Luxury is the arm candy of a privileged few and modesty is the garb used by those ‘humbled’ categories that aspire but are denied the optimum pleasures which define your life. Modesty in itself is a bullied concept donned by the unacknowledged with unsavory bits of means but never self-sufficient and ever dependent on the fiddlesticks of the others to boost their egos.
I have never developed a fancy for the spineless who cling on to the hall-marks of the elites- in the modern youths’ lingo- they just turn me off. I don’t like their regular faces with cold eyes that seem so ignorant to the world, unfurnished with awareness and unequipped with riches. They stink and their language exhibits that detonated arena which we fondly call Poverty.
I am not modest, I am not humble. I am haughty and I am proud. Luxury is my lifeline. I don’t form never-ending queues to withdraw a trivial amount from a meager loader of tangible happiness that people call the ATM machine. I have my credit card which swipes at my slightest hint to fetch me what I wish for. I am unattainable to the mad chaos that flood those lucrative malls which are mostly frequented by window-shoppers, who are otherwise on shoe-string budgets with half a penny on their unwashed and torn pockets and roam shamelessly to relax themselves under the ACs. My air has been conditioned in tune with my likeness, ever since I breathed it. At my order I get all the accessories and articles lined up exclusively for me. My car is chauffeur- driven. I point my finger on something and it becomes mine, all mine. I often see those college-going teenagers, muddling up at a down-market food-joint circling an equally stinking hub of flies who occasionally peep out of their abodes to explore their prospects left over by the people. I don’t visit morose zones like the discotheque or an adventure island. I cannot stand the cacophony. I don’t prefer the claustrophobia that those mere mortals call college trips or outings with friends.
Yes. Yes, I look down upon these humbled losers (whom I see from my chauffeur-driven car) who wipe their toil and frustration off with their cheap handkerchiefs under the killing heat and biting dust. I would not so much as compare my life to theirs. I am a butterfly who flies high up in the air; I am colorful and have wings. I have riches and can even make the mighty fall: with my servants who are always at my beck and call. My parents send my teachers home to guide me. I have a personal designer and a stylist. If either of these is on leave, I still don’t toss for alternatives as the permanent nurse has been maintained well. Yes, my ‘permanent’ nurse. She has always been with me, ever since that accident happened.
My parents say that she has nursed me from the day I was in the ICU, when I was in coma. Sometimes I wish she was with me when I had climbed atop that hill during that picnic. May be I would not have slipped; perhaps she would have extended her hand while I was on the verge of tumbling down the damp soil caused by the heavy downpour the previous day. Or perhaps she would have warned me of the possible landslide. If only she was there to take care of me then, the way she takes care of me now… having said that I am still grateful to her for being there with me, during my operation, when my leg was amputated. I would not survive many years now but she has been appointed for me till I exist. Hence I call her my permanent nurse. My permanence is so temporary for her.
I have been now put on the strictest of diets as a little external exertion would cause me irreparable permanent damage. Permanent, you see. Need I say why I do not frequent malls and restaurants? My college refused my participation in the college trip as nobody wanted to shoulder the responsibility of a limbless creature. Even the fanciest escalators and the most posh of capsule lifts cannot accommodate me. With my legs removed, I have bidden farewell to the soles of self-establishment. I am a butterfly in the clean air as I cannot step upon the earth. When I flap my wings, I spread the contents of Pandora’s Box all over. My teachers, designer, doctor, stylist- all come home to me as I am the one who is incapable of reaching out to them.
I wonder if my parents want to drop me somewhere and just disappear. Subservient to a forced life, I am no longer the propagator of the family name. It is now an non-negotiable parameter that has been set for me and my subjectivity does not matter anymore. I am not groomed to be a part of the public sphere.
Anyway, let us not digress from the topic. I was launching an onslaught on the ordinary onlookers, the low losers who ceaselessly make miserable efforts to keep up appearances. I can do better than them, anyway, but I need not care, for I am dying.
Ananya believes herself to be a learner and is always on a look out for different stuff happening around her. She is, at present, pursuing her Masters in English Literature from University of Delhi.
She is also the owner of a rather abandoned blog which sometimes comes to life when she is hit by calls of the muses.