novel. Enter Qumran stage left, carrying a large piece of thermocol and a razor blade)


Qumran: Hey Sid! What’s up with you? Mind if I work in your room for a bit? LED is playing loud rock music next door to my room; I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing.


(Sits down and starts paring away the thermocol carefully)


Siddhartha: What are you doing, Saleem?


Qumran: It’s a very interesting thing you know, I drew up the blue-print last week. In a nutshell, I have to reduce the size of this thermocol piece by a factor of four, while retaining all its essential functions.


Sid: Er … What exactly are its essential functions?


Qumran: Well, imagine if you could talk to people and do all your email and surf the web and watch TV and porno movies all on a device no larger than your fist, what would you be like?


Sid: A rather myopic and perverse couch potato with a hyperactive thumb, I would suppose. So is this supposed to be a PDA?


Qumran: The very latest thing. And if I can pull off this particular miniaturization procedure, I am sure I’ll get a patent for it, at the very least.


Sid: I don’t know man. What’s the point of having a Personal Digital Assistant if you end up never wanting to do anything?


Qumran: Eh?


Sid: I mean, you need an assistant when you’re running out of time, right? What you are trying to do is to give people more time, right? You’re trying to make things work faster; you’re trying to make lives move faster. But what are you going to do with the time you save?


Qumran: Simple! I’ll miniaturize the PDA further, and further, till you get nano-PDAs that fit into your body cells and interact with each other and the old human dream of telepathy and telekinesis will be realized. Have you no romance, Sid?


Sid: Well, the way I see it, the only thing all these little ringing things we’ve started carrying around has done is devalue the ideals of conversation and intimacy. What happens when everyone has a cell phone and can talk to everyone else for free?


(Enter Fudu stage left)


Oh hi Fudu, what’s up man?


No man Qumran, the only difference your little toys are making is that they are helping people fool themselves into satisfied complacency better and quicker.


Fudu: Oh boy, has he gone on one of his anti-cell phone tirades again? Relax Sid; we know you’ve had a traumatic long-distance relationship. But you can’t get all of us to go back to making cave-paintings, can you?


Qumran: Exactly! We have to keep moving, we have to keep evolving.


Sid: You think a little box that plays Beethoven and Bach atrociously and distracts you at all the wrong times and places you at the service of every Tom, Dick and Harry every second of your life represents progress?


Fudu: Ok, Sid. Breathe! Face it; you are in cell phone withdrawal. Just don’t talk about it.


Qumran: I suppose that should do for now. I’ll catch you guys later, men. And Fudu is right, you know. Maybe you should join one of those ‘Art of Living with a cell phone and stress ulcers’ classes. I joined one last week so I can chat with my project guide.


Fudu: Why on earth would anyone want to associate with a project guide outside class?


Qumran: That’s how it works, I am told. Vijay who went to UIUC last year told me he did that and ‘put Sundays’ and got a ripping recommendation.


Sid: What’s he mean by ‘put Sundays’?


Abo! Qumran, you idiot! He must have said, ‘put fundaes’, you ass. He meant he went and sucked up to him.


Qumran: OOOH!


Ok, it’s not that funny, you guys. Yeah, fine, laugh all you will. I’m off. See you later.


(Exit Qumran stage left)


Fudu: Man! This beats everything. Actually, you know what, Sid. I think Qumran is onto something good here. My project guide goes to a yoga class. I think I’ll go and join him. At the least, he won’t razz me as badly if he remembers that we squirt water through the nose and do other weird stuff together.


Sid: Yeah right! I’ll go check if mine is into Russian ballet or tap-dancing, I guess. Man, I hate this recommendation hypocrisy on campus. I feel like talking to professors because they seem like interesting people and then stop myself, thinking they’ll think I’m angling for a reco. It’s positively sickening!


Fudu: Well, what if they think you’re angling for recos? You know you aren’t, right?


