The Number 23

At the stroke of the midnight, as yet another mere mortal turns another year older, India shall awake to lead the same-old-chore-of-a-life.

23. Did never like the number. 23, man, how odd could you be – maybe, when you were young, they teased the mother out of you, so much so that little deformed kids and the lisping ones felt relieved when you were around.  They tried making a movie on that with a haggard-looking Jim Carrey and nothing could have been more depressing enough.  Well, from tomorrow and for yet another 365 days, you and I gonna shack up in peace and conflict.

After gradually having lost the charm of celebrating birthdays over the years, No. 23 would be expected to behave as normal as it can ever be. Capturing the little schoolboy’s innocence, whilst distributing Ravalgaon sweets to a classful of toffee-hungry wasted buggers, is just futile; I really envy and at the same time, pity the kids of today.

                       And it was always two sweets for the partner-slash-best-friend. It doesn’t just stop at that. Birthdays in school meant on that day, you owned your class’s ass – even the goon would refrain from beating you up. The day you stood out – while the rest of the classroom was coloured in whites and greys of the uniform, your snazzy multicoloured clothes were the shizz - revolution,man! That day, you were the baddest piece of ass and the teacher’s pet, at the same time!

Circa 2012.  Under the pretext of turning 18, you have bastardized every possible freedom and you stand dumb, thinking, “Yeah, what next?” The day arrives. All the white and grey uniforms have turned into chudidars and pinstripe shirts. You don’t distribute sweets, ‘cuz let’s face it, you already gorged on some yesterday.  Hell, you expect the regal excesses to be showered upon you and that very moment you realize that you’re just another slave to the grind!

The exclusivity has fizzled out.  You are up on a pedestal for 24hours and as soon as the clock strikes a minute past, hell, you’re up high somewhere and nothing beneath. Man, you’ve just lost ground.  00.01 the next day means all your riches have been vanquished, the same person who put you on the throne is running away with it and instead of running after him, you’re trying to gain some ground. 

Cold turkey is worse. The next day, you show up at your workplace all happy-smiley and shit, trying to feed off yesterday’s glory and all your workmates hand you is a ‘what-the-fuck-you-grinning-about’ look.  You keep wondering why have they  suddenly gone all pissed.  You suspect some foul play and try harassing some peeps to explain the sudden change of faces…. Still the same look.

After all those tense and mind-numbingly wasteful moments, you realize : Birthdays are just an eyewash. You were 23 on that day and for 365 days more. However, you’re king just for a day. Pauper the next  -  in this case, a keypunching lesser kind.  For epiphany’s sake - - The birthday is nothing but a tangential universe, where all is hunky dory.  The people are just versions of the ones you know. All those wishes and cheek-pulling are just coded in to feign the ‘realness’ quotient. But for that day, your life was always the same!