Sid: Yeah, but I’d hate to be thought of as a sycophant.


Fudu: Ok, whatever man. You’re the one who says he doesn’t care for what other people say, not me. Your trouble, Sid, is that you think too much. Try being superficial, like me.

Which reminds me, you went and scored grass from that Poonamallee place last weekend, didn’t you? You have any left?


Sid: Nah! I just got it for these guys. They’re too worried about that new ACP guy who’s cracking down on marijuana dealers, so Nishant and I went and got it for them. You know I don’t do pot any more man, I told you.


Fudu: Correction – you don’t do any pot until someone in the wing scores any. You did smoke up with Haddi and Srinath last weekend, didn’t you?


Sid: The weekend before the last, and that was in that whole post-GRE unhappiness week, so that doesn’t count.


Fudu: Ok anyway, anyway, anyway … the point is, either do it and be happy about it, or don’t do it and don’t think about it. But don’t do it and then moon about how you shouldn’t be doing it.


Sid: Yeah, I guess you’re right. But bottom line, I’m not doing any tonight.


Fudu: Why not man? It gets you high, no?


Sid: Doh, don’t give me that initiation speech. I’m sure I figure higher on the Dean’s dope list than you after all the pot we did last semester. And I know it hurts the body and mind about as much as watching a stupid movie.


Fudu: There you go, you said it. I don’t get why people are so paranoid about marijuana, you know.


Oooh! Marijuana is a D-R-U-G. Marijuana is B-A-D. Everyone who smokes pot is a danger to society. Man, all these people should go read some Huxley and listen to some Floyd.


Sid: Fudu man, the point isn’t that dope is bad. The point is that dope is pointless.


Fudu: So what is it that has a point then?


Sid: I don’t know. That’s the one thing I want to know – what is the point? If I knew, I wouldn’t need to ask any more questions.


Fudu: So, since you aren’t sure you have a platform to stand on, you can’t really criticize my viewpoint, can you?


Sid: I don’t know about that. I think South Park put my theory in a nutshell when they get Stan to say, “The only bad thing about doing grass is that it makes you feel ok with being bored instead of trying to get rid of that boredom by learning stuff and being creative and all.” You remember that episode?


(Lights fade)


Fudu: Which one was it? Let me see …


Sid: My future self and me: sixth season I think.


Fudu: Oh, that, huh.


ACT II


SCENE TWO


(Scene – a bench in a park stage back center left, Sid is discovered lying on a mat under a tree with a book on his face, he appears to have nodded off)


(Enter Kevin stage left, he is dressed down and is reciting lines from the Rubaiyat)


Kevin: A book of verse beneath the bough

A loaf of bread, a flask of wine – and thou

Beside me singing in the wilderness


(Sid stirs, wakes up and watches the proceedings)


No, damn … she won’t like the reference to wine, and I hate drunks. And besides, they tell me her singing voice curdles milk. She’ll either think I’m being sarcastic, or she’ll get over-enthusiastic and end up singing ‘Hotel California’ and defiling my aesthetic sensibilities. Let’s think of something else … hmm, how does that Byron thing go?


She walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies

(Enter Amelie stage left; Kevin can’t see her for the nonce)


And all that’s good of dark or bright

Meet in her aspect and her nose


Oh heck! Why do I keep thinking about her nose?


Amelie: What about my nose?


Kevin: Oh not yours, I was thinking of Cyrano de Bergerac … no wait, I was thinking of …


Amelie: Doesn’t matter.


Kevin: But I was thinking of …


Amelie: Doesn’t matter.


Kevin: But…


Amelie: DOESN’T MATTER, you silly dolt!


(She sits beside him, he squirms and slides to the far side of the bench, then starts sidling closer)


And I have two assignments to submit tomorrow so I can’t stay too long. So, let’s talk.


Kevin: Oh yes, “A book of verse beneath the bough…”


Amelie: Kevin …

Kevin: Er, yes my love?


Amelie: Must you always say things you think I would like to hear? That is so very childish. Now, tell me how much you love me.


Kevin: I love you very much, my love


Amelie: Do you think I am very beautiful?


Kevin: Er, no my love.


Amelie: What! But yesterday you told me you thought I was the most beautiful woman in the world.


Kevin: Yes, but today is Saturday and our “Art of Living with a cell phone and ulcers” teacher has assigned Saturday as the “I shall not tell lies today” day.


Amelie: Ok, that settles it; I shall not see you on Saturdays as long as you stick to your stupid class.


Kevin: I’ll make up for it by telling you tonight all the things that are absolutely true, what say?


But you have to stop being angry with me.


Amelie: Aw, my poor little Kevin-kins. There there …


(They embrace)


Kevin: I don’t think there is anything left for me to say.


Amelie: Tell me this will last forever.


Kevin: Ok, this will last forever.


Amelie: Tell me we shall never be apart, except now when I have my 9.4 grade point average to look after and later when I shall be a high-powered executive running my own software company with no time for the family and a bunch of affairs.


Kevin: We shall never be apart, except now when you have your 9.4 grade point average and later when you shall have your own software company and have no time for the family.


Amelie: Ah Kevin, I am so lucky. I never thought I’d step out of school and find the perfect man for myself at the very first try. It seems almost pre-destined.


Kevin: I should think so. The first guy you ever saw in your life is, without a doubt, perfect for you. Just as you are perfect for me, though I can’t for the love of God figure out why.


Amelie: Ah! This is the relationship I’ve been looking for all my life. I can’t live without you and you can’t live without me. What an overpowering sense of security!


Ah yes! This is love, the one and only love, without a shadow of doubt. Take me into your arms, Kevin … But wait, it’s 10 already, Sweatha is going to be extremely red in the face if I don’t get back and do our assignment. I must run, Kevin-kins, good night.


(Exit Amelie stage left, Kevin sinks back on seat, waits a bit impatiently then scrabbles about for his cell phone)


Kevin: (over the phone) Yes, it’s me, I wanted to ask you, er … have you eaten something, my love? Oh, you have? Then … er… have you enough clean bed-sheets? Oh, you do? Then …er…er… (Coughs and wheezes) I think I have a fever; I’ll get myself to bed. What? Oh no, I’m fine. No, no, I don’t need any medicines. No, I’m not getting any. You’re going to bring some down to me? Oh well, if you must. I’m waiting.


(Exults, exits stage left, Sid gets up and looks after him)


Sid: As Puck would say, “Lord what fools these mortals be.” But why do I have a hard-on?

(Boisterous entry stage right – marching band with tom-toms, cutting capers, bringing up the rear is Shikhar Fonsore, fiddling about with a pencil on a writing pad)


Sid: Who? What? Where?


Shikhar: Oh, hi Sid old man, would you mind moving a little to the left, I want these guys to get their parts pat. Move it people.


(Band starts marching in an Escher knot, Fonsore keeps fiddling with pen and paper)


Sid: But … but, who are these guys? And what are you trying to do?


Shikhar: Oh them … they are QMS coordinators and I’m trying to get ISO certification for our marching act.


Sid: What the … what on earth is a QMS coordinator? And why in heaven’s name would you want to get certification for something you’re doing for yourself?


Shikhar: They do it every year anyway, don’t they? Makes sense to do it properly, right?


Sid: But you do it to give people a chance to untangle their own Escher knots, right? Why do you need to go to all this bother to have some arbitrary auditors to come in and stick a stamp on a piece of paper and give it to you?


Shikhar: It’s about credibility, Sid. We have to appear competent, or else.


Sid: Or else what? We don’t get sponsorship? We don’t get money to do stupid things like build paper bridges that melt in the rain and weird towers that can’t stand up for themselves?


Shikhar: Hey Sid, you think you’ve got it all figured out because you read Nietzsche and all those other constipated old fogies. But what I am doing here is where the real world is at. And you have to get real at some point or the other, my idealistic young friend.


Sid: Not if that reality comprises of getting other people’s approval for doing things neither I nor they care about.


(Enter faceless person stage right)


FP: Excuse me, could you help me get to where I want to go?


Shikhar: Second right, first left, look for a big tree and turn right again beyond it.


FP: Thank you.


(Exit FP stage left)


Shikhar: You just don’t get it do you, Sid? Here I am, trying hard to get Six Sigma going on the ground, and all you do is sit in your room and listen to Floyd and read Kant and criticize people who are trying to be somebody.


Sid: You do know that Floyd moved on from Six Sigma, don’t you? By the way, what is this famous thing? I’ve always wanted to know.


(Sits on bench)


Shikhar: Ah, now you’re talking. It’s a beautiful concept. The fundamental objective of the Six Sigma methodology is the implementation of a measurement-based strategy that focuses on process improvement and variation reduction through the application of Six Sigma improvement projects. This is accomplished through the use of two Six Sigma sub-methodologies: DMAIC and DMADV…


(Sid falls asleep, lights fade)


Gives us a standard to judge scope for initializing optimization procedures, which help … (voice fades)


END OF ACT II



ACT III


(Scene – a metaphorical setting. Qumran is sitting at a desk covered with thick dusty books and esoteric paraphernalia back left. On top of his books, he has a lantern burning. Kevin is sitting on the floor, front center, with a whisky flask and scribbling in a tattered little notebook. Fonsore is sitting at a table right back talking on a very small piece of thermocol and using it to do a lot of things; he keeps mouthing instructions to a lot of imaginary people. Fudu is dressed like a dandy and is sitting at a dinner table back center, starting from the outside and working his way in. Siddhartha is discovered roaming around with a pillow in his hand, impatiently looking for a place to sleep)


Siddhartha: Can’t find no peace, can’t find no peace …


(Goes to Qumran)


What can I do, Qumran? I just can’t find anywhere to lay my head down and find peace. Tell me, what must I do? Where can I go?


Qumran: I told you before, didn’t I, Sid? Focus, focus is the key. Look at me now; I have spent 27 years of my life designing hetero-junction bipolar transistors. This is living, my friend.


Sid: So, you’ve basically spent your life tinkering around with little boxes that fit into bigger boxes and you’re content with that?


Qumran: It isn’t what you do that matters, Sid. It’s what you feel doing it. I work all the time, look at this lamp burning midnight oil. We are both partners in our lonely toil late into the hours of the night.


Sid: You could be right, Qumran. But, if to burn the midnight oil in the bright light of the day, to lock oneself up in a gloomy attic forever and never see the beauty of the world is happiness, then I fear happiness is not for me.


(Walks off, finds Kevin)


Kevin! What are you doing, you nut! What are you doing sitting here on the street like that? Ugh! Your breath reeks of whisky. When did you take this up?


Kevin! Talk to me, man. What’s happened to you?


Kevin: Eh! Oh, it’s you Sid? Nothing’s wrong, I’m just a little bird, see me fly. Tweet, tweet.


Sid: Get a grip on yourself, dude. You can’t be drunk in such a clichéd way, boy!


Kevin: Drunk! Who’s drunk? I’m in love, Sid, I’m in love.


Sid: Who is it now? Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over that fickle wench! I told you those Saturday night OAT movies would dish you.


Kevin: How does it matter, man? You know what I’ve realized? To be in love, you don’t need to like other people, you know. You need to hate yourself and despise yourself so you feel like looking for approval from others. I can’t begin to tell you how much in love I am Sid, because I hate myself so much.


(Pulls out flask and takes a long swig)


You want some?


Sid: I wish I could, Kevin. Nothing in the world makes sense anyway, so why not knock oneself senseless with this thing that burns and quenches. But this is just another way of fooling myself, another way of trying to cheat Life. I guess I have to keep looking, Kevin, though that burns me even more.


(Walks off to Fudu’s table)


Fudu, old friend, you’re the one who always had all the answers. Tell me now, what do I do?


Fudu: Whoa Sid! If this is another one of your stupid women sob stories, I don’t want to hear it.


Sid: No man, I’m serious. I just don’t know what to do about anything. Nothing in my life makes sense; I can’t take it any more.


Fudu: Fisk fork for the fish, meat fork for the meat, salad fork for the salad, you’ve got to learn to play the game, Sid. It’s pointless and hypocritical if you are bright enough, but there’s no getting away from it, dude. Face it.


Sid: So are you happy playing around with forks and spoons and making after-dinner toasts. Is that all you ever wanted to accomplish in your life? Is that the best you can do with that sharp mind of yours? Be a droopy, moldy little sinecure?


Fudu: Yeah, a happy, contented moldy little sinecure


Sid: I wish I could believe you, Fudu. But if I did, where would that leave us? Would that mean that everyone bright enough to realize how superficial the natural human plane of existence is should become a little wallflower that sits around and looks pretty, and leave it to the idiots to decide how humanity evolves and progresses?


Fudu: That’s just your ego speaking, Sid. If you ask me, humanity is old enough to take care of itself. Be a capitalist, Sid – if you take care of yourself at the micro level, the big picture will take care of itself.


Sid: I don’t see that happening.


Fudu: That’s because your conceit won’t allow you to believe that the world is going to survive and flourish without your unique contribution. It doesn’t matter what you do or I do, Sid. We’ll all just jump around, by ourselves or through hoops and then die. How does it matter?


Sid: Then why not just die?


Fudu: You’re going to anyway, right? Since that is one thing that is sure to come to you, I’d say it makes more sense to try those things that you’re not sure about.


Sid: You scare me, Fudu, you really do. Some people have to raise their hands to be counted; some people have to believe that they can make a difference.


Fudu: Right. Why does it have to be you?


Sid: That is a choice I make.


Fudu: Then you have to live with it. But if you really want to make a difference, you’ll have to believe something material really matters a lot to you, and I don’t see that happening, Sid. I don’t see that happening, man.


Sid: I don’t see anything happening, and I’m waiting for something to happen and tell me which way I ought to go. I’m not walking; I’m just sitting by the road, waiting for a guide to come by.


(Moves to Fonsore’s table)


Fonsore, you always had the most happening around you always. You always had the most ideas and energy. Talk to me, I’m confused. I can’t see how I can …


Shikhar: I’d love to talk, Sid, but, as you can see, time is money here, and I can never get enough of either. You can take an appointment if you want me to be your mentor, if you like.


Sid: My mentor, eh? Oh well, I don’t really see why not. Here …


Shikhar: Please be seated. Good afternoon, my dear sir. I can see that you have come here through your feeling of ineffectuality and low self-worth. You feel that you are inadequate in fulfilling your organizational role and this causes you extreme anguish. Fear not, with my patented method, “The four secrets of successful sycophantic promotion tactics”, you will get ahead in less than three weeks or else you get your money back. Now as you will no doubt have noticed …


Sid: Er, Fonsore …


Shikhar: That the corporate hierarchy has a very predictable bureaucratic structure …


Sid: Fonsore!


Shikhar: And it shall be our objective to study its strengths and weaknesses …


Sid: Fonsore!


Shikhar: …and … Ouch! What?


Sid: You’re missing the point.


Shikhar: No, no, as my pamphlet on “Successful Logic Obfuscation” conclusively proves, the man in the three piece suit and top hat is always right. You’re missing the point.


Sid: You don’t have a top hat, and I don’t feel inadequate in what I want to do. I don’t have a reason to do anything. Why should I?


Shikhar: Is that a trick question, or what? To get ahead, obviously.


Sid: Get ahead of what? Get ahead of whom?


Shikhar: Other people, of course.


Sid: So, essentially, if you were the only person in the whole world, or if you were cast on a desert island with a volleyball, you wouldn’t do anything at all? Does all that you do depend on what other people’s priorities are?


Shikhar: Ah, Sid, philosophy is a hard addiction to break. When I am the only person in the world, I’ll think about it. Till then, I live in a society, and I will keep trying to survive by being the fittest in whichever game they care to play.


Look at it this way. I do what people expect me to do and get ahead. You don’t do what people expect you to do, and take that medallion of iconoclasm and parade it about for all to see. Don’t you see that you’re just as dependent on other people as I am?


(Sid staggers to front center)


Sid: Yes! Yes, I see what you mean. No, no I don’t see what you mean. Where have I gone wrong? Have I not denied myself the simple pleasures of life? Have I not tried to live by my ideals and looked in every arcane literary nook and cranny for wisdom to fill my head up with? Have I not tried? Have I not sacrificed? Why can’t I find my answers?


Why can’t I feel happy? How can people just choose a mask for themselves and call it a face and live with a smile on it the whole of their lives?


(Moves to Qumran’s table and trashes it as he speaks)


How can a man spend his life cooped up with instruments and gadgets in a dingy room, finding the meaning of his life in long rows of numbers that come and go, finding the purpose of his life in tinkering with soulless chunks of metal?


(Moves to Fudu’s table, repeat performance)


How can a man live for no purpose other than blending in and going with the flow? How can a person not use his mind to do anything other than find pleasure in the present for himself until he has no present? How can people keep toying with forks and spoons all their lives and never know what food is like or for?


(Moves to Fonsore’s table, repeat performance)


How can bits of paper mean more to a man than his body and mind? How can little bits of plastic and sand spin a person faster and faster like a top or a marionette until he finally falls? Why would a man ration his daily quota of peace and happiness if he doesn’t know if he will live the next instant or not?


(Moves to Kevin who’s lying on his side with the flask in his hands)


How long can a man run from himself, drown his shadow in pools of alcohol? How can anyone tie himself up in chains of bondage from head to toe, and feel light of heart and easy of mind? How can love be so beautiful in the soul and so pathetic in the mind?


(Drops to his knees)


And if everyone else can live in peace with their miserable deluded selves and still find happiness, why not me? Oh God, why not me?


(Enter faceless person, stage left)


FP: Excuse me, could you please direct me to where I want to go?


Sid: Directions? He asks me for directions? How can I help you, my friend? I don’t even know which way is up or down.


FP: That’s quite alright. I don’t mind going anywhere you tell me to, just tell me.


Sid: Why would you want to go anywhere if you’d go anywhere I’d tell you to go to?


FP: I don’t want to go anywhere.


Sid: Well, why do you then?


FP: Well, one always has to be going somewhere, right?


Sid: But what of everything you must leave behind every time?


FP: One leaves behind what one possesses, once you’ve left yourself behind, who is left to possess?


Sid: What should I do?


FP: Just stop asking that question.


Sid: Why?


FP: Because, you are the only one who knows


(Lights fade)


Voice (off):


As every flower fades and as all youth

Departs, so life at every stage,

So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,

Blooms in its day and may not last forever.

Since life may summon us at every age

Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,

Be ready bravely and without remorse

To find new light, that old ties cannot give.

In all beginnings dwells a magic force

for guarding us and helping us to live.


Serenely let us move to distant places

And let no sentiments of home detain us.

The Cosmic Spirit seeks not to restrain us

But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.

If we accept a home of our own making,

Familiar habit makes for indolence.

We must prepare for parting and leave-taking

Or else remain slaves of permanence.


Even the hour of our death may send

Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,

And life may summon us to newer races.

So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.




CURTAIN



About Me

My photo
I is a place-holder to prevent perpetual infinite regress. I is a marker on the road that ends in I not being